TRAPPED! or…the apartment doesn’t want us to leave

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It was an interesting night last night.

 

 

First – the apartment I currently inhabit has a single door to enter or exit the apartment…and, as we’re on the 2nd/3rd floors, there is no other way to get into the unit unless you start dragging in ladders and breaking glass.

A single point of entry.  Or…a single way to get OUT.

Last night, that door decided, in whatever passes for wisdom in woodwork, to go on strike.

The internals for the door handle failed.

I’m just glad we found out about this last night, instead of this morning…you know…Monday “I gotta get to work!” morning.

How did we find this meltdown of hardware?  Well, the kids went out and about yesterday, where I stayed quite content at home, packing more stuff, cleaning the kitchen, goofing about on the Evil Book of Faces while ignoring the stuff that was playing on the TV.  All in all, a fairly standard Sunday.

The kids tried the door.  I heard the key scrape in the lock.  Then a thump as they tried to open the thing.  Then another scrape of the key.  Yup…another thump.

At this point, I sauntered up to the door.  Deadbolt was retracted, so I tried the handle.

Enter … the situation.

Actually, NO ENTRY would be the situation, as the handle was no longer retracting the little metal hasp which keeps the door rather firmly secure against unwanted visitors.

The door handle is ancient.  I’d have to guess it’s older than I am (the real, calendar age, not the fiction I keep attempting to run regarding the number 29), so it’s certainly lived the doorknob equivalent of a good life.  At some point … it’s gonna fail.  Everything does.

They built things to last back then…and to resist their retirement.

The problem was with the handle.  Now, it’s been a long time since I got up close and personal with door hardware, but I’ll assume that modern units have a handle (or round knob) that you screw onto the shaft that goes through the door.  This sucker was press-fit into place, and didn’t want anything to do with me yanking it apart.

It had securely held this door shut for over 50 years, thank you very much, and wasn’t budging.

Between calling the apartment’s emergency maintenance number, listing to the kids cuss and swear on the hallway end of the door, and employing various tools, it took me a good 45 minutes to get that handle off so I could get to the internals on the door and finally open it.

Hurrah for brute strength and claw hammers!

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But, I may be taking this the wrong way.  What if this is the apartment’s way of telling me it doesn’t want me to leave?

 

 

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Knock it off, Amazon!

I tell ya…you look at ONE thing on Amazon…

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Let me make this perfectly clear, Amazon…I am NOT having a baby.  I’m 50 years old, ferkristsake, and THE BABY FACTORY IS CLOSED!

I will welcome any grandkids once they appear, however…

At least I know where this recommendation comes from…

 

As I’ve got an accepted offer on the new house, and the bank has tentatively accepted my mortgage application, I’m gonna be moving.  The kids and I are splitting up our current household’s stuff, and they use the living room furniture more than I do.  We’ve decided they can keep the couch and chair we got from the Restore shop when we moved into our apartment.

Restore is part of the Habitat for Humanity group – they take in donations and resell them to support their objectives, and I’m happy to have bought used stuff from them.

So, seeing though I’m gonna be living room furniture-less when I move, I’m scouring the ‘net.  One of my regular stops is (of course) Amazon.

While I was clicking through various end tables and daybed frames and other stuff, I came across an object I had to look at, just to clarify what it was.

It was a changing station that you could attach to any level surface (like a dresser or nightstand) to safely change the diapers of any child currently in need of a dry bottom.  Now, I’m not gonna lie – the thing has great potential as a mobile workstation for chainmaille (if it can contain a child, I’ll bet it can keep rings from rolling all over the place!)…BUT….

I’m not in a position just yet to buy things for the new house.  I refuse to buy ANYthing for the new place until I actually have keys in my hot little hands 😀

And, seriously, Amazon?  Ya’ll are 100X worse than the worst office gossip.  I’m surprised they didn’t send me a congratulatory email welcoming my new addition to the world!

/endrant

Now, just to reward ya’ll for getting through my latest Amazon rant…here’s a shot I took of the future Chainmaille Central.  The current owner still has a LOT of stuff to clear out of the house…but I’ve got around 6 more weeks until I can start spreading MY stuff all over this bench!

Chainmaille Central

 

Sporadic-us

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There was this scene from ‘Clueless’ quite a while ago which keeps popping into my head… she was planning a romantic night with her current ‘man of her dreams’ and he wanted to watch the original Spartacus.  Only in the monologue, she pronounced it Sporadic-us…so I’ve blatantly stolen that little bit of giggle for my blog post.

If you’re unfamiliar with the movie Clueless, it came out in the mid-90’s – it starred Alicia Sliverstone playing the part of an extremely shallow teenager with unlimited funds coming of age.  There are a lot of little leavening bits like the one I’ve stolen, but overall, it’s a good, silly little flick.

Which has to bring me to the meat & taters of this post.  I’ll probably be a little Sporadic-us in my postings for the next couple of months, because I’m FINALLY buying a house!

Yea, life-changing event.  Saving for the future.  Largest investment.  30 YEAR mortgage!
PANIC-LEVEL ANXIETY!

So while the bank is combing through every inch of my financial history, while the seller and listing agent are attempting to keep my interest high, while the credit card is sweating bullets with all the STUFF I have to get to maintain the home, while the entire team are working on justifying lending this single, 50 year old woman a metric shit-ton of money…well, let’s just say, they may be keeping me a bit too busy to regularly tackle the blog.

On the other hand, you may well get a number of posts from me bemoaning the entire process and how intrusive it feels.  There may even be tears.  We’ll just have to wait and see how the words hit the screen.

Any time that’s not taken up with jumping through all the hoops of high-property finance will be properly winnowed away by the little gremlins in my head who are screaming and breaking things because they HATE moving!

Right now, they’re enacting this enchanting scene from 300…

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Wish me calm…I need it!

My Good Deed for the Day

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I rescued a little birdie today…

Seriously.

There are a couple of different ways to get up to the 2nd level of the city parking structure, where I park my car.  The one I use most often is the main entrance on South Street, currently being torn all to hell & back (and, let’s make this clear…this is NOT one of the nicer hells) by Wisconsin’s ‘other’ season.

Last night, they had torn out the sidewalk leading up to the structure’s main doors.  When the construction crews aren’t in the street, you can still get in there by crossing the torn-up street and sneaking in around through the barriers.

Well…they start early.  By the time I need to access my car and get to work, they’ve got the construction zone all full of moving equipment.

So I’ve gone to plan B – Use the street entrance to the SSI building, go up the elevator, and cross the alley by means of the skyway.

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This morning…there was a bird stuck in the garage side of the skyway.  He was frantically beating himself against the glass, certain that there HAD to be a bird-shaped hole he could get through so he could return to the sky.

 

Poor little thing.

 

I started by trying to guide his frantic flight through the big open doors in the garage.  Nope…he was having none of that, and I probably scared the thing half to death in the attempt.  So next, was a careful cornering of the fella and a catch.

He didn’t resist the hands much.  Once I cupped his wings, he was quiet while I transported him back to the open side of the garage structure.  As soon as I opened my hands, he was gone, back into the skies of his domain.

He didn’t even poop in my hands.  I’d say that’s all the thanks I need 😀

A Chainmaille Tribute to that ‘S’ word

Late last month, I got a rather urgent call from my SQO.  He was over at his Aunt’s place, and was going to be there a little while longer than planned, because they had to wait for the EMS.

His mother was visiting as well, and, upon exiting her car, she misplaced a foot.  The difference in elevation between the driveway and the lawn snagged an unwary victim, and she ended up falling out of her car.

Diagnosis:  she broke a hip.

Now, if we ‘age’ this wonderful lady by her attitude, I’d put her in the late teens.  She’s a fiery person in a chronologically-correct 80 year old shell.  So, with bones having spent that amount of time defying gravity’s pull, her doctors decided to replace the joint, rather than immobilize and let it heal naturally.

I had an opportunity to visit with her in the hospital…and made her a little something to brighten her room.

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The flowers are sprouting ALL over my little corner of the Earth.  Winter is back in the coat closet 😀

 

More on that Damned Shower

Soooo…against my better judgement, I took a shower with the ‘questionable’ bar of soap.

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I’ve regretted it…
Especially my right butt cheek.

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I’ll be the first to admit I’m not the most graceful swan, gliding in stunning white over pure blue, mirror-bright water…rather, I resemble a duck.

 

Waddling along.
Through an endless field.
Of dry grass.
Missing half his wing feathers.
And a leg.

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So I had a bit of a slip, and ended up sitting down on the ledge of the tub…REALLY hard!

 

In between a stream of rather inventive expletives, I heard it.

The soap…
giggling with the abandon of the damned.

 

I’m switching back to Ivory…

 

 

 

 

Showering with the Damned

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There’s this little boutique-y shop downtown that makes its money by selling small portions of its floorspace to the REALLY small business craftsperson.  The business is kinda like the farmer’s markets that pop up in cities all over the country, only year round and with the comfort of HVAC.

I’ve often bounced around the idea of renting my own floor space in the place to open up a new visibility point for my chainmaille.

Aaaaaanyway….This particular boutique has a stall for this craftsperson who makes soap.
It’s fantastic stuff, this handcrafted soap.  They add colors in swirls, make the stuff smell amazing, and the bars get their intended job done.  My favorite scent (of the moment) is an almond/cherry mix, although I’ve also been particular to their sandalwood spice mix in the past.

So, last night, shower happened.  Here I am, sudsing up without a care in the world, and I look…really LOOK… at my bar of sweet & bubbly solidly saponified fat…

I looked up soap-making quite some time ago…fascinating process!

And it occurred to me that there’s a rather demonic face being rubbed all over my…

let’s just say…

feminine bits.

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A bit TMI?

Not sure if I should use the rest of the bar, or craft a protective circle around it and attempt to exorcise the demon?

Evil shouldn’t smell this sweet…