Found objects: porch strangers and pee-pee phones

After work last night, I hung out with my mom and had a beer. We talked about everything from antidepressants to grad school. It was a good talk. Sort of like a visit with my therapist, only a lot cheaper. I don't think it's a coincidence that I slept well last night for the first time in a couple weeks. I had a lot to get off my chest. Remind me not to go a month between therapist visits, vacation or not.

I arrived home, Subway sandwich in hand, to find a strange, blazer-clad guy walking up my steps. I share an entrance with my upstairs neighbors (UN) who bother me about 93 percent less than they did now that I have awesome noise-killing earplugs. As I did not recognize Blazer Man, I assumed he was there to visit the UN. I took my time gathering stuff and crossing the street. Honestly, I was hoping he would leave so I wouldn't have to paint a whole lot of crazy on my face to get him off my porch. Didn't work.

"Are you waiting for Ichabod?" I said as I approached, referencing my male UN.

"Yes!" he said brightly, and then launched into some tale about not seeing Ichabod for a while and how he was going to hang out on the porch. Great.

"Okay," I said and turned to face my mailbox, hoping he wasn't going to plunge a knife into my back or shove a gun against my temple. Maybe my paranoia is due to a week in Happy Safe Womyn Land, but I'm especially wary of men now. Which sucks. Because I like some boys. Like my dad and my brother. And my sexy American boyfriend, Brent. And James Spader. Wait. Where was I?

I got in the house safely and, using my mom's phone, began my quest to find my phone.

I sat on my couchon and dialed my cell number.

Faintly from a faraway room, I heard my phone ring.

I jumped up.

I ran towards the piles of post-Michfest laundry I have yet to do.

Nope. Ringing was farther away.

I ran into the kitchen.

Nope. Ringing was farther away.

It was coming ...

...from the back porch.

Where I set the trash until my lazy ass carts it to the dumpster.

All together now: "Uh oh."

I flung open the door to realize the ringing was coming from a black trash bag. (THE CALL IS COMING FROM INSIDE THE HEFTY.)

I ripped it open to discover I had inadvertently thrown away my phone with, uh, pre-pawed kitty litter. 

Someone kill me.

I tore through the bag, using various not-my-bare-hands implements to, ahem, sift.

No phone. Noxious aroma. Death, please.

I used my mom's phone again to call. 

A different bag started ringing.

AUUUUUUGH.

Sift, sift, sift.

Gag, gag, gag.

The doorbell rings.

I'm sweaty from my furious search and thoroughly grossed out. I know that Blazer Man is ringing my doorbell because I've only been in the house for six minutes and I'm not expecting any guests.

I answer the door.

"If I give you a beer, can I use your bathroom?"

Against my better judgment, I said yes. I did not accept the beer.

Blazer Man enters my home and makes his way to the bathroom. For a second, I don't think he's going to close the bathroom door. Gross, gross, gross. But he does.

Still sweaty, I'm standing in my living room, arms akimbo, surveying a mess I wouldn't normally let anyone see.

Blazer Man is still peeing.

I begin to envision my picture being broadcast on an upcoming episode of "America's Most Wanted," the segment about my murder and/or disappearance beginning with "Why did this generally intelligent young woman let a stranger come in her house?" I look towards the heavens and say, "Goddess, please tell me I'm not about to die." I look for a weapon I can use in case Blazer Man does indeed try to attack me. I spot a small picture framed behind glass. Excellent.

The toilet flushes. The sink turns on. I steel myself in my best self-defense-without-looking-like-I'm-ready-to-kick-someone's-ass pose.

Without realizing it, I apparently had enough I Am Fully Prepared to Kill a Stranger and Dump His Body in the Crawlspace written across my face when Blazer Man came out of the bathroom because he held his hands up like he was under arrest and apologized for the inconvenience. Now that I think about it, he must have been drunk. He was drinking from a six-pack, which seemed to be mostly gone, and I only hum when peeing when I'm drunk. And he was humming.

Mental note: Stop being trusting. Boys can easily take a leak from the porch.

Blazer Man left. I closed the door that the UN and I share. Which locks automatically. I closed and locked my door. And put the chain on. Safe.

I went back to the back porch because, alas, I still hadn't found my phone.

A few minutes later, I finally found it.

Not surprisingly, it smelled bad.

I didn't want to touch it, let alone put it near my face.

I cleaned it off with handy wipes and even lightly sprayed it with pet stain remover cleaner, thinking that might take care of the, ahem, problem.

Nope.

I put the phone inside a Rubbermaid tub with two sticks of Nag Champa incense, which I love. The plan was to 'smoke' the cat smell off my phone. And then clean it again.

The smoke plan sort of worked. Only now my phone smells like burnt rubber and faintly of cat pee.

I'm going to AT&T on my lunch hour to buy a new phone. And then I'm going to wash my hands for the 75th time.