I took Dizzy and his favorite lady friend, Mazie, for a walk a few weekends ago. We had spent the night before at Mazie’s house, and since her parents and uncle (Tyler and Katie and her brother) were skiing in the morning, I said I’d take Mazie out before I left for home.

“Mazie’s parents,” I said to Tyler and Katie. “You’ll be gone by the time we get back. Don’t lock that goddamn front door of yours.”

And with that, Mazie, Dizzy, and I set off for our walk. I went with nary more than a pair of sunglasses, mittens, and a jacket with limited pockets. I didn’t have my cell phone or car keys or nuttin, Jesus. (Remember, my jackets didn’t have many pockets.)

We three walkers did a quick loop around the neighborhood and then set off for the dog park a mile and a half away. Once we got there, Mazie romped with a sheep dog and Dizzy befriended a fat sausage-looking-ass beagle who was covered in frozen poo. We stayed for maybe 20 minutes before leaving to go back to Mazie’s crib.

The walk back was stressful. Leashes kept getting tangled, jeans kept rubbing on my love handles, and used condoms kept getting found and eaten by Dizzy. By the time we got back to Mazie’s house, the dogs were thirsty, my backmeat was chaffed, and we were all frozed and ready to get inside. But when I went to open the door, I found that THE DOGGAMN FRONT DOOR WAS LOCKED.

It’s important to note that earlier that same morning I had taken Dizzy outside for a 6am whiz and locked myself out. I had to poop in the baddest way and very nearly shat my own pants looking for an alternate entry into the house. I resorted to knocking on Katie and Tyler’s bedroom window until they woke up and let me in. The second time around, of course, they was gone and I didn’t have that option.

Instead, I put the dogs into the fenced-in yard and started casing the house for easily openable windows. Every window I checked was high up, new, and securely locked.

Do you recall how I didn’t have any car keys or cell phones on me? Because of my lack of jacket pockets? Well, because of that I had no where to go and nothing to call anyone with. I remember saying the F word to myself many times before stopping and thinking, “Hey, come on now! Logic! Use logic and figure this out, baby G.”

My way of figuring it out was to enlist the help of the first person I saw walking down Katie and Tyler’s street. It turned out to be a skinny man and his bull mastiff. I scrambled up a snowbank to shout to him.

“Excuse me, sir!” I shouted from that snowbank I had just scrambled up. “How would you like to help me break into this home?”

Though the explanation I gave him for being locked out was shaky at best, dude was more than willing to do some breaking and entering. He told me his name was Ryan, and we got to popping.

Ryan spent several minutes attempting to use a credit card to unlock first the front door and then the back door. Neither gave, so we took a stroll around the house to look for unlocked windows. And bless my lucky stars, Katie and Tyler’s bedroom window happened to be unlocked!

Unfortunately, the window only opened to about a foot wide, give or take. It was also rather high off the ground. Ryan, the down dude that he was, agreed to give me a boost up. I took off my coat because: 1) Its lack of pockets was really bumming me out and I needed some space from it, and 2) I knew it was finna be a tight squeeze for lil mama (me) and I needed the least amount of bulk as possible.

It was a very tight squeeze.

Luckily, Ryan was happy to help shove me through. Despite everything I had going against me — namely, ungainliness and many well-fed body parts — I eventually thrashed and crashed my way inside and onto Katie and Tyler’s bed.

Feeling triumphant, I asked Ryan if he’d like to say goodbye through the window, or if he wanted to meet out on the front steps for a more formal adieu bidding. I guess, after everything we went through, I thought he’d want to take a moment to celebrate our accomplishments together. He opted for the former – a rushed goodbye through the window – and I haven’t seen him since.

Anyway, that’s the story of how I taught a neighbor how to break into my friends’ home. Here’s a link to a photo of a jacket. It’s not my jacket — you can tell by the deep pockets. It was taken by Jen Dessinger, an excellent photographer whose website once got effed up a little bit because of this blog of mine.