That Embarassing Nerd Mom

Remember this viral post? Wanda and Jamal and her husband Lonnie are the most wholesome people, this story brought tears to my eyes originally and I am crying once more learning from Jamal's social media that Lonnie has sadly passed away.

remember that when picking a DOOR lock, you have to apply a little bit of pressure to your tension wrench (the thing that you use to turn the knob). too little or too much and you wont be able to pick the door open. you can use anything for the tension wrench. a bobby pin. bits of wire. a paper clip. etc.

its best to be completely silent when youre picking locks bc theres this small ‘click’ when youre picking that you might miss if youre using headphones or listening to music.

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if youre picking one of these

you jam something thin and long above one of the rotation dials and you push up on the shackle.

. if its one of these

you get yourself some shims. (or make one. you can make shims out of fucking soda cans), you wiggle them in the tiny space between the shackle and the body of the lock, and you pop these suckers open.

. for a chain deadbolt,

you get something flexible but sturdy and you just push this fucker down

. for one of these rotating combination locks

you can also shim this motherfucker open. jam your shims between the shackle and the body and pry it unlocked. if, for some reason, you dont wanna shim it open, maybe you dont have a shim or you just like a challenge, this bitch can be decoded ridiculously easy. heres what you do:

spin this bitch to the right about two or three times to “reset” it. then you pull up on the shackle a bit, and turn it right slowly until you hear a click. your number is two spaces further. then you turn left 360 degrees until you land on the right number again, and start turning this motherfucker left until it stops. when it stops, turn right. if its loose, its the wrong number, keep going left. if its not loose, you have the right number, and you turn right all the way until this bitch pops

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I have an older brother, Jake, who was seven; then me, Hellen, age five, then Seth, age three, and my little sister Gin would have been one. It was late August, and we were at our nanny’s house, though she was gone for the day. Bob was in charge.

Bob should probably not have been in charge.

Bob tried keeping us entertained with board games and tag and movies. Gin took a nap. Eventually he decided to get creative, and sat us down in the living room with a game and vanished into the garage. There was a smashing sound. And then some saw noises. And then some hammering. And then we saw him going around the house to the back yard through the windows, though we were too short to see what he was doing. And finally, he yelled to us to come out into the driveway. 

Jake and Seth and I trooped out. Bob had both hands behind his back. He stepped up to Jake and revealed what he had in his right hand. 

It was a wooden sword. It was clearly made from what appeared to be parts of a chair’s legs, cut down and nailed together. He presented this, and announced, “You are Sir Jake, the strongest knight!” 

He stepped up to Seth and presented what was in his left hand. It was another wooden sword, smaller than the first, also crudely made out of chair legs. He announced, “You are Sir Seth, the bravest knight!”

At this point, I was practically vibrating in place, waiting eagerly for my sword so I could use it to whale on my brothers, as god intended me to do. I was therefore understandably disappointed to be presented with the business end of a garden hose and told, “You are Miss Hellen, the Water Fairy!”

“No,” I said. “I want a sword.”

Bob was confused. “But you get water magic! Magic’s great!”

“No.” I repeated, holding the hose. It had a spray nozzle set to jet. “I want a sword.”

“Magic’s great. Magic’s better than a sword.” Bob insisted. “You’ll see. Wait here a moment.”

And then Bob ran around the side of house and vanished. 

We stood in the driveway. Jake and Seth poked each other with their swords. I spritzed them idly with the hose, trying to decide which of them would be easier to steal a sword from. 

And then we heard a quiet wooshing noise, and smelled smoke. 

We turned. As we watched, a line of fire rushed around the corner of the house, consuming a path of gasoline poured into the dry August grass. 

We paused and considered this for a few moments. I raised the hose and sprayed a jet of water at the fire. It went out. We glanced at each other. Then we took off running, following the trail of fire, spraying as we went. 

The fire led in a path around the house to the back yard. As we turned the corner, we saw Bob, clad in a bathrobe and holding a curtain rod, standing in the center of a large ring of burning grass. He cackled manically. “I am the FIRE WIZARD! Your puny swords are useless! Nothing but water magic can defeat me!”

I promptly blasted him with the hose. He spluttered. The fire did not go out. 

I turned the hose on the fire itself, spraying a section close to us so that it would extinguish. As soon as there was enough room, Jake charged forward, brandishing his chair leg sword with a battle cry. Seth, always happy to be included, followed. They ran into the circle and began beating Bob around the kneecaps with their swords. I kept spraying. 

Eventually, Bob the Fire Wizard was brought down and all the fire was extinguished. Seth and Jake continued to work on bruising Bob’s shins, and I quickly discarded the hose to lend my fists and extremely pointy elbows to the cause. Bob lay in the smoldering grass, probably regretting using such sturdy chair legs. 

Once we’d all tired ourselves out and lay panting in a heap, Bob decided it was time for the moral of the story. “You see, a sword is nothing compared to the power of a little girl with **magic**.” 

We thought about this for a few moments. Bob nodded wisely. Jake and Seth nodded back. 

“Where was Gin?” She was sleeping in a crib on the sunporch. We did this a lot–played outside while she napped–because we could hear her if she woke up and started crying, but were less likely to wake her up. She slept through the whole thing and was totally fine.

“You can’t put out a gasoline fire with water.” At the time, my little kid brain assumed that any flammable liquid was gas, but in retrospect it could have been almost anything. It very well may have been something other than gasoline. All I know is I could extinguish it with a garden hose.

“What did your parents say?” A lot of swear words at a very high volume.

“Did you get a sword?” Yes. Lots.  Here are a couple of them, and also my pet ringneck dove, Arson. You can see how this all may have had some lasting effect on me.

Arson lives her life constantly wishing she had opposable thumbs so she could light fires.

Geralt internally: How do I tell her she may not be cut out for the life of a mother? As the son of a sorceress I should say something, but…

Geralt internally: I know! I’ll say exactly what Jaskier would say. He has a way with words…