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If you have been following along you already know that our tagline around here is “where everybody knows your garage code.” I said it like it was a warm and fuzzy thing. A symbol of trust. Of community. Of neighbors who show up for each other.
What I failed to mention is that sometimes they show up whether you invited them or not.
About three years ago Jay and I headed up to Pelican Lake for a long weekend at Bev and Mike’s cottage. It was one of those perfect Wisconsin summer escapes — good food, good friends, good water, zero responsibilities. We left our house in the Town of Algoma and did not think twice about it.
We should have thought twice about it.
“Back home, a plan was quietly being hatched. And our garage code was about to become a weapon.”
Now, Pelican Lake is beautiful, but the cell reception is not exactly what I would call reliable. So Jay and I spent the day on the water, had a lovely supper out, and settled in around the fire that evening feeling completely relaxed and completely unaware. There is something about a fire under string lights up north that makes you feel like nothing in the world can touch you — right up until forty-seven texts arrive… simultaneously.
And they just kept coming in. Not one. Not two. A flood of them — all at once — because apparently our phones had been storing them up for hours while we had no signal, just waiting for the right moment to detonate. Photos. So many photos. From inside our house. If only we had upgraded to the video doorbell we would have at least stymied them, though knowing them they would have just waved and giggled at the camera anyway.
Sean, Heather, Tom, and Karina — four of our closest neighbors and most trusted friends — had used our garage code, walked right into our home, removed their shoes like the polite Midwesterners they are, and proceeded to make themselves completely at home on our sunroom couch. The photo was beautiful, honestly. All four of them snuggled up together like they owned the place, looking more comfortable than I probably do on my own couch on a Sunday morning.
That was just the opening act.
Next came the photos of them holding up our bottles of booze, posed dramatically like they were in a commercial, like they had discovered some kind of treasure and wanted the world to know about it. I will not name which bottles were featured. You know who you are.
“Then there was Karina. Peeking her head out from behind our shower curtain upstairs. Grinning like she had absolutely no regrets. She did not have any regrets.”
But the true masterpiece — the thing that sent Jay and me completely over the edge sitting around that Pelican Lake fire — was what they did in the dining room.
They had printed photos of me. Cut them out. Life-size enough to be unsettling. And placed them around our dining room like I had never left. One was propped on the corner wine rack, watching over the room like a very flat, very judgmental version of myself. Another was taped directly to our large dining room mirror with something written next to it that I have chosen to block from memory for the sake of my own peace.
And if that were not enough — they then walked over to Bev and Mike’s house and did the same thing over there. Their son Alex was home hosting some friends and when four adults suddenly appeared at the door he was absolutely certain he was in serious trouble. It took some explaining. Once he understood the assignment however, Alex was more than happy to help document the chaos.
Jay and I sat around that fire at Pelican Lake reading text after text, looking at photo after photo, laughing until we could barely breathe. Our neighbors had invaded two houses, traumatized one teenager, posed with our alcohol, placed cardboard versions of me around the dining room, and documented every single second of it.
And they had done it all with their shoes off. Because that is just how we were raised.
We have not gotten specific revenge on this particular group for this particular incident. Yet. But I want Sean, Heather, Tom, and Karina to know that I think about that mirror photo every single time I walk through my dining room. And Jay has a very good memory.
Consider this your warning. The garage code works both ways. “We have since had many conversations about upgrading to a smart lock — one where I can see exactly who is coming and going, and perhaps change the code remotely from a lake house in Pelican Lake.”
New here? Start from the beginning — there is a whole prank war to catch up on.
— Nikki
Authentic Vibe Living 