{See guys it’s literally a cat burglar!! Don’t you love photos of cute cats in awkward costumes?}
I have a problem. It goes back to elementary school. To the first days of being old enough to stay home alone. When you are old enough to walk home from school by yourself, and chill till mom gets home…you need a key.
A key which I have a tendency to forget. For the longest time I kept my key in the front of my backpack. Safely fastened to a Marvin the Martian keychain. But after I’d unlock the door, my mind would go straight to the urgent matter of making bagel bites…and forget to replace the key. So the next day I’d pay a visit to Laurna Rickart. The lady next door, who had a spare key…but in exchange for the key I had to chat with her {listen to her chat} for a half hour or so.
Now, 15 years later, I’m still forgetting my key. I’ve done it a blue million times. But I’ve always had an out. There was that time my dear friend Alex helped me raise a ladder to crawl through my home’s second story bathroom window in eleventh grade. In Florida I pried open our living room window on many occasions. There was the time I slithered through a nonegress window into our basement in Enid, OK. And who can forget my many break-ins in shreveport through the breezeway window.
But I’ve never been totally, utterly locked out. With no hope of reentry.
Until today.
This afternoon an innocent trip to Menard’s turned into an expensive 2 hours in ice cold North Dakota wind when I walked out without my keys.
It’s funny how when you lock yourself out, you know the moment it’s too late. “Click.” Oh, crap.
So I went to the garage to sort out my options. I’ve got a garage full of tools. A cell phone. No key. We have old windows that are impossible to jimmy. Both doors locked tight.
Then the trouble really started. It’s a mystery of the female body. As soon as you can’t….you just have to pee. Have to. Like, yes, Miss 3rd Grade Teacher…it really is an emergency. That kind of pee. Like my bladder is about to explode. How does it happen so fast?
So I did what any logical girl would do. I googled it.
There are so many links and advice on how to get into a locked door. So I read links. I watched YouTube videos. I braved the snow flurries in my Ball State sweatshirt, sans gloves, sans hat….My fingers were numb and I feel lucky tonight that I’m not sans fingertips.
I crowbarred. I shoulder butted. I used my debit card to try to swipe in {lots of YouTube on this one.} WikiHow made it look super easy with this cute cartoon. I even combined methods. Pry-butt-swipe. No luck.
Derek is working long hours this week. No telling when he’d be home. Our only spare is with a fella who is out of town. I had to get in. I couldn’t live in the 25 degree garage until help arrived. And, let’s not forget that I had to pee.
So I called a locksmith. He was a sweet old man named Jerry. He arrived in 20 minutes. This was an all new kind of exchange. Instead of key for 30 minutes of awkward chatting….it was 30 seconds for $50. This was really a win-lose scenario.
But I got in. And I learned a valuable lesson: I don’t have a future as a burglar, and this house is pretty secure. And I really need a hide-a-key.
I hope tomorrow is a warmer, cozier day…inside my house.
