Another fine mess

I was standing on my patio today, having a smoke, and was reminded of another one of my famous fuck-ups. There are many you see, and as I believe my purpose in life is to educate people, it's my obligation, nay, my duty to share these little chestnuts of calamity. This is not to say I don't learn from my mistakes, but I do have my moments of botardation. So pay attention people, and learn.

In the spring of 2001 one of my best girlfriends enticed me with a night on the town, perusing my favorite bar and dance club and forgetting my troubles for a few hours. I wasn't feeling so great you see. In fact, I was feeling like I'd been hit by a train. Things at work sucked, trouble in paradise with my boyfriend, and I had just been in a car accident. A teenager ran a stop-sign as and made the mistake of turning right in front of me. My car had no where to go but smack-dab into the side of hers. Two solid objects cannot supply the same space at the same time kind-of-thing. Everyone was alright for the most part, both cars had to be towed away, but it sucked donkey dick and I was left shaken and limping.

My car is now in the shop being put back together, I'm all jacked up and in desparate need of some alcohol-soaked fun. (Sidenote - I learned a year later that not only did I dislocate my shoulder, but I broke a bone in my foot too. Fucking HMO's...but I digress). I completely appreciated being taken out for the night, even though I had to drive a considerable distance to get there. Unfortunately I wasn't in any shape for my usual partying, and after throwing back a few spirit and body warming beverages, I had to call it a night. It was a long way home; I couldn't dance because of my worn-out and wounded body, and had spent enough time gimping around downtown like a qausi-qausi-modo.

I slumped myself into my rental car and made it home in one sore and tired piece. This is where things went horribly, horribly wrong. Earlier that night I had conceived the brilliant idea of taking the rental car key off of my key chain and throwing ALL of my other keys into the middle consol for safe keeping and so I only needed one key in my pocket. I pulled into my detached garage (this is an important element to the story and please note: only opened with a key), got out, sliped my arm into the garage and used the garage-opener button on the inside of my garage to close it, quickly getting out of the way of the closing door like I do everyday. It was a rote move, done without a second thought.

I had taken about 10 gimpy steps, thinking of nothing but visiting the bathroom and crumpling into a heap on my beckoning bed. That's when it hit me. Christ, mother fucker, shit, damn, hell. I can't open the front door with a CAR KEY...OH..FUCK...

Now, my house keys are locked in my car, which is safely and tightly locked inside my garage. I have only a cell phone, with about 4 minutes left of juice, a car key, and 47 cents in my pocket. My house is burglar, and now incredibly Princess proof. I went back to the garage and yanked on the garage door in a futile attempt at what, breaking in? My arm was useless anyway, and even though I could kick a few people's asses, I'm not strong enough to break a frigging garage door. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

My next thought was calling a locksmith. Yea, that's the ticket. Someone will just come over and help me get into my house. I called 411 and prayed my phone would hold out. I played the lame operator game for what seemed like an eternity, trying to find help. After an hour on the phone, sitting outside my own house, I cannot find a locksmith to come help me. I wonder if the fact it was 1:30 in the a.m. had anything to do with it? But seriously, I begged this one motherfucker to come to my rescue and he shut me down right quick. Asshole.

I went onto my patio and just stood, pathetically pouting and staring from the outside in, at the bathroom door mocking me. The warmth of the soft hallway light washing onto my face and flipping me off. My only recourse, the only thing I can think of to do to get me out of my outdoor prison and back into my house? Break a window pane in my French doors, reach up and undo the bolt lock at the top of the door, and slink in like the dumb rat I'd become. Just in case one of my neighbors heard the impending racket, I actually called the local police station to tell them that I'm currently breaking into my own house so don't come arrest me and perchance can you maybe, please send someone to help me? Needless to say, they didn't give a crap. Nor did they bat a blue eye at my plight. Assholes.

Luckily (?) I had the "shit shovel" on my patio that my parents use when they visit with their crap-machine dogs, and they'd just been here the week prior, so it was still nice and covered with poo. Yay. But it was the only thing I had. I certainly wasn't going to shove a fist through glass. I positioned myself in front of the doors. I zeroed in on the chosen window; I braced myself for the tinkle of broken glass. Ready! Set! Ram! Nothin'. WTF? No breakage. Ok, deep breath, reposition, one, two, ram, nothin'. It doesn't look like thick glass, why the HELL won't it break? Again, ram, nothing. Ram, rinse, repeat. FUCK.

On my 14th or 15th fucking try, KABOOM!! Success! Finally! But, the familiar gentle movie-like chime sound of broken glass you so often hear was replaced by the real sound of a real EXPLODING pane of a heat-treated, tempered glass. It actually blew up like someone had wired the door with TNT. I was showered from head-to-toe with a million shards of broken glass. It flew with super-sonic force 10 feet in both directions. My patio looked like it was covered with snow. The inside of my house was sparkling in the moonlight like glitter.

After I composed myself, and carefully brushed off as much glass and I could, shaking it out of my long hair and cleavage, I reached up, undid the bolt and turned the doorknob. Ready. Set. Turn. Nuthin'. What...thee...frigging...hell. It took me about 2 seconds to realize that someone (my Dad) had depressed the doorknob lock the previous week when he was visiting. The lock that I never use. The lock the I forgot was there.

Now, said lock was about 4 feet away from the bolt, and I had broken the highest windowpane thinking that it was my best choice. My pride didn't just fade, it ran screaming and on fire. So, I'm still outside, I still have to pee, and I still feel like I was run over by a train.

Next brilliant idea. I stack my patio chairs on top of each other, precariously perch a big plastic tub on top of those, and try to cram myself through the broken window. Now mind you, I'm talking about a pane that's about 12" x 8". I'm standing on one precariously placed foot on my tippy-toe, one arm dangling towards the now-evil doorknob from hell, only getting one sad little finger on it, and my riteous rack almost became my doom. I'm sporting some double D's y'all, and while they serve me well in most situations, playing Cirque du Soleil contortionist in the middle of the night while trying to cram myself through a tiny hole is not one of them.

Yep, you got it. I got stuck. I felt like that dumb kid that gets their head caught in the stair railing, but it was my left tit instead. After a brief moment of panic, I managed to get myself out of that jam and release my girl from the window. I crawled down and prayed my phone had enough power left it in to call a friend. Which I did. At 2:30 in the morning. She and her husband came over and after a few tries of shoving him through the tight space, he was able to reach the doorknob and finally, I was in.

The window got fixed. I'm still finding glass in the carpet, a thousand years later, and there's an extra key to the house and the garage hidden outside. I make sure my phone is always with me and charged up, and am thankful I have friends that will rescue me in the middle of the night.