Saturday Morning

I thought everyone would appreciate a re-telling of what I did at 6:30 am this past Saturday.

Himself was still away, scheduled to fly in that afternoon. We usually get up a little before 6 am on weekdays to catch the train, which means Margot doesn’t really let us sleep in on weekends. So it was 6:30 am and I got up to take her outside.

Foreshadowing: When I’m home alone, I lock the front door because of my residual city dweller paranoia.

I got up to let Margot out the back door and stepped outside, closing the door behind me. I watched her run around for about 30 seconds, then realized I locked myself out of the house. You know when you have an epiphany-type realization? Lightening strikes your brain and you remember where that red shirt went/who won the oscar for best actress in 2001/that the back door locked automatically behind you? I didn’t even have to try the door. I just knew.

So I was standing outside, in jammie bottoms, a robe, and slippers. I didn’t even have a shirt on. My first thought as I turned around to jiggle the door handle in futility was one loooooonnnnngggggg expletive. My phone was inside. I was already imagining my trip up to the neighbors, asking to call a locksmith, etc.

Given my deep-seated disinclination to look like an idiot, I promptly tried to find a way back into the house. I tried the bedroom window. Locked. I pulled the screen off the kitchen window and tried to pry it open. Locked. I walked up to the shed to see if there might be a key hidden up there, conveniently labelled: “In Case of Moron.” No luck.

As I’m walking back to the house, my imaginary trip to the neighbors to ask to borrow their phone has played itself out as an awkward, day-long ordeal, during which they offer to lend me clothes and I have to sit with them all day because the locksmith is taking forever to show up. Then of course, the locksmith costs far more than I’d anticipated (for some reason I think a locksmith should cost $75 to open a door. I have no idea is this is based in reality). By the time I reach the front door again, I’m thinking I should just break a window, even though that might be more expensive.

Then I had my second epiphany. Himself knows how to open a locked door using a credit card and has tried to teach me this skill. I say tried, because I was always half-hearted in my attempts due to my lifelong guilt about ever doing anything remotely naughty, like break in to something. But I figured this was the perfect time to channel his instructions to get Margot and me back inside. But I’m still outside in my jammies and robe. no credit cards have magically appeared in my pockets.

By the way, through all of this, Margot was having a merry time of running around, trying to figure out what kind of goofy game Mama was playing, wondering when she’d get her breakfast.

Back to the credit card. My resourceful husband keeps many useful things in his truck and I figured some kind of stiff plastic card had to be one of them. I hustled over to Dodge and sure enough, found an expired gift card in the console. Back to the front door! I patiently pushed the card up the slot in the door, trying to catch the catch. It wasn’t working. He told me that newer locks were made to prevent this kind of B&E. Was this a newer lock!?

I went around to the back door, whose handle looked even newer. I tried the card, still nothing. Now resigned to begging a neighbor for the use of their phone, wearing some old college sweatshirt, drinking weak coffee and promising to name our firstborn after this family, I went back to the front door. Distracted by my internal scripting of my eventual phone call to Himself, I tried the card from above the latch. And it worked. The door opened. Angels may have been singing.

I promptly fed Margot, took her back upstairs to her crate, crawled back in bed, which was still a little warm, and went back to sleep for another hour. The end.


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