Once upon a time, a long long time ago, we used to live Monmouth County. I distinctly remember coming home on the bus one day to be greeted by my mother, requesting that I climb though the kitchen window to open the locked door. As it would turn out, she locked her keys in her trunk at the local Pathmark and a friendly fellow shopper gave her and my toddler sister a ride home. I think it was that moment I decided that locking myself out of my dwelling was a good idea.
I've locked myself out of the laundry room in Silvers at Rutgers; I've locked myself out of Barr on multiple occasions. This past holiday season, I locked my mother and I out of the house and had to wait a half hour for my father to come home. But I think today is one for the books.
This morning, when I ran to get a bagel from the local bagel shop, I only grabbed my keys and not my purse because I had dollars in the car. So when I left again to come meet up with my mom, I only grabbed my purse failing to realize that my keys were in the kitchen. I skipped merrily down the driveway, got into my car (door was open, surprisingly enough) and then realized that a) I cannot start my vehicle and b) keys are in the locked house. As always, my first instinct was to call my father. Daddys always take care of their little girls in need. Except this one. He had just started a meeting and couldn't be home for another hour and a half. Not gonna cut it. I asked him if there were any open windows; low and behold, the garage window was open. Now, picture this. First off, my house is up on a huge hill so not only does the window come up as high as an empire waist on me, but there's about 8 inches between said window and a ginormous bush. I went around to the back patio and grabbed our fine plastic outdoor lounge furniture to assist my climb into the winow. If you recall, my car was open; so I used my ice scraper to cut the screen in the window, and wedged the chair between the outer wall of the house and aforementioned bush. Please, keep in mind that there are cars driving past as I'm trying to launch myself into the window, which faces the street. Its not like I'm around on the side of the house, or in the back of the house - but whatever.
This brings me to my father. I love the man to death, but sometimes, he makes me wonder. Attached to this particular window sill is a 'cat perch' which is covered in blankets that every now and then he flips so that I can't even recognize where the comforter came from, it has so much fur on it. Also, the man's building a tree house in the back yard; therefore, all his raw materials such as wood, metal beams, nails, and various other construction materials are scattered about. I know - why couldn't I just leave my keys in the tree house? Atleast that I have access to. Anyway, I'm lying on my stomach with my legs dangling from the window despereately trying to negotiate a way to get my lower half in the garage. I begin to get my legs inside (how, I don't even know) when one side of the cat perch gives way. Apparently it wasn't made for 125 lb flight attendants, rather for 15 lb cats... design flaw if you ask me. Now I have one leg in, half a perch, and I'm staring down at a series of metal rods that if I fall on, I'm screwed because the five people who have passed me in their cars seem not to notice that someone is breaking into my house in the middle of the day. Miraculously, I get one leg down on the ground, swing the other one around horse-back style, tiptoe through tree house supplies, open the door to the house, get my keys, and GO! It was quite an adventure.
On my way home, I'm having a copy of the key made and I'm getting one of those fake rocks to put it in. Slightly less exciting, I'm aware. But I can't go swimming with a cast on, now can I?
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