I found out today that being unreliable has its place.
It's a good thing that my husband is unreliable, because I counted on this little personality trait of his when I locked myself out of my house this morning.
It happened because I was in a hurry, trying to get my two youngest daughters down to the bus stop in time. The second the door closed, I knew it was locked and I was, shall we say, up that proverbial creek without the proverbial ladder... er, paddle.
Or key.
Or enough brain cells to figure out what I was going to do next.
When you're harried and in a hurry, there is a little switch that trips in your brain, allowing you to do stupid things at the speed of light. I am living proof of this. So is my son, but that's another subject.
So, what did I do? Called my husband, of course! Mind you, he's about 80 miles away at the time, so naturally he's going to be a big help.
In fact, he was so helpful that he didn't answer his cell phone. That's so like him. My happiness increased exponentially with each ring of the phone that went unanswered. Ring, ring, ring. Grrrrrrrrr. That was me growling, not the phone, although I think that should be my new ring tone, as it does fit my mood lately.
As I'm walking back toward my house, I realize it's the first day of the year when there is ice an inch thick on the cars parked outside, the grass looks white from the frost, I can see each puff of my angry breath and I am still locked out of my house.
Lucky me. Just as I was thinking about slowly succumbing to hypothermia, one of the moms from the bus stop, who obviously had more synapses firing than I did, gave me some helpful advice.
"Can't you get in through the garage?" Duh, the garage! Of course! Why didn't I think of that? Well, because when you're mad, your mind doesn't move in logical directions.
No, I'm not mad all the time, my mind just thinks it is, hence its illogical bent.
As I walked toward the garage I start talking out loud to myself.
"The garage! Of course. Oh, please, don't let him have locked it! I bet he did, though. The one time I need it to be unlocked, I bet he locked it. Man, if he's locked that, I'm going to be so mad. How am I going to get in if it's locked? Oh please, please, please, please let it be unlocked."
At this point, continuing to mumble the "please"s under my breath, I reached down to pull up the garage door. It lifted! It was unlocked! My husband is irresponsible! YES!
I knew that trait would come in handy someday. It only took 17 years.
I turned to thank my neighbor, who had followed me to make sure that I wasn't left outside in the 20-something-degree weather. Then I turned back to my garage.
I suddenly realized that for all intents and purposes I was still locked out of my house. This is a two-car garage that will never see an actual car reside inside. It would take archaeological digging crews years of work just to plough through all of the stuff that is, uh, stuffed into this thing.
I was about to become a story on the noon news: "Woman trapped inside garage. Rescue crews, at great risk to their own lives, have lowered themselves into the mess and are attempting a rescue. Film at 11."
You can write Pamela Troeppl Kinnaird by email at PamelaTroeppl@comcast.net.[[In-content Ad]]
