Thursday, August 20, 2009
It’s 9:30 AM on a Tuesday. You are, as per your elegant usual, at home and wearing pajamas. You sort of have to pee but you can hold it until you after you drop off an armload of towels outside in the laundry closet on the back patio. Arms full, you use your left foot to shut the sliding glass door closed so that your 20 month-old son will not be able to follow you down the stairs. You move quickly. It’s colder out here than you thought.
You glance up the stairs and see your boy waving excitedly at you through the glass. Then, with a horrible “click” sound that echoes through your entire flashing-before-you life, you realize that your charming son has just locked you out. You slow-motion run back up the stairs just in time to see him take off down the hall towards his room. The pounding on the heavy glass door and repeated yelling of “Bob! Bob! Bobby! Let Mama in! Bob! Hey Bob!” is ignored. The dog wags her tail sweetly at you and then follows Bob down the hall.
You are still living in the old house, the house with the insane security features because it is wholly necessary in your just-inside-the-border-of-super-crap neighborhood. The Spanish style bungalow has 12 windows. Six of the windows are impenetrable, 1970’s stained glass monstrosities. The other six are higher than 9 feet from where you stand on the ground and locked. The fence surrounding the backyard is 10 feet high. The one gate out of the yard is locked with a deadbolt that can only be opened with the key that is inside the Target diaper bag sitting on the couch. You are not only locked out of your house, you are locked inside your backyard.
There will be no help from the neighbors. The people living to the east and west are at work. The neighbors in the creepy apartment building in back are sleeping off last night’s beer bong follies and would not call 911 if their own meth lab were on fire. (Proven.)
You notice that one of the bedroom windows is open a few inches. You speculate that you can scale the wrought iron fence next to the bedroom window, push back the wooden shutters, and pry the window open and pull yourself up and in. Your plan stops just short of the knowledge that you have little to no upper body strength.
You are now hanging off of the side of the house by one hand. Your silky, now sweaty pajamas not providing great traction as you try to heave yourself up to the window frame. You are becoming increasingly more aware of your need to pee. You are getting shivery.
Suddenly, this all strikes you as very funny. You get the giggles for 20 seconds but then pull it together, assess the situation and immediately start crying. You then laugh and cry simultaneously. You have a foggy recollection that this might be the definition of “hysteria.” Your son arrives in the bedroom and seeing your tear-stained face in the window, yells, “Mama! Mama!”
“Bob! Bring Mama her keys. Bring Mama the diaper bag. Or the phone. Bring Mama the phone, Bobby. Bob. Bob. Bob. Bob.”
You realize that he is attempting to climb on the rickety, flea market bed side table to get a closer look at “funny, funny, Mama!” in the window.
“Bob! Get down!” He turns and runs out of the room and back down the hall, the dog trots behind him. You drop back into the dirt with a thud.
You decide against peeing in the yard for fear of being watched/photographed/videotaped by the cat-condo-in-lieu-of-blinds guy in the rear building. (Plausible.)
Labels: the old house