I opened up my email after publishing that last post and found the following:
"holy crap that black hair was crazy. did not even look like you... it looked like this:"
A BIG THANK YOU TO MY LOVELY BROTHER-IN-LAW. I mean, don't get me wrong, I laughed HEARTILY at my own expense, because HE'S RIGHT, but on the other hand OMG I WAS SNAPE, YOU GUYS.
This morning I stepped out of the house for a run at about 6:45 and shut the door behind me without checking to see whether the lock was engaged. And then I returned home from my run about 7:30 and realized that yes, in fact, it was, and I'd locked myself out of the house. Which, hey! No big deal, right? You know, since Dave and my two kids were inside, all with working knowledge of doorknobs. I wasn't SURE if the kids were awake yet (they often sleep until close to 8) so I knocked as quietly as I could while still trying to alert my husband that I was at the door. NOTHING.
So I walked back to the backyard, in my sweaty running capris and a sweaty (brand new, though!) tank top, and spent the next five minutes throwing rocks and sticks at my bedroom window. NOTHING. This wouldn't be a big deal, I guess, if we lived in a single-family home that afforded us a bit of privacy, but we don't – we live in a tiny two-story townhouse that's surrounded by and connected to loads of other tiny two-story townhouses, and 7:30am is apparently exactly when everyone in the neighborhood leaves for work or heads into the backyard to water their plants or lets their dog out to pee and so everyone in the neighborhood saw me throwing things at my own window and then, when I got desperate, standing on a lawn chair and beating the window with a broom handle. A BROOM HANDLE. LIKE PERHAPS A CRAZY EX-WIFE MIGHT DO. (In the movies, I guess? I don't actually know any crazy ex-wives.)
Finally I caved and went next door to borrow their phone and try to wake Dave up that way – I called twice and guess what? NOTHING. My neighbor, lovely Peruvian man that he is, was all, “Maybe they all picked up and left you?” YES, THANKS FOR THAT. And overhearing our conversation, my NEW neighbor – the one I haven't even officially MET YET, and the one who can't help but see this all going on while he's out watering his cactus collection – is all, oh hey! I'm a police officer; I can try to break in for you.
So there I am, trying to break into the front door of my VERY OCCUPIED HOUSE with a NEIGHBOR I've NEVER MET BEFORE, smelling strongly of 45 minutes of exertion, letting him use his own credit card to bust into my own home. The house that HAS PEOPLE IN IT. (The credit card did not work; apparently our door has a “threshold” that prevents crappy attempts to break into it with pieces of plastic from people's wallets.) I told him thank you, sent him back to his house and proceeded to pound on my front door for an additional five minutes, while the rest of the neighborhood walks by me to the parking lot and I have to do that fake sounding laugh, “Ha! Oh, no, I'm just locked out! No worries! Someone is actually IN THERE! HA HA HA! I guess they just can't hear me, out here! KNOCKING! LOUDLY!” You guys, it is super hard to look casual and cool while you're trying to bang down your own door.
Eventually my neighbor with the phone left for work, and on his way out to his car he called Dave for me one last time and TA DA! He finally picked up, claiming he'd been in the shower. LONGEST SHOWER EVER, is what I said. And so he opened the door and let me in and I told him the whole story and then I went into the bathroom to take my own shower and that's when I looked in the mirror and saw that I had conducted every conversation that morning – EVERY CONVERSATION, with EVERY PERSON IN MY NEIGHBORHOOD – with a clothing size sticker running down the front of my (brand new! remember?) workout top. A big old plastic strip of letter Ms, pasted onto my chest.
For once the old adage is true: I DID GET DRESSED IN THE DARK. Not that it really matters, at this point.