A Weekend of Memories

My life has managed to become a strange series of episodic events. I headed out Friday night to meet up with a few friends of a friend. Lamenting that I miss having a guy who can always be "the driver," I was the one picking up everyone. We headed downtown to get our groove on. Since I've never attempted to parallel park in my (nearly) decade of driving, why attempt it with two witnesses in the car? I chose the higher route--a parking garage. By the time we emerged from the garage, we noticed all the gates had been pulled. Getting into and getting out of the garage looked quite challenging, but since we were already late, I said we could postpone the panicking.

So, two hours later, we are headed back to the car. I leave one girlfriend at the gate. Maybe she will catch someone on their way out and the muscle the gates to stay open. My other friend and I head for the car. We pull to the exit hoping something magical will open the gate and arm. Seeing no action, we both get out and start looking around. After a few minutes, I resort the saying "Help! We're going to die in here!" to onlookers on the other side of the street. I can see that they clearly see me, but are probably noting I that I didn't sound serious enough because, well, I didn't. All of the sudden, a truck emerges from the ramp behind us. We are looking at this guy with hope and skepticism. Does he know how to get us out? Are we just going to be trapped together? (Does anyone else hear Enrique singing "Hero?") He pulls into the other lane to leave, and we're like, "Dude, how do you get out of here?" And he's all, "Yeah, you press the button." And we're like, "Dude, we don't have a button." And he's like, "There's one over here, man." And when he says "man," we're all completely aware he's think we're idiots, but he can't help from thinking we're funny. Little does he know, my friend was seriously looking at me as though I might have to be her next meal. It's a good thing she pigged out on some Rendezvous ribs.

Episode Deux…
I locked myself out of the house, and sadly this is not the first time. This is a first time as for me not being able to get back into the house. My father is away in Alaska. My mother, sister, and brother-in-law are in Bumbleville, MO at a family reunion. I have 12,000 square feet all to my sweet self, but five floors, 10-15 doors, and 4 garage doors is a lot to keep under one chick's watch, especially one that constantly locks and re-locks doors. I also have three animals to look after, which isn't that taxing. I usually decide to lock the garage door when I stay by myself. We typically leave that door unlocked, as I'm sure most families do here in the South. The bad thing about locking this particular door is that the handle will continue to turn from the inside as though it's unlocked--clearly a problem to the forgetful mind. I ALWAYS lock myself out. But fear not, I just hike to the other end of the property, punch in the garage code, and voila, I'm in.

So, I have a healthy cookie for breakfast. I feed the cats. I walk outside to feed the dog. Feeling good about myself, I turn around to go back inside the house. The door's locked. I'm thinking, "Crap, now I have to walk all the way around. Yeah, why do I always do this to myself?" So, I start my hike. Thirty minutes later when I reach the other end of the house, I punch in the codes for the garage doors. Nothing's happening. I try again. Nothing. I'm remembering my parents saying something about applying seals to the garage doors and not to open the door. I'm thinking the bastards locked both of them. I'm so screwed.

Thankfully, my mother & father were smart enough to put telephones in the garages. Oh, I should probably clear up the garage thing. We have a three-car (one single, two double) on one side of the house. On the lower end of the house, we have two more single garages, which happen to be the locked ones. I can only get into the 3-car garage. So, my parents really thought of everything (except their daughter's ability to always lock herself out of the house). I call my girlfriend who is still in bed. I say, "Hey, um, I got myself a little sit-e-ation here. I locked myself out of the house. Dude, I have to be in the shower in an hour & be at work in 3. There's a spare key somewhere in this garage, and I have no idea where that would be." She is strangely good at finding things for people. If you lose something, this is the girl you want on your side. We start calling family. I make over a dozen phone calls to relatives' mobile phones. I tell each of them that I'm only 25 and shouldn't be left alone. I'm clearly not responsible enough to live by myself. What were they thinking leaving me like this? I also have a low tolerance for heat, and I'm beginning to melt. I get nothing but voicemail, so I'm forced to be creative leaving the same message on more than five different mobile phones. At one point, I promised to flash my brother-in-law both breasts in broad daylight. He's been asking since I was sixteen, perhaps younger. I was growing more desperate with each passing HOUR, and yes, I said hour.

I call into work. I tell my manager that there's a good chance I won't make it in, or at the very least, I'll be pretty late. She asks me what I'm wearing. "Well, not a lot. I'm in a tank top (with big pink sequined lips), matching underwear, and a short, white robe, oh, and my cool Adidas sandals." She says, "Oh, so we're not just talking that you're not in dress code colors." I tell her, "Well, we're a little beyond dress code here; however, we might sell more if I come in like this." I have a unique situation. So, she pretty much lets me off the hook, though I can tell she's stifling laughter.

So, my partner in crime shows up. I've been forced to clean, because what else is a girl to do? I've combed through the tool cabinet, which smells an awful lot like poop, and I've given the lube rack a good look over. (And another note on the tool cabinet, there were some strange devices in there. A turkey baster? I'm not even going to ask.) So, I start to clean out my friend's car. I offer a much-needed vacuum while she starts combing the garage for the infamous key. I'm closing in on the third hour. My spirits were comical and now they're quickly bubbling into anger, with the F word thrown in...a lot. Finally, as we close on the fourth hour, she finds that damn key. Where was it? Where was it you ask? In a freaking magnetic box on the BACK of the tool chest, which will have to be rehidden now.

So, my friend and I part ways. We were both sweaty, tired, and in need of a shower. I, of course, have to wait for hot water because the timed thing has been off since 10:30, and well, now it's almost 3:00. I jump in the shower and call work. I tell them I think I can be there by four, but then they say they're slow, & I don't need to come in. Slightly relieved, but feeling no love, I snuggle in for a nap. I've had a long day. And sadly, no one from my family has even called me yet. I decide not to leave the, "I'm just kidding" or the, "This had been a test of the Emergency Broadcast System, which you all have failed miserably" message on their phones.

Do you see why my life is episodic? I thought so.


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