Only in my world...

I drive up to Phoebe's house this evening, talking to my mom on the phone, who is patiently listening to me complain the things that seem hard in my life yet are a result of my own choices. (The enjoyment of complaining is greatly reduced when halfway through your tirade you have an enlightening dose of reality that your life, if we were to be honest (let's, its so refreshing), isn't nearly as bad as you like to pretend, yet you still feel the need to be a brat and bitch. This is beside the point.) So, I walk to the door, phone to ear, and I am astounded to find, much to the dog's dismay, that I cannot open the door. It would seem that when I locked the door this morning, the key on the other side some how shifted in the lock and is refusing to budge. Tiny, the dog, begins howling in dismay, for she has been shut up all day and really, really has to go to the bathroom. I, self-righteously indignant and exclaiming to the heavens "Here, here is the evidence that nothing ever goes right!", call Phoebe's sister to see if she has a key to the front door. She, dear and lovely woman that she is, rushes over to see if any of her keys will fit, which they do not. Tiny howls grow to a fevered pitch as she realizes we are loitering on the porch and not attending to her ever pressing needs. She claws at the glass door, yelping for attention and a fire hydrant. It is suggested we call a locksmith. I realize that I left the upstairs window open and wonder aloud if we could climb up there. Cyndi (Phoebe's sister) comments that it is unlikely since her son is unavailable to help. That seals the deal for me- anything he can do I can do better. "Cyndi, I have every intention of climbing up there myself," I inform her. (My actual words, as I began to climb the fence, were more along the lines of "Am I an idiot for attempting this? Please inform me now before I break my neck.") I pitch off my fancy flats and hike up my skirt and begin the climb. (Please refer to the diagram).



I hop up the fence, shimmy between the porch overhang and carport roof and then climb atop of the porch roof. I then walk very carefully along the plastic porch roof, making sure to walk along the supports so I don't fall through the roof. Once at the window, I tried to bust it open with no success. Cyndi tosses an ice scraper from her car up to the roof, but it lands on the edge, about three precarious feet from where I stood, clinging to the side of the house. I edged my way across the roof, listening to the crackling sound of doom (or what I imagine the roof breaking sounds like). I just manage to snag the ice scraper and then use it to rip open the screen. I roll/fall into the room and rush downstairs to open the door and release the pup. Huzzah, success! Suddenly my bad mood had vanished and Tiny and I set out for a lovely evening walk, as I rubbed screen splinters from my shin. To those contemplating a life of crime, do not wear sun dresses for breaking and entering. Not only is it immodest, it can cause unnecessary injury, such as splinters.

The end.


(Do you know how nice it is to click spell check and find that there are no misspellings. It is highly enjoyable.)