Have you ever had one of those days when you are nannying and the toddler is up in his crib taking a nap and you lock yourself out of the house? Yeah...me neither...
Ok, so that's not true. Had you asked me that question two days ago, I could have safely rolled my eyes and said, "Of course not! Who would do that?", buuuuut <enter yesterday> and now I have to recant that statement.
Lil' Man was finally asleep upstairs, tucked under a pile of Clifford, Winnie the Pooh, and Yellow Duck, so that was my cue to take Rocko out for his midday walk. Coat: check. Boots: check. Rocko on his leash: check. Keys: check. No, really, I had the keys in my pocket.
We trudged down the three flights of stairs, out the front door, and through the gate. Our walk commenced as usual--Rocko stopping to sniff everything, me dragging him down the sidewalk; Rocko freezing in place to menacingly stare down another dog that is at least two blocks away, me dragging him across the street; Rocko chewing on a fallen branch, me dragging him through the gate--ya know, nothing out of the ordinary. I unlocked the entry door, walked to the top of the stairs with Rocko bringing up the rear, and unlocked the front door. Remembering that I hadn't put my "Please Do Not Buzz" sign on the bell downstairs (a necessity during Lil' Man's naptime), I removed Rocko's leash, tossed it--along with the keys--onto the white bench by the front door, and grabbed my little sign. Keeping the door cracked, I quickly ran down the steps to the entry door and taped the sign on the buzzer. In that time expanse of about 10 seconds, I actually thought to myself, "Wouldn't that be horrible if the door shut somehow, and I was locked out?" Yeah, ya know what? That would, in fact, be horrible. You know how I know that? Because I got back to the top of the stairs and was absolutely mortified when I pushed on the door...and it refused to move!
I. Was. Locked. Out.
"Rocko! Rocko! Jump up on the door! Turn the handle!" I pleaded with the Boxer who wouldn't know the difference between a door handle and a dog bone. As if he was really going to magically jump up and figure out how to turn the handle. I could hear him whining on the other side of door and imagined him giving that dumb look where he cocks his head to the side and his ears perk up at the words "Outside" or "Dinner". What on earth was I supposed to do? I tried to look up a locksmith on my phone...but nooo, since I was trapped in the stairwell, the internet wasn't connecting very well. I texted Hubs. Poor, sick, sinus-infected Hubs who was sitting at the doctor's office at that very moment. There was a mix of texts and calls between us. I ran down to the first floor neighbor. I'm sure she wondered who in creation was the crazy, panicked girl at her door. Did she have a spare key? Of course not. Silly me. She called the second floor neighbor who went up with a credit card to try to pop the lock. Did they have a different handle and lock than he did on his door? Of course they did. At some point, Hubs found a locksmith for me who was "on the way". Yeah, I've heard that one before, Locksmith People and Cable Company Guys. In the meantime, I ran across the street to the only other neighbor I knew of who might possibly have a spare key. My last vestiges of hope faded as I discovered she wasn't home. (Sidenote: She might have in fact been home. I would have known that had I been banging on her door and not her neighbors'. Anyway...)
I sauntered forlornly back across the street and sat dejectedly on the steps, waiting for Mr. Locksmith. He finally arrived, jauntily making his way across the street. "So what happened here?" he said with a smile and a thick accent. Really? Oh, nothing, Mr. Overly Happy Locksmith, just thought today would be a great day to lock myself out of the house. I led him and his little bag of door unlocking goodies up the stairs. He stared at the door for a few seconds and said, "This is an expensive lock. If you don't want me to break the lock, I need to use certain tools. It will be...eh...120." Good gracious, he better mean it will be 120 seconds to open it.
He did not mean that. As I croaked out "120?" and managed to catch myself from toppling backwards down the stairs, he already had his little gadgets in the door and with a *bang* it popped open. A wave of relief washed over me. Yes! I was back in the house! But said wave was quickly pulled out to sea again when I had to pay Mr. Overly Happy Locksmith his $120. Pretty sure he scammed me right outta that money. But in that moment, I really had little other choice. I was just so happy to have that ordeal over. I think I even hugged Rocko...
Moral of the story, kids: Always take your keys with you. Always.
Oh, and don't charge people $120 if you are a locksmith.
I blame the dog. He probably did it on purpose...
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