Sometimes You Just Have to Stop and Smell the Ragweed

A series of Unfortunate Events (UEs).

UE #1: This morning I take the dogs out for their morning poop-and-pee-extravaganza, and upon returning home, I discover that I have locked the door and left the keys on the other side.

UE #2: My landlord has the spare. His mom died a couple of days ago, and I feel like a jerk calling him about my petty issue of the day.

UE #3: Momentarily contemplate breaking my door in, then decide instead to call my friend (apparently I have my priorities straight and remember to take my phone with me everywhere). She is also the friend of my landlord. I ask her if she can go pick up the key from him and bring it to me. She is wonderful, so even though she has just gotten out of the shower and has somewhere she needs to be, she agrees to help me out. (side note: I have the BEST friends in the entire world.)

UE #4. Did I mention that I am possibly the least attractive I have ever looked, having just rolled out of bed, piled my hair up in an unbecoming bun, stuck a pair of sunglasses on my unwashed face, and hoped against hope, not having brushed my teeth,  I wouldn't come within 20 feet of another human being? Before you judge, remember how hard it is to get the smell of dog pee out of carpet. I had to get those suckers out before they got any bright ideas about watering my floor. Also, I have a noticeable rash on my face from something stupid I did a few days ago.

UE #5. Five minutes later, I get a call back from my friend. "Bad news," she says.  "They're at the funeral now, and the reception is immediately following. We can't get the key to you until this afternoon." It is now 10:20 am.

UE #6. I search for a local locksmith on my phone, and call the number on the first listing. A man answers, in a tone you would use to address someone who just mugged your frail, aging mother.
"Yeah, hello!"

Me in my little girl voice, "Is this the locksmith?"

Still yelling, "Yeah, yeah. What?"

Now contemplating hanging up, but desperation drives me forward. "I locked myself out of my home and need help getting back in." I close with a weak giggle. I'm not amused, just nervous.

"What city do you live in?"

I tell him, hoping that since the number I called looks local, he'll be nearby and I won't have to wait long.

"I can get there in 30, 45 minutes."

In an ever diminishing and squeaky voice, "Aren't you local?"

"Yeah, I'm local! But I have other things to do, I can't just zoom over there the second you call me!"

I am now wondering about the wisdom of inviting this rage-bomb to break into my home. By some miracle, we come to a meeting of the minds, and he agrees to hurry things up.

UE #7. True to his word, 20 minutes later, he pulls into my parking lot, and I wonder if he is going to murder me in retaliation for taking him away from whatever he was doing before I called. But, he actually apologizes. "Sorry I was so short with you. You're not the only one having a bad day." My dogs, of course, want to devour him.  We make it to my front door.  He takes one look, dramatically rolls his head from side to side and says "Shit! Did you recently have your locks changed?"

"Yes." What could possibly be wrong with that?

"That's what I was afraid of. This is a pick-proof lock. I can't get in here. And not only that, but these locks are notorious for malfunctioning. In the past 6 months, I've gone to 6 or 7 homes where people's keys just stopped working."

At this point I am having visions of hiring a demolition team. I have no words. I stare at him like a donkey. Somehow this does the trick and he takes pity on me.

"OK, hold on. There might be a way. Lemme make a phone call." He shouts into the phone for a few minutes, then, "Yeah, I was right. It's impossible to pick this lock."

I am weighing the possibility of moving and just buying a whole new set of stuff.

"There is one thing I can do, though."

I don't even ask him what it is. Instead I say, "Yes, do it!"

Not two minutes later, we are standing in my living room, and I am the proud owner of a broken doorknob. Instantly forgetting my humble state, I  ask him if he can make the doorknob look less ghetto. And he does it!

We are now best friends.

UE #8: I think we make plans to get a pedicure together. Or get our hair done. I'm not sure. He talks so fast, and I really have to pee, so I just smile and nod yes to everything he says. Ten minutes and $75 later, he leaves.  I close the door behind him, and turn around to answer my phone.

It's my landlord. He can bring the key and let me in.