Forgotten Sleep

Let’s see…on any given day, $60 could buy you a relatively nice dinner. Or a new pair of shoes. If you’re like me, it might even buy you a lot of clothes for your kids if your favorite Kiddie Clothing Emporium is having one of their famous sales.

But, today is not any given day. Today is Monday — otherwise known as “Let’s get ourselves locked out of the house day.”

When we bought our house we knew it had “character.” One of those lovely little idiosyncrasies is that our main door has two locks serviced by two different keys. Neither of us carry a key for the second lock because it’s just not necessary.

Bad. Decision.

After helping a colleague for a few hours today, I returned to my office to find my cell phone blinking wildly at me. It appeared that my graphic designer had called me a few times, but the voice mail said something different.

Loving Husband had frantically been trying to get in touch with me this afternoon to let me know that we were locked out of our house. Not only that, but he didn’t have his cell phone and had pilfered the cell phone from Great Graphic Designer, with whom we both work. So, being sans phone, he couldn’t call a locksmith.

So, at 4 p.m. (and I leave work at 4:30), I set out to find a locksmith. The first one turned me down because he was booked into the evening. He recommended another company with the phrase, “They don’t smile much, but they do a good job.” Great, crabby locksmiths attempting to pick the lock to my house. Just what I want to see at the end of the day.

But, the non-smileys took my call and said they’d be on their way. What? Immediately? Great service, but not great for timing. It takes me a good 30 minutes to get home, considering that I have to take a bus just to get to my car. Even if I’d left the office and caught a bus immediately, the chances of my making it were slim.

I guessed right. On my way out of the parking lot, my cell phone rang with the surly locksmith on the other end of the line.

“I was under the impression that you were locked out of your house and needed to get back in.”

Hoping not to make the locksmith so mad he left, leaving me to sit outside in the sun (wait, today was warm, that wouldn’t have been so bad), I frantically explained that I would be home in four minutes. The cop directly behind me made sure I didn’t make it in those four minutes, but I really tried as best I could.

Finally, I pulled into my driveway and scampered up to the locksmith’s van. He didn’t even bother to get out of his truck to greet me. With his foot tapping on the door jam to the driver’s side, he simply looked at me sideways as I apologized for being late.

“If it’s just the bottom lock that was locked, it’s unlocked now.”

This was my greeting. I didn’t even have time to register that he’d unlocked my house without me there. Stunned, I ran inside and found a check. From “hello” to “here’s your check, thanks again,” my entire encounter with Mr. Locksmith lasted a grand total of three minutes. He was gone before I’d retrieved my coat from my car.

As happy as I was that he came over so quickly, giving me entrance back into the place I hocked both kidneys to purchase, I must admit that I was more than a little bummed that he took with him my plan to purchase $60 work of Indian take-out for dinner.

Le sigh.