Saturday, March 30, 2013

Why There Was Much Drinking Tonight

Let me tell you about my day.

Actually, let me tell you about my late afternoon.  I went for a run, and came home to find the rest of my family had vacated to check out the fancy new park downtown.  I was a little sad that they'd just left without a hi-dee-ho, but whatever, quiet house.  So I went about my business and eventually got around to starting dinner, assuming they might be home somewhere around the usual dinnertime, or so I hoped (Hub refuses to wear a watch and it horribly poor at monitoring time, so yeah).  And while I was at it, I started cleaning the fridge, because why not. (Or rather why, and the answer is because I am a glutton for punishment.)

I heard the garage door and jacked up the heat on the stove just as Sammy came through the back door, hunched over and walking with his hands in front of him like a blind drunk.  Well, I was half right.  I asked him what was wrong (as he walked into a wall), and then caught a side glimpse of his face and adjusted to ask what was wrong with his eyes.  He said he couldn't open them.  I turned his face toward me to see he was doing his level best to impersonate the Elephant Man.  Poor boy was swollen up something awful, so I ushered him to bed and got him eye drops and a cold cloth.  This ain't our first trip to the allergy rodeo.  But even if it was, Sammy telling me he wanted to take a nap would have been a big OH NO sign.

So I got him settled and went back to put dinner on the table / finish up the fridge when the phone rang.  My mom asked if I was busy at the moment (well...) because she and my dad we at a restaurant around the corner and the keys had been locked in the car (I will not assign any blame in print as I was not there to witness said locking in, and thus maintain my neutrality).  Dinner would just have to wait.  

I picked up my parents and drove them home, no big deal.  When we got there, I started digging through my purse to find my parental garage door opener (Mary Poppins got nuthin' on my carpet bag).  At first I couldn't find it, and ha ha, wouldn't that be funny, but eventually unearthed it.  I pressed the button and... nothing.  I pressed and pressed and pressed and pressed, and still nothing.  Ha ha, um ha?  Did I mention my parents bolt their doors from the inside so there was no alternate entryway?  Yeah, good times.

Luckily, Mom remembered an open window, whose screen was properly dispatched via pocket knife so I could climb in, disarm the alarm, and let my parents into their own house.  I gave my dad the woebegone opener (he can play with it and probably work his mechanical magic to make it function again) and picked up a spare to bury in my purse once more.  Dad found his spare key (making sure we had the right one so we wouldn't have to make this crazy loop a second time), and we headed back to get his car.  He assured me it would work, and gave me the thumbs up when he got the lock to turn.  And as I drove off heading home, I was serenaded by the dulcet tones of the car alarm his tripped breaking into his own car.

If we aren't a sitcom family, I don't know who is.


  1. I'm not afraid to name "names". But thank you, Julie for rescuing us!