This Ain’t No NBA Lockout

In trying to come up with content for my blog, I polled my friends on Facebook to see which topic they’d be interested in hearing about. According to the pile of responses I received (I believe there were six), most folks wanted to hear about why I was locked out of my bedroom. As it turns out, the title of this story is more interesting than the reality of the situation. I don’t know what possessed me to commit to a topic that could’ve been summed up in a tweet, when the only commitments I’ve managed to keep over the past dozen years or so are to stay married and floss regularly—both of which have been challenging at times.

While nobody really cares if I actually write on this topic, I’m determined to follow through. First, I present the perfectly tweetable summary in fewer than 140 characters: “Oh great, the door to my bedroom is screwed up, so I’m locked out. Fortunately, we have two bathrooms. Otherwise the neighbors would’ve gotten a frightening backyard show.”

And now for the Weenified version:

When I began writing this post, I was just glad to be locked out of the bedroom rather than in it. I should’ve known better than to jinx (or trust) myself, for not long afterward, I found myself staring blankly at the full-length mirror mounted to the inside of my bedroom door.

Let me pause here to note that Casa Weenie is more than 80 years old. You’d be hard pressed to find a right angle within a hundred yards of where I’m sitting. It’s no wonder then that shifting walls, floors, ceilings and doors might someday result in a situation where an extremely unlucky graphic designer finds herself running late for a meeting due to imprisonment in her own bedroom.

Desperate times call for desperate measures, so with few options left, I went all Law and Order on that door. **Note to self: Attempting to bust down a door by ramming against it à la Elliot Stabler when you’re built more like Lennie Briscoe is a mistake. Big mistake.

There are few acceptable excuses for tardiness to a meeting. A family emergency or traffic on Mopac will probably get you a pass, but sheer stupidity is another story. As I stood there rubbing my shoulder, I experienced the five phases that typically follow an event of this nature:

1. Denial: “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
2. Anger: “You dumbass.”
3. Bargaining: “I swear I will floss my teeth tonight.”
4. Depression: “Shit.”
5. Acceptance: “Shit.”

As an insecure poodle nervously sniffed at the other side of the door, various deceptive excuses for my tardiness flashed through my head (broken toe, food poisoning, flooded laundry room…). Then it dawned on me that I would be unable to call the person I was supposed to be meeting because there wasn’t a phone in the bedroom. (*See “denial” above.) After briefly considering a climb out the window,  I decided to give the door one last try. Bingo! I grabbed my bag and rushed to the front door, but there was one more problem. Where the hell did I put my keys??