sidewalk stories

I am not-so-slowly turning in to my mother.

Mom makes good use of her AAA auto membership.
I've always had a smug I'm Clearly Smarter Than You attitude about locking keys in the car, running out of gas and leaving lights on.
Kind of like the way I used to feel about air-conditioning.

I've had a big case of crabbiness this last week and decided that I needed to be eating better, which meant a dreaded trip to the grocery store. I'm determined to support my neighborhood businesses, which means not shopping at the scrubbed clean polished for television and soccer moms supermarket, but at the low frills bring your own bag and stand in line with people screaming at their children discount market on a busy street.

I was feeling pretty good when I was done shopping -- nothing but fruit, vegetables and a package of Twizzlers in my cart. I packed them in the cloth bag I'd carried in to the store. I got to help an actual old lady load her groceries in her car and gave my cart (without getting the quarter back) to a young mother.

I walked to the truck and realized the doors were locked.
Why? I never lock the truck. And I could see my keys big as life on the seat -- next to my cell phone.

Okay, not to panic.
I have my wallet, a cantaloupe and Twizzlers.
That can solve anything, right?
If I was MacGuyver, maybe.

I just need to call someone to give me ride home. From there I was sure that I could break in to my house for the spare keys, put the yogurt in the fridge and ride my bike back to the truck.

Call someone...humm...
I'm terrible at remembering phone numbers. My poor brain is on overload just keeping track of my telephone, cell phone, bank accounts and PIN numbers, passwords, birthdays, alarm codes and safes (Second Helpings, Red Key and Marigold) and bike lock combination.

The only telephone numbers I know by heart are my family.
I walked to a payphone, deposited 50 cents, dialed Mom.
Pay phone broken, what a shock.
I walked to the gas station on the corner and tried to call Mom again.
She was not home.

All of my friends in the neighborhood use cell phones as their main phone, so there was no use looking in the phone book.

Hostel John is who I rely on for getting me out of a jam things like this. Bingo! I remembered that I'd written a piece about an art opening at the Hostel for the Gazette and included John's cell phone number as the contact number.

I walked a couple of blocks to a bar that carried the paper, used their phone and John and his just moved here from Chicago girlfriend graciously postponed their dinner plans to come rescue me.

John insisted on helping me break in to my house. My bedroom window looked like the easiest route --after we removed the air-conditioner from the window.
Easy enough right?
I had my ladder out and a step stool. My thought was that I'd reach in, unplug the air-conditioner, John and I would lift it out. We'd set it on the ground and I'd crawl through the space.

I guess we should have discussed our plans.

John's idea was that I'd reach in, unplug it and we'd set the air-conditioner on the ladder while he crawled in.

The result was much fumbling, laughing and one still-running air-conditioner on the ground.

John crawled through the window, got a good eye full of my messy house and they took me back to my truck.

The air-conditioner still worked, but I decided it should join the toilet on the curb.

I just hope no one trips over it.