Safety First

deck

My dad likes to add on to his house. He especially likes windows and high things that stick out from the side of the house. As a result, he as a small deck outside every door and window of the house so at any given exit you can step out and sit over looking a tree. It’s rather cool.
On Monday, shortly after my parents left for work, I stepped outside, just out of bed dressed in a t-shirt, pajama pants, barefoot and still sporting helmet head/Kewpie doll hairstyle my mom created for me the day before in attempt to make my hair look “better” after I had a helmet on all day. “Your hair is so weird,” she announces as we’re standing in the restroom as she’s trying to form my hair into something human-like. Now do you understand the whole bandana thing? Anyway, I’m looking as stunning as I can be standing outside, clipping my hideously long fingernails. My mom and sister are puzzled by why I keep my nails short and don’t have them manicured like they do. I told them it was because they don’t have a job that entails routinely shoving your finger up some stranger’s bum. That seemed to appease them.
Anyway, I’m standing out on the 5ftx8ft deck, clipping my nails and talking to my friend on phone. The friend I was supposed to be meeting that day. I had called to tell her I was running late because my wild family had me out late and I looked like a stoned Kewpie doll. I turned to go into the house and…the door was locked. Did I mention my father is paranoid about break ins? Not that any inept thief couldn’t simply break one of 700 accessible windows in this house so all the doors are locked. I opened the door to get out, ergo, I thought the door was unlocked. Dopey me. It wouldn’t be so bad had I not done the same damn thing the last time I visited. AND it’s always, always right after my parents leave for work. This was the highest deck overlooking the driveway. I contempated trying to contemplate scaling the house and jumping to the lower deck, but it was definitely in the bilateral calcaneus fracturing/tib/fib cracking range so I decided not to. I called my mom. Breathlessly, she informed me that she “just” got to work. Of course. “Uh, is there any other way to get into your house aside from these pesky locked doors?”
Apparently, my parents had secured this house like Fort Knox after someone robbed them of 6 kilos of nickels and dimes they’d collected a couple of years ago and had confiscated everyone’s keys. “Nope,” she told me. “You mean you locked yourself out again?”
“Yes,” I said sheepishly. I felt horrible. Why couldn’t I have done this an hour before she got home? Then I could have waited, but, at 8am I would have been outside for 9 hours without water and clothing and I would have eventually had to pee. Not to mention I looked like a derelict and I was afraid one of the KY neighbors would shoot me if they saw some Kewpie-headed half naked stranger on my parent’s deck. I called my sister to see if she had a key, but all I got was rolling laughter on the other end of the line. She told me to “hollar” at the neighbor who lives across the street. No deal. My mom opted to come back home and rescue me. She called me on her cell phone as she was driving back. “Well, you could have called Mr. Lock.”
“Mr Lock?” I said. “Mr. Lock is the reason I’m out here. I need Mr. Key!”
Mr. Lock, I learned, is the local locksmith company. Uh huh. Mr. Lock, indeed.
Finally, my mom shows up and opens the door. Immediately, she says, “Oh, the bat didn’t get you.”
“Bat?”
“Yes, the bat that lives on this deck. Up there,” she points to the ceiling. “Didn’t you see all the bat shit?”
“I thought it was mouse poop.”
“Nope, it’s a bat. I didn’t want to tell you over the phone.”
Swell.
I’m slowly learning how to live in my parent’s little funhouse.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s