Okay, now it’s really time for this week’s Blogger Idol post. So let’s get on with it before I go off on another tangent and have to do this whole thing again. Sheesh.
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Week Four Topic: ‘Ooops’
Well, this is a toughie. So many choices, and only one story to choose. Seriously, if my life had a caption, it would be ‘Ooops‘.
(Or ‘Oh, fuck, no!‘. Or possibly, ‘Hey, how the hell did you get your head stuck in there?’ But let’s stick to the topic at hand, shall we? Nobody wants to rehash my college admission interviews, anyway.)
There are a lot of tales I could relay from my experience that involved an ‘Ooops‘ moment, but I think I’ve picked the one I want to tell you. It’s the story of the one time that I managed to lock my keys inside my car.
So, I was fresh out of college, still wet (with cheap beer, no doubt) behind the ears, and living on my own in Pittsburgh. My girlfriend (now my wife) was several hundred miles away, still at the college where we met. Because of geographical and financial constraints, we saw each other only about once a month or so. This story occurs maybe a year into that little situation.
(There. That’s called backstory, boys and girls. Don’t say I never gave ya nothin’, okay?)
So, anyway, flying back and forth got to be pretty damned expensive, so we’d sometimes drive the six hours or so to visit the other. On this particular day, it was my turn to drive, and it had been close to six weeks since I’d seen my one true love.
(No, I’m not talking about my penis. Get your damned mind out of the gutter. Just sit back and appreciate the bonus backstory, would you? We’re zooming in on the point now — it should roll around any time now.)
So, I drove to see my girl. Only, she wasn’t there yet — she was doing grad school interviews at the time, and was getting back into town on the same Friday that I was driving in. So we arranged that I’d meet her at the airport, drive her back to her dorm, and we’d commence with the… um, er, well. We’d, uh, commence playing chess, and having tea together, and discussing the matters of the day, of course. Just the sort of activities that any two youngsters like ourselves would engage in, naturally. You understand. Ahem.
Anyway, I make the trek all the way there, and then to the airport, with just such things — to review, that’s ‘chess’, and ‘tea’, and ‘the discussion of current events germane to our milieu‘ — topmost in my mind. That’s after six weeks of not being able to, er, play chess, and drink tea, and et cetera, and all the rest, and I think we all know what we’re talking about here, dammit.
So that’s pretty much all I was thinking about. I don’t remember the drive there. I don’t remember pulling into the airport parking lot. For all I know, I was carried the whole way in a cocunut husk suepended between the beaks of two European swallows. (Or African; whichever you prefer.) I may have smacked into dogs on the way there, or deer, or sheep, or little old ladies — I didn’t know, and I didn’t care. I was finally there, to see my honey, and all I had to do was pop into the airport, collect her and her bags, and then it was wild, sweaty, freaky… um, chess time. With tea, and… er, stuff.
I say all of this in my defense, to indicate just what sort of an excited, joyous, agitated, anxious mood I was in. Not to mention mentally exhausted from the long drive, or coconut ride, or whatever the hell it was. I wasn’t thinking straight, clearly. And that’s why — and the only reason why — I hopped out of the car, and left the keys inside.
In the ignition.
With the car still running.
‘Oh, shit. There goes that afternoon game of chess I wanted to play. Puckernuts!‘
(No, I don’t know what the hell ‘puckernuts’ means, by the way. It just popped into my head, and it seemed like the sort of thing I might say in a situation like that. If I remember, I’ll add it to the list.)
Anyway, I didn’t know what the hell to do. I just stood there for a couple of minutes, gaping and drooling. Some might say that this just exacerbated the problem. I like to think that I was just ‘getting into character’, doing my best to look like the stumbling, shriky-brained moron that I apparently was. Hell, I wish more morons would put in the effort, frankly — that way, when I do have a lucid moment, I can avoid anyone who looks like a mouth-breathing assbag, and get on with my day. Too many assheaded jackholes out there operate in ‘stealth mode’, trying to make you think they’re normal people before laying their wrongheaded boobered bullshit on you. Who was it, Bill Hicks, who said those people should wear fucking signs? Hear, hear, Bill — tell the gospel, brother.
So, anyway, there I was, slobbering onto the asphalt of the parking lot, wondering what the hell to do next. As usual, I was borderline late to meet my then-girlfriend-now-wife.
(By the way, how and why she’s put up with me all these years, I can’t say; hell, incriminating pictures only go so far. Unless you’re a politician, of course, which she isn’t.
And never will be, based on these Polaroids. Don’t ever run for office, honey pie — you never know when I might need a little extra spending cash. Love you, snookums!)
Back to the story — after a few minutes, I made my decision. As backwards as it seemed to leave a running car out in the parking lot where anyone could sneak up and steal it, the thing was locked. So at least there’d be one line of defense between my precious wheels and a would-be auto snatcher. And besides, most people probably wouldn’t glance twice at a running car in a parking lot, just assuming that there’s someone sitting in it. I mean, no assknacker would actually leave a running automobile completely unattended in a public parking lot, would they?
*ahem* Sir! Private Assknacker, present and accounted for, sir!
So, I did. I walked into the airport, found my honey’s flight, waited with her for her checked bags, and helped her carry them out to the car. All was bliss and love and happiness, and impending ‘chess’ and ‘tea’. It honestly wasn’t until we were within sight of the car that a little nagging thought poked at me from my brain. I suddenly remembered my little predicament, and tried to find just the right way to explain myself to her:
‘Oh, honey, that’s right… I forgot to mention it, but there’s a little ‘problem’ with the car.
Oh, no, no, it’s okay. It’s not dead or anything. Nope, got plenty of gas; it still runs. (Oh boy, does it run.)
What? Nothing, nothing. No, it’s just that… um, well, with all the excitement and all of being here, and seeing your beautiful face, and getting to spend time with you, and all the romantic things I was thinking about on the way here… um, I sort of, kinda… lockedthekeysinthecar.
I said, I… lockedthekeys… in the car.
No, I didn’t say I farted in the car! I lockedthekeys in there. Lockedthekeys! Lockedthekeys!
Fine. I locked the keys… IN… the car. There. You happy? My keys. Locked. In the car. Mine. In the car. Locked. I hope you’re satisfied!
Oh… and, um, by the way… it’s sort of still running, just a little. If that’s important or anything.‘
Sheesh. Folks, that happened more than twenty years ago. And I still haven’t lived it down. She laughed at me — just laughed — for… I can’t remember how long, frankly. She laughed while we waited for AAA to get there, and had a nice little chuckle with the locksmith, and then giggled all the way back to the dorm, and cackled as she told all of her friends about it. Laugh, laugh, laugh, ha ha ha, ho ho friickin’ ho. Funny, funny. She even laughed during ‘chess’.
(And yes, I choose to believe that she was still amused by the scene in the parking lot, thank you very much. One humiliating expeirence at a time, if you would, please.)
So, anyway, that’s my story. My most memorable ‘Ooops‘ moment, made more difficult by the fact that I had to parade my sweetest love right by the evidence. And that I had to breathe gasoline fumes throughout the experience, but that’s really secondary to the main issue, frankly. Hell, I’d have chugged gasoline at that point, if I could have just kept my brain fart quiet, and never let my sweetie be the wiser.
But that’s not how it worked out, and she gleefully told me ‘Don’t forget your keys!‘ for months afterward. It’s started to settle down a bit now, of course. Just a little. Of coruse., I did remind her about the whole thing this afternoon, because I had to ask her about a few details in the backstory. (Hey, I told you I was thinking of ‘chess ‘n’ tea’ the whole time.) So she’ll probably be all over me again for a while, now that it’s fresh in her mind. It’ll probably be unbearable for a while, until she tires of the taunting.
Man, the things I do for you people who read this.
(Okay, okay, I’m kidding. Mainly. She was actually very nice and understanding about the whole affair. My wife’s a wonderful woman, and really didn’t give me much hell at all over such a stupid thing. Just a leeeeetle tiny bit. For like a month. Or two. The rest of the nineties, tops. But really, she was okay. That’s just not as good an ending. Sorry.
But hey, people — she reads this shit sometimes. And while I love a good ending as much as the next guy, I can’t go painting her as vindictive and snarly when she really wasn’t. That’s not fair, is it, pookie?
And besides, if I’m mean to her, I might not get to play ‘chess’ for a long, long time. And I love you people and all, but that’s serious shit. Good ending be damned — I need my pawns knighted, dammit! We’re storming the queen’s castle at dawn!)Permalink | 11 Comments