I'm an intense, hyperactive woman with an imagination in overdrive who loves her Husby, her two Wonder Wieners, and her emerging career as an author and photographer.

Sunday, November 13

Next in the Enquirer: Naked Lockout!

Enquiring minds want to know, how did I lock myself out of the house in the all together? Yes, last Thursday, I locked myself out of our new house when I was completely nude (excepting tattoo and belly jewel). 100% true. Only the truth can be as funny as an episode of Desperate Housewives, which I have never seen, by the way.

Night before, husby installed a new dog door. Pups wouldn't use it for two reasons: 1) it's alien, 2) it was pouring rain. In the days since moving in, we've found presents inside, as protest, due to stress, and because they'd rather not go in a downpour. Next morning, he leaves for work and the pups and I fall back asleep until late, about 9. I hear them shake and run to the door. I, who prefer sleeping without the encumberment of clothing, am in a slight panic that they'll leave more turds, and perhaps even piddle, inside. I run to the back door without grabbing a robe, to shoo the dogs through. Encouragement proves fruitless. Somewhere in my unconscious, it registers that our back yard is extremely private, with a high fence all around, so I don't need to worry about being seen. What doesn't register is that unlike our old house, all the knobs lock in addition to having deadbolts. I open the door, close the door behind me, and call through the dog door as I push the flap open with my hand. Still no takers. I don't feel like engaging in this battle now. I'll simply open the door for them, wait until it's less rainy to coax them through with treats or something. I go for the knob. It's locked. I'm locked out. It's pouring, freezing. I'm in the buff. Without even my glasses, which provide me with vision otherwise limited to fuzzy shapes.

As the realization hits me, I start simultaneously screaming, crying, and laughing hysterically, which I've only ever done before while riding Disney's Space Mountain. As I hop from foot to foot and rub my freezing limbs, I wrack my brain for options. Any windows I can open and crawl through? Nope. Any doors I might have left unlocked? Nope. Any way to open the garage? Nope. Willing to stay out here and freeze? Nope. I must go to a neighbor for help. But not completely naked! I go around the side of the house and start looking at the gargabe cans, thinking I'll take a lid and use it on the front side and one on the back. Then, I remember a bag with wet cardboard boxes in it, thinking I might put them around myself. As I dump out the contents of the garbage, I find two, big, torn, but otherwise clean garbage bags that I had used during the move to put over hanging clothing. Eureka! I wrap one around my waist as a skirt, another around my top. I have to hold them with both hands to keep them on; they're completely torn on the bottom, like tubes. I peer over the side fence to see if anyone is in the street within my field of vision. The coast is momentarily clear. I go out, around the front of the house, and do a quick mental inventory of the neighbors. Where are there cars at home? Who have I met? Who would be the most understanding of my situation? I settle on Craig and Amy to the south, who live in a rental owned by our same landlord. We met them on our first day, they seem young and hip, and Husby actually knew of Craig and had seem him around in the industry. I run to their house and ring the doorbell. No response. I knock loudy. No response, then finally, a sleepy Amy cracks open the door. Through my laughing tears, I babble that I'm locked out naked, and as comprehension hits her, her eyes go wide and she invites me inside.

She wraps me with towels, and makes tea for me. I borrow her cell and call my husband at work to come let me in. As we wait the half hour for him to arrive, Amy and I chat about death metal and black metal bands, our landlord, our significant others, and so on, while Robin William's movie "Awakenings" plays silently on the TV, and I sit wrapped in terrycloth. It all feels very surreal. Husby arrives. As I run back to our house, now in towels, the UPS guy pulls up to deliver a package for him. He has undoubtedly seen partially dressed people before, as it doesn't even phase him. Sure enough, when I get inside, Cooper has left a large pile of turds on the carpet, evidence that he's been waiting for at least a day to dump, hoping the endless rain will stop. I call his name to discipline him, and hear him run away down the hall to the bedroom. I enter just in time to see his butt disappear under the bed. I give up and get dressed.

So began my day. The rest of the day, I would bust into laughter at odd times, simply remembering what I must have looked like, and in wonderment that I could actually have done it. I know that members of the staff at Husby's new workplace know, because really, how can you leave a brand-new job for an hour without saying to your co-worker or boss: "I have to go home to let my wife in the house. She locked herself out. Umm...naked." When I get to the first holiday party, I'll be looking closely for the tells, the smirks or looks of recognition, to see who knows that I'm the gal who has the habit of cavorting naked in nature.


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