She-Who-Cannot-Be-Trained, (Cobie) locked me out of the van. She must know I want to give her away.
I spend two and a half hours each morning getting boys out of bed and ready for school. It sounds like a marathon, but it's more like a prolonged sprint. Two and Three get up at 6:00 in order to catch buses at 6:55 and 7:05. Four rises at 6:30, because his van arrives at 7:30. I wake Five after returning from Three's bus stop, so he can have Lego building time before we get his bus at 8:15. One rolls out of bed after Four leaves, and finally, departs at 8:35. Then I make the coffee and sit my ass down.
I take Cobie in the van for all the bus runs. It gets her out of Leo's hair (literally), and it burns off some of her early morning energy. Yesterday, she jumped in, we drove to Four's stop, and I left her and the keys on the front seat while I got him off to school. When I opened the door, she tried to make a break for it, no doubt having spied a chase-worthy chipmunk. I partially shut the door, but it got stuck in that weird door limbo, so I shut it all the way, and pulled again.
I knew my spare keys were in Chicago with the Captain. I started walking home anyway, because I still had one kid to get out the door. The bus stop isn't far from my house, but the walk back is all uphill. I was in my daily uniform of black velour pants and the t-shirt I slept in, both of which got clingy right quick in the morning humidity. About 100 yards from the driveway I made a promise to reacquaint my ill-equipped cardiovascular system with the elliptical. As soon as I fix the inexplicable, lingering foot pain I've been nursing for weeks. Panting, I hurried inside to make sure One was ready to go, threw his lunchbox in his backpack, and called the police.
The police are out of the door-jimmying business. Unless you have a baby locked in the car. A human baby. I called my Kia dealer, hoping they could unlock the door remotely. No dice. I hitched a ride on One's bus back down to the scene, called Kia roadside assistance, and checked on Cobie. She was asleep. I played a few rounds of Word Warp on my phone, and texted the Captain. I figured I'd give him a chuckle.
The Captain never locks his keys in the car, because he always removes them from the ignition, exits the vehicle, and locks it with the clicker. He locks the car every time he parks it. He locks it in our driveway, even if it's broad daylight, and we're outside. He likes routine, and this incident (and all the other times I've locked the keys in the car, especially that time outside Starbucks the night before we were driving to Florida) will now further validate his OCD approach.
When the Captain called me back, he remembered that our dealer told us we could use our cellphones to unlock the car. He clicked the remote next to the phone, and I held my phone near my door, while his colleague in Chicago laughed and laughed in the background. It didn't work.
I played more Word Warp.
The locksmith called me, fifteen minutes after his scheduled arrival, to say he'd been given the wrong town and contact number. I think he just heard wrong, and was covering his ass. I was snippy.
"Hold on," he said, "don't get upset. We're not going to fight. I'm on my way."
There is nothing that makes me angrier than some man telling me to calm down. When Two tells me to relax after he's irritated me by (a) not listening when I am speaking to him, or (b) sighing in exasperation when he actually does, or (c) basically not doing any of the things I told him to, I want to punch him. So if I don't even know you, dude, don't tell me to fucking moderate my tone of voice.
Eventually, "Roadside Assistance" arrived. He was some young guy in a Honda with a Slim Jim. He tried to make excuses, while I glared and filled out his form, which informed me, in CAPITAL LETTERS, that the assistants work on tips. I signed, and thanked him verbally, not monetarily. One hour and forty-five minutes after Cobie stood on my automatic door lock, I arrived back home.
This morning, I took the keys out of the van.