like a monk... or a bum



So imagine this scenario: You're wearing cargo pants without a belt, a hoodie, no socks, and flip-flops. No one's home but you. You don't know anybody within walking distance. It's pouring rain... and you're locked out of the house.

What do you do?

Welcome to my life. Witness how God, the universe, and my own forgetfulness conspires against me.


.:.


I had stepped outside to walk the GF to her car like a dutiful BF, and I stood in the driveway waving goodbye like a beauty queen until she was out of sight. As I walked back to my front door, I discovered to my surprise that the door had locked behind me. Dah... no wallet, cellphone, or keys. Nobody in the area that I know.

What a great time to be locked outside.

In vain, the thought crossed my mind to chase my GF's car, but I was wearing flip flops and it was beginning to rain hard. The attempt would have the double bonus of being futile and getting me drenched more. Even worst, she had left her cellphone at home, so there was no way to contact her until she was all the way home, 45 minutes away in North Seattle.

I vaguely recalled that my best friend Josh's parents had a key to my house. They used to live just down the street... until they moved away 2 years ago.

The rain started to pour harder, and I didn't want to be seen sitting in front my house like a burglar, so I walked to the backyard. Surprisingly, the toolshed was open. It hadn't been used in years... dust and cobwebs everywhere. I poked around and as I took inventory of what was in shed, a plan formulated in my brain involving a broom, a pencil, and the spare wood in the shed.

Using the broom, I swept the floor of the shed of the dust, cobwebs, and dead bug parts. I then ran through the rain to get mail from the mailbox, scribbling a note to my Mom that I placed under the wheel of the recycling bin that I wheeled directly in front of her garage door. Running back to the toolshed, I cleared out a large space. I wanted to keep the shed door closed because of the pouring rain, but after 10 minutes inhaling whatever rotting pesticides left in there and experiencing euphoric visions of the cast of Beverly Hills 90210 being eaten alive by pillbugs, I thought it safer to allow some fresh wind. I brushed the spare wood clean and stacked the pieces of wood to make a clean platform I could sit on.

The plan was to sit and wait until my Mom came home from work, which was a bit unpredictable. If and when she arrived home, she'd find the recycling bin annoyingly blocking her from entering the car. She'd predictably exit the car to move the can, and find my note under the wheel, and then come to get me.

So I sat down cross-legged on my platform. And I waited...

...

...

...

...

...

...for two and a half hours.

My poor mother was scared to death... it's not everyday you find your son half-asleep, wet, and cold in a crosslegged position in the backyard after he's scribbled a note "I'M IN THE TOOLSHED" on one of the envelopes in your mail.

It took some explaining. But at least I could finally go back into the house.
posted by G at 6:38 PM   |

in?scrip?tion (n-skrip-shun)n.
1. The act or an instance of inscribing.
2. Something, such as the wording on a coin, medal, monument, or seal, that is inscribed.
3. A short, signed message in a book or on a photograph given as a gift.
4. The usually informal dedication of an artistic work.
5. Jeremiah 31:33