Monday

Where is Kevin Bacon when you need him?


Smiling sweetly does not make you innocent.

In case you heard bewildered sobbing in the distance on Saturday morning, that was me. Wearing my pajamas, clinging to a beach towel I found on the patio, standing in the mud on my front porch after Hurricane Luka locked me out. The culprit wasn't even home when this dastardly deed occurred...he had gleefully run off to the YMCA with daddy a mere 30 minutes earlier.

Note to self:
Wear slippers when you take letters out to the mail slot in your pajamas. And a big warm robe.

Better note to self:
Make your husband take those letters out to mailbox before he goes to the YMCA.

Because of my super mommy vigilance in making sure all the doors and windows are always locked in my house, I was of course, unable to get back in.

Even the dog door was, at this point, unwelcoming.

I'm not sure I could have fit thru it anyway.

The dog was happy to see me outside though and wagged her tail anticipating...what...that I'd whip some bacon out of my thin blue drawstring pajama pants?

Note to self: 
Bury a key in the garden. Give another one to next door neighbor. Get rid of fancy European door contraption with shiny, oh-so-tempting push-button-locking-mechanism that attracts two-year-olds. Send two-year-old to Swiss boarding school.

Did I tell you that this was my birthday weekend? 

Note to self:
Tell husband that I want to spend my next birthday weekend alone. In a fancy hotel with a concierge that will bring you another key to your room if you get locked out in your pajamas.

After whacking my head on a wysteria branch the size of John Cena's thigh, and tip toeing through 2 inch deep decomposing cedar needles in my brand new birthday pink fuzzie socks, I was in full-tilt wysteria hysteria and made my way to my friend Rhonda's house next door.

I'm just sure that my husband given our next door neighbors a key to our house at some point.

I'm counting on it in fact.

The thought of the coffee that is probably beeping that it is done in the kitchen, and the Kevin Bacon action flick I'm right in the middle of keep me going.

Must. get. key.

Ding dong! Ding dong! 

Note to self: 
Ok, I'm the ding dong. 

No one is home. Little tears start rolling down my now frozen cheeks. That Scooby Doo beach towel I'm wearing around my sobbing shoulders is a sad substitute for a big warm robe. 

Note to self: 
Maybe keeping a big warm robe on the back porch might not be such a bad idea.

Ten minutes go by and by some miracle Rhonda and her husband pull in to their driveway, daughter in tow. I think the sight of me scares her.

"You're locked out of the house."

"Uh huh (sob sob)"

"I get the feeling Luka had something to do with this."

"Uh huh (sob sob)"

Hurricane Luka's reputation in this neighborhood is legendary.

As Rhonda's husband desperately searches for MY house key in HIS kitchen drawer, Rhonda makes me some coffee. 

Note to self: 
I love Rhonda. So very much.

Of course, since this is my birthday weekend, he does not find a key in the drawer. Of course, since my husband is on the handball court in the middle of a game without his cell phone, I am SOL to call him for a quick rescue.

I realize, though, that even if I could call him from Rhonda's phone, I don't know his phone number. I always dial his name. 

Note to self: 
Memorize your husband's phone number. Memorize your own phone number. Maybe Rhonda's too.

Better note to self: 
Take cell phone with you in the pocket of your big warm robe that you are wearing with your slippers when you take the mail outside to the mail slot in your pajamas. Maybe put the front door key in your pocket when you do that too.

"My babysitter!" I scream.

"My babysitter has a key to my house!"

We find the neighborhood phone book and look up her parents. It is, you realize, 10:30am on a Saturday morning. The chances of a 16-yr-old and her parents actually being home are slim to none. I use Rhonda's new iPhone to call her.

Note to self: 
Hey, this iPhone is cool.

The clouds part. And the angels sing. She is home. And her dad is too. (Because she does not drive.) The birthday fairy has finally smiled on me. They are over in two minutes. I think the desperation in my voice makes them drive faster. Even over the speed bumps.

Note to self:
Give babysitter a big fat bonus.

Once inside, I pour another cup of coffee, this time from MY very own coffee maker. I put on clean fuzzie blue socks. I try to pick back up into my Kevin Bacon movie, but now he is shooting up all the bad guys with a really big gun and I have no idea how he got from insurance agent to gun-toting, shaved-head lunatic.

Maybe his toddler locked HIM out of the house?

I add some cream to my coffee as he blows a hole the size of a bowling ball through a locked door to get in and get the last bad guy. 

Note to self: 
Memorize Kevin Bacon's phone number.

See Kevin Bacon's new series, The Following, on FOX starting Monday January 21st at 8pm CST.

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