Well, we haven’t got the results back from the x-ray, but Carl’s doctor thinks his rib is broken rather than fractured. We agreed on the drive home that Carl should’ve punched the douchebag from hockey WAY harder.
Sigh for lost opportunities.
The broken rib actually came from a play (another illegal hit) much earlier in the game than the skirmish at the end, for those of you who might be picturing some kind of major NHL brawl on our little local rink. It wasn’t from the almost-fight at the end. Adrenaline kept Carl from noticing how bad his rib hurt that first night… but when he had to hold his chest together with one hand and roll in this weird plank fashion in order to get out of bed the next day, yeah, we figured he should probably go to the doctor.
So we took it pretty easy over the weekend and were already in our pajamas at eleven o’clock last night when it suddenly occurred to me how amazingly refreshing and delicious and necessary a WENDY’S ALL-NATURAL LEMONADE sounded.
Have you tried their lemonade?
It’s really good. Not the lemonade from the soda machines, mind. That’s some nasty Minute Maid stuff. The ALL-NATURAL LEMONADE is made from water, cane sugar, and lemon juice, and there are real lemon rounds floating in the tank. I know because I have both eyeballs and the obsessive nature that required me to go to their website and look at the ingredient list.
Finally, it’s delicious.
I think I mentioned that already, but anyway I really needed some last night. We only live 2 miles from a Wendy’s, so it wasn’t like it was a major ordeal. Just a quick zip out, a chance to relish our comparative freedom with no small woman to bundle up or otherwise negotiate. And since we could go through the drive through, I didn’t even need to change out of my pjs! All I had to do was throw on a coat! I could wear my slippers!
I was feeling so generous and blissed with the world that I didn’t even subject Carl to my usual paranoid cross-examination of “keys?” before pulling the door shut.
And, of course, we locked ourselves out.
At eleven o’clock. In our coats and pajamas. With fuzzy slippers. And damp hair from the shower. In January.
We’ve never had to break into our house before. Our apartment was easy because the big living room windows didn’t even lock, so all you had to do was pop out the screen and give a shove. We were experts at breaking into that place.
Not so much the house.
But it’s all ok! We realized, our friend Dan has a copy of our storage door key! Dan’s father-in-law did a bunch of work on our house last month, and he still had the key to give back to us. We could open the storage room door and go through the crawl space to get back into the house.
So we called Dan, apologized for the lateness of the hour, and said we’d be right over to pick it up.
Then we got off the phone and realized we couldn’t drive anywhere since we didn’t have the car keys either. Oh, yeah. That. A quick scouting mission around the house revealed exactly what we knew to be true: tightly locked windows and rods in the sliding glass door. We are awesome at home security now that we have a real home.
Dan said he would bring us the key.
So we sat in the car to wait in a sort of sheepish but friendly mood. Carl should’ve remembered his keys. I should’ve thought to ask. We both should’ve planned for this eventuality by hiding a key or giving one to the neighbors or something. But Dan was coming with the key, so it was all going to be ok.
Until Carl remembered that the key was moot. He’d locked the crawl space door from the inside. Another layer of security against home invasion.
Well, I said, we’ll just have to break down the crawl space door. It’s a homemade plywood job. How hard can it be? Anyway, it’ll be less expensive than calling a locksmith in the middle of the night… especially since we don’t really need a locking door between the storage room and the crawl space.
Also nobody kicks down a door with the panache of pregnant women and guys with broken ribs. It was going to be glorious.
We’ll have Dan do it, Carl said after due consideration.
I agreed, with slight misgivings. Not about the extent of Dan’s good nature, but at six feet tall and 150 pounds soaking wet he’s not exactly the door kicking type. It was going to be interesting.
So we sat there and waited until Carl suddenly remembered that we have a basement. We don’t use the basement. It needs to be completely gutted, so it doesn’t really figure into our conscious awareness of our home. I mean, we’d tried the walkout sliding door because it was obvious, but the windows are on the other side of the house where we never go. One tromp through the juniper bushes later and we found a broken screen that I ripped back to reveal an unlocked window.
Hooray! We are resourceful and awesome people, and I was starting to feel really guilty about calling Dan out at (now) nearly midnight to bring us a key when we could just shimmy through the dirt and a broken screen and drop into the pitch darkness of our creepy basement.
We’ll have Dan do it, Carl said after due consideration. He doesn’t have a broken rib or a ginormously pregnant belly to worry about.
More misgivings from my part, but I guess I didn’t have to bother feeling bad. Dan showed up a few minutes later with the keys and a grin and readily agreed to climb through the dirt, the ripped back screen, and drop down into the total darkness of the basement.
“Just be careful,” I warned him. “There are some boards on the floor. I don’t want you to trip.”
“Oh, yeah,” Carl said, his memory jogged. “And a table saw. It’s probably right about where you have to lower yourself down.”
We’re classy friends, no?
But in the end he managed to avoid the saw, didn’t trip over the molding boards, and got us back into our house in about two minutes. It helps to have awesome friends.
Although… turns out our Wendy’s closes at eleven. The whole building was dark when we finally pulled in ten minutes later. Bummer. We drove across the street to McDonald’s and split the gamble by ordering both the cherry berry chiller AND their version of lemonade before zipping home to curl up on the couch and watch a little something before calling it a day.
The cherry berry chiller (100% juice!) was good, but the lemonade was NOT.
Minute Maid from a can.
The lemonade may have been inferior, but you know what, the it turns out we have pretty superior friends. I can live with that. Although, if you must know, I’m still totally jonesing for some Wendy’s lemonade…