At 3:45 p.m. I slipped out the front door to pick a newspaper off the front porch. Unbeknownst to me, the front door closed behind me, and yes, it was locked. Stranded on the front porch in my unlovely but very comfortable J.C. Penney grandma-jammies, I had to resist the impulse to ring the bell repeatedly and scream at the dog for help.
My options were to climb the tall fence that surrounds the back yard and then slowly squeeze through the dog door or go to a neighbor’s and call for rescue. If Sioux, my favorite neighbor, had been home, the decision would have been an easy one. I’d pop over to her place, enjoy some exotic tea, juicy gossip and willfully delay my rescue call by an hour or two.
I determined that the only thing that would have put my pajama-clad self on any other neighbor’s doorstep was a gunshot wound. Surveying the fence, I decided that scaling it would result in a frantic 911 call by whoever found my crumpled body. Then as luck would have it, Sioux pulled up in her golden Taurus. She was quite startled when I ambled up to her and explained my predicament.
Amused and sympathetic, she invited me in just as Egor drove up with a very puzzled look on his face. I had forgotten that he was leaving work early for an eye exam. D’oh! Anyway, I went home and immediately changed into jeans and a tee-shirt. Ten minutes later, I began baking muffins to bring over to Sioux’s. I think they will go well with tea and gossip. I intend to hide a key on her property, in case the next time I lock my fool self out, I’m in my underwear.