I am a dumbass!
This admission does not come easily for me. In fact, I had to be dragged kicking and screaming to my keyboard and then raked over hot coals before I would finally type those words. (Not really, but delusions are my coping mechanism).
I’d like to think I’m an intelligent woman. Oh, who am I kidding, I’m a genius! (And modest too). Mensa sends me spam. Ok, it’s actually some Roman porn site called Sensa, but that’s not what’s important here. I have an above average intellect. I’m well-read. I have common sense, which is so lacking nowadays, don’t you think? And, as if further evidence were required, I don’t get along well with stupid people.
But, there are occasions where my brain decides it’s tired of functioning at capacity and suffers a break, thereby morphing me into a single-celled organism. A blonde paramecium if you will. And it’s in these exceptionally rare moments that I am, in fact, a dumbass.
Let me take you back to about a month ago. It was a typical morning. Wake late, shower, dress, apply mascara so as not to look like the undead, and head out the door. Grabbing my bag, I see that my iPod and Beats earbuds have been left to engage in bondage with the detritus that is the contents of my purse. Who would do such a thing? (See previous blogs for various references to my extreme laziness). Determined to rectify the situation and avoid having to drive at light speed in order to catch my train and avoid unemployment, I rush out, lock the door, and push the button numerous times so that the elevator will now think there are six people waiting and arrive that much faster. This never works by the way, but it’s a silly game I like to play. Personally I think it has the opposite effect and the elevator decides it’s going to crawl up to the 35th floor, all the while muttering “Bitch, you can wait”.
So in the hour that I now have in the hallway, I carefully begin to coil the headphone wire around my fingers in order to fit it, and my iPod, into the designated case. Yes, it has a designated case. Thank you Lady GaGa. Meanwhile, my keys are resting in the crux of my elbow. I realize this sounds completely brainless, but let me explain. My purse is a black hole. The same way that socks are relegated to dryer heaven, so to does any item that I put into my purse, regardless of how much or little time has passed. So, rather than spend 5 to 10 minutes spelunking when I get to the garage, my keys were placed over my arm while I finished stowing away my iPod. It is at this point the elevator deigns to arrive.
Approaching the empty elevator, I feel my keys start to slip from my arm, and just as I cross the threshold, they fall. In times of trauma, people always say “Oh, it all happened so fast”. Well, I can tell you, this happened really freakin’ fast! One moment the keys are falling, the next I hear a “CLINK”, look down and they are gone. And I’m left standing in the elevator with my proverbial dick in my hands…and my iPod.
Now, my first concern is that I have to get to work. (I’m dedicated like that). Trekking down to the lobby, I slowly explain the situation to the security guy using very small words, asking him to allow me back into my condo to get my spare car key. He willingly does so, and I make a mental note to draft a letter of complaint about the lack of FBI background check or even ID scrutiny before granting me said access. He also informs me that my keys will be retrieved the next time the elevators need maintenance, and, since the elevator repair dudes had been there the very night before, I could be looking at 2 weeks. Oh why didn’t I have the foresight to drop them sooner?
Now at this point you may be thinking, “Wow, that was a really dumbass move, Jenn!”. Unfortunately, that’s not it. Granted it wasn’t my brightest moment, but there were some outside influences at work, ie. the laws of gravity, and the accidental element. No no…my dumbassness is yet to come.
So, with a death-grip on my spare key, I head off to the GO Station, willing the train to be late. Park. Lock up. Run. Make it with less than a minute to spare. I can now spend my time on the train to reflect on Murphy’s law, and what a pox-ridden whore Karma is, and of course update my BBM status. The resulting influx of messages ranges from sympathetic to comical. Yes please, laugh at my expense, it so rarely happens.
And then a friend asks me what keys I had on it, so I start running down the list. Car, condo, condo card, condo parking garage opener, condo mailbox, The Club…
The Club key. Is on my key chain. That fell into the abyss about 15 minutes ago. AND I PUT THE CLUB ON MY CAR WHEN I PARKED!!! You have got to be kidding me. It’s at this point I realize that Karma has just finished fucking Mr. Murphy, and their both having a cigarette and enjoying a good laugh.
This, ladies and gentleman, is my dumbass moment. I have now effectively prevented myself from stealing my own car. Why in God’s name do I have a Club, you might ask? I asked myself that very same thing on the day in question. You see, my old car was stolen twice from two different GO stations. Rather than install an expensive anti-theft system into a crappy Neon that the criminals didn’t even want, I paid $50 for The Club. Problem solved. When I got my Compass, complete with a remote key avec security chip, I kept the Club out of habit. Oh, and it was $50.
And as a result, I am now screwed, and not in a good way.
Do you have any idea how many locksmiths there are in the Greater Toronto Area? I spend most of my day at work looking for one that actually knows what a Club is, and isn’t going to ask for my spleen along with my firstborn. Finally the cheapest option presents itself in the form of one Toronto Locksmith, (no points for originality on the name), and Boris answers my plea, (he laughed and laughed). I have no idea if that was his name, but that’s what all Russian locksmiths should be called. Swallowing my pride, I agree to meet him at my car, and he agrees to suppress his mirth.
So, back on the GO train. Back to my car. Luckily it hadn’t been stolen because of the stepped-up security measures in place. (Oh irony, thou art a cruel bitch). Boris arrives, (again there is no background check), takes one look at the offending contraption, and takes all of 2 minutes to saw through it and release my poor car from the Club’s deadly clutches. Note to potential/unsuccessful car thieves: Do not be deterred! Carry a small circular handsaw at all times. I thank him, give him my first-born, and head for the closest martini. My spleen and I are very attached.
And there ended my day. Of course it didn’t actually end there cause that would be like sort of weird time shift thing, but the rest of it was uneventful and not worth mentioning, (like my life).
At this point I can tell you that I did receive my keys back, about a month after they jumped down the elevator shaft. The house key had a slight bend in it, and amazingly my car key was also intact and functioning. My garage door opener suffered an entirely different fate. I still have to lie in wait outside my building until another car with an opener comes along. Then I pull out, dodging through the other idiots who are parked in the circle, and try to make it through the doors before they close. I’m almost positive I saw a Wanted poster of me behind the security desk.