Color Me Blonde

I wasn’t even gonna blog about what happened Saturday night. I figured this blog already has a wealth of evidence to support I’m either 1) lazy, 2) stupid, or 3) both.

Because somehow…one unresolved dilemma just leads to another, right? Right. Lesson learned.

To wit:

I slip into the driveway around 12:30 (as in after midnight) on Saturday, pull into the garage, hit the remote…and then wonder in dismay why the door doesn’t roll all the way to the ground. I exit the car, walk to the rear and see I’m parked pretty darn close. Aha. That must be the reason. No problem. I re-enter, fire up the engine, edge further into the garage, and hit the remote again.

Nothing.

Okay. Ever resourceful, I think: battery must have died. I exit the car again and try the button on the wall.

Nothing again.

Well, after midnight is not the time I wanna start investigating the whys and wherefores, so−ever resourceful still−I disengage the motor-thingy and roll the door the rest of the way down. No problem. I’ll figure this out in the morning.

Next day is Father’s Day. I get all gussied up and prepare to drive to my brother’s. I roll the door up manually, quietly congratulating myself on my ingenuity.

Only one problem.

Now I can’t get the damn thing down.

I try everything. I re-engage, I disengage, I re-engage again. I do this so many times, now I don’t know which position it’s supposed to be in. I shed my four-inch heels, climb on top of a step-stool (yes, I have one!) and yank, pull, tug…all to no avail.

I try to be happy about the fact I got my car out and can join my family for Father’s Day. I try to ignore the embarrassment I will suffer, knowing EVERY ONE OF MY NEIGHBORS will have the opportunity to browse through the train wreck that is my garage.

No, I decide. I will not suffer this indignity.

I try the circuit breaker box (yes! I know where this is!) but nothing changes. I notice an electrical cord hanging where none hung before. I try sticking it in a random outlet up around the garage door mechanism.

Need I say this didn’t work?

I call my brother. He advises me to do everything I’ve already done. Secretly, I hope he offers to drive out and FIX IT FOR ME, but he doesn’t.

Finally, I consult the logical side of my brain and decide the reason the door won’t come down is because it needs to go all the way up first. (Hey, I understand this kind of logic.) I ascend the step stool one more time and give the door a great big shove, and YAY! It moves! It moves upward! What goes up, must come down, right? So, holding my breath, and sending up a prayer, I yank on it again, and it moves! Not a lot. But it moves. I get it past the curve and…yes…here it comes…yay again! I slam the damn thing shut.

Now, see. You have to understand my thinking here. I’m just so happy that my car is out and the door is down, I figure my work here is done. I can go forever just parking outside.

After all…I have a key to the front door, right?

Right.

WELL, I REALLY DO. (Okay, granted. The only reason I have the key is because friend Shari gave me a key chain for my birthday last year and it happens to still be in my car with the key attached.) Details.

So, I’m thinking I have all bases covered.

Only one problem. (Again?) Two days later (after using the front door on consecutive days for the first time in…oh…23 years?) the latch is acting kinda funky. Thinking cleverly, I don’t quite close the door…all…the…way.

I get home yesterday and the door is wide open.

Okay, so maybe not such a great plan. Besides, the maid is coming today. Thinking ahead (AGAIN) I leave a note alerting him to the funky door latch and advise he may have to use the key to lock it.

You know what’s coming, right?

Right.

I get home tonight (after a couple cocktails), park in the driveway, insert the key in the door….

Uh-oh.

Yep. That little thingy? The one that travels from the door into the jamb? It doesn’t move so much. In fact, it doesn’t move at all.

This is the part where I start thinking maybe I should have a man in my life. Even (maybe) one who doesn’t know how to do shit. At least I’d have company.

But, there’s still the garage door, right? After all, I found a way to get it up and down before. Only one problem (do you see a pattern here?) I must have re-engaged the manual thingy because I cram my fingers between the ground and the gasket, and that thing ain’t budging. Now, I’m really up the creek, aren’t I?? In fact, at this point, I start gauging whether I can leap from the roof of my car to the second story because…dammit…I see a window open up there!

Instead I call John. Reliable John who I’ve known all my life and has been there to get me out of tons of jams. (In fact, I’ve just left him having cocktails with another friend.) I call him from my cell, find him in a bar, and he drops everything and is on his way. Twenty minutes later, he shows up with the friend, and his son, Jeremiah.

Okay, here’s the part where I sound like a complete idiot. (Oh. Maybe you thought that before.)

Jeremiah gets the door open practically before his father can even get out of the car. Apparently, nothing more than a little WD-40 and a little more strength are the answers. I feel a bit silly, but oh well. WE’RE INSIDE! YIPPEE!!

Next, John and Jeremiah take a look at the garage door mechanism. Hmm. John tells Jeremiah to try plugging the cord into that outlet in the ceiling. (The one I’d noticed…but hey…I’d never noticed anything plugged into it BEFORE.) Insert plug. Voila. Functioning garage door.

About two minutes have passed since their arrival.

(Let’s not even go into how quickly John fixed the ice dispenser on my refrigerator, okay?)

Bottom line…all is well now, chez Randy.

And the upside (there’s always an upside, isn’t there?) is that I met the new next door neighbor. Hm. Single and verrrry nice.

Ah. See how God works sometimes?

P.S. Got the air conditioning fixed on Monday, so I guess I’m not a total moron.