DIY Distressed Denim

Of the many oddities of fashion that make no sense to me, one of the most bizarre—right up there with four-inch stiletto heels and neckties—is ripped jeans. Not the grubby old ones you wear for cleaning the garage or gardening, but the oh-so-fashionable ones you can buy already strategically shredded.

Even though they may look like they came from the “Free” bin at the thrift store, these pre-torn jeans actually cost more than ordinary jeans with all their parts intact. If you want fashionably ventilated bottoms, it’s going to cost you top dollar.

No worries, though. You can save a bundle by distressing your denim yourself. I know this, because the other day I noticed a video on “how to rip your jeans yourself.”

I saw no need to watch the video, not having any interest in deliberately causing harm to a perfectly good pair of pants. Besides, I have years of experience in ripping my own jeans and observing the ways other people rip theirs. Here are some of the proven methods you might try:

1. Climb through a barbed-wire fence that is just a little higher than your legs are long or just a little narrower than other parts of your anatomy are wide.

2. Catch the pocket or belt loop on a door handle or some other protruding object.

3. Have an unexpected encounter with a fish hook. (Note: it’s not strictly necessary for the hook to be attached to a line or in use for actual fishing at the time.)

4. Trip over a sharp-ended stick that was hidden in the grass.

5. Wreck your bicycle.

6. Stumble, fall, and slide down a steep rocky hiking trail. Depending on the sharpness of the rocks, ten to twenty feet ought to do it.

7. Annoy the cat once too often.

8. Play a little too energetically with the puppy.

9. Spend a summer afternoon sliding down the concrete spillway at Canyon Lake Dam. This is especially effective for cut-off jeans. Hint: it’s a good idea to wear underwear that is decent but not necessarily your favorite.

10. Have an “oops” moment with the hedge trimmer, or for real efficiency, the chainsaw.

Just like other instructions, these do come with some warnings about care, maintenance, and safety:

A. Don’t take the mangled jeans to your mother or wife and ask her plaintively if she can fix them so the tear won’t show. Especially if the jeans are ones she bought for you within, say, the past week.

B. Before wearing the self-shredded jeans, soak and then wash them in cold water to remove any blood.

C. It may be wise to delay wearing the newly fashionable jeans until any incidental distress to your skin has healed, depending on the location and extent of any bandages, scabs, or stitches.

If all this seems like too much trouble, you might try another time-tested method. It takes longer but is guaranteed to get results. It’s simple:

Wear jeans. Work in jeans. Play in jeans. Wash jeans. Repeat as needed.

Categories: Fashion | 2 Comments

Care and Maintenance of a Small Planet

I blew up the planet today. Twice, actually.

Oh, wait—maybe I’m not supposed to say things like that on the Internet? Let me clarify.

For the past couple of years the shower curtain in our main bathroom has been a world map. It’s been quite useful for things like finding Madagascar, checking the spelling of Namibia, or looking up answers to crossword puzzle clues like “the capital of Eritrea.” But it has its limitations.

For one thing, it’s flat, which means the sizes of land masses near the top and bottom are distorted. I don’t mind Canada or Greenland seeming bigger than they really are, but I’m not sure the wide expanse of Russia needs to loom any larger than it is in reality. And if Antarctica is really the size the shower curtain seems to think it is, I’m not sure why we need to be concerned about global warming.

Besides, the printing on the shower curtain isn’t precisely aligned, which can be disorienting. I do know that the U.S. state labeled “Kansas” is really Oklahoma, but I’m a little confused to see that Cape Town appears to be located out in the ocean about half an inch southwest of the coast of Africa.

What I really wanted was a globe. But not, cool as it might be, a traditional classroom type spin-with-your-finger globe on a stand. It would take up too much space, for one thing. And it would be too permanent. Stuff happens: nations rename themselves, divided countries reunite, united countries separate, national borders change. For someone who ignored geography in school because it was so boring, I’m already confused enough without relying on an out-of-date globe.

The solution, found after a quick online search, was a relatively cheap, readily replaceable, and reliably spherical inflatable globe. Sixteen inches in diameter—big enough to be readable but small enough not to need its own room. I ordered several. Pre-inflation, they would be easy to mail to distant grandkids who might be more geographically curious than I was at their ages.

The trouble with an inflatable globe, of course, is that you have to inflate it. Here are some of the things one can learn in that process.

1. Read the directions carefully. Otherwise you might not know to “blow into valve with mouth only.”

2. There’s nothing quite like the smell of a freshly-unpackaged plastic object. Except the taste of a freshly-unpackaged plastic object.

3. If, theoretically speaking, you’re blowing into the valve of a big plastic ball and you happen to lose your grip on the stem, a partially inflated globe jet-propelled by escaping air might shoot around the room in an erratic frenzy until it collapses. This is not necessarily to be taken as a commentary on the current state of world affairs.

4. When, after industrious effort, you hold the world in both hands, with your left thumb on California and your right thumb on Zambia, you realize it’s smaller than you expected and looks to be in need of respectful handling.

Fortunately, this globe came with instructions for proper care and maintenance. Such as: Avoid contact with hot or sharp objects. Do not attempt to remove every wrinkle. And be aware that, with too much hot air, it “can become defect.”

Not bad advice for a small and fragile planet.

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Adventure Travel

Last month I spent two delightful weeks in New Zealand. One of things I discovered is that tourism there is designed for the adventurous. You’re invited to roar along rivers in jet boats, bicycle up and down mountains, climb mountains, leap off of mountaintops with a parachute, bungee jump, ice-climb on glaciers, and hike on trails where signs warn you that rocks might fall down upon you at any moment.

I’d like to tell you more about one of those adrenaline-boosting choices. Join me in your imagination, and let me take you on an adventure.

First picture a deep, narrow gorge with a cold, fast-moving river at the bottom. Scared to death, you’re standing at one end of a bridge that spans this gorge. You take a deep breath and start walking onto the bridge. You glance down at the water—a big mistake, because you can see just how far down it is. You could change your mind and go back, but your friends are cheering you on and you don’t want them to think you’re a chicken.

At the middle of the bridge you are met by an athletic guy who, in an annoyingly cheerful and encouraging manner, fastens a harness around your ankles. You just hope all the cords and fasteners are as secure as he reassures you they are. You do your best to listen carefully to his instructions, but you’re so nervous you can hardly comprehend them.

Finally, when he seems to think you’re ready and you can’t think of any reason you aren’t, he opens a gate. You step out onto a platform at the edge of the bridge. You gulp. You gasp in one last deep breath and squeeze your eyes shut. Just before the annoying guy has to push you off, you jump.

You plunge headfirst toward the water. You’re falling so fast you can’t breathe, and at the same time everything is in slow motion so it feels as if you fall, and fall, and fall for a long, long time.

At last you hit the end of the bungee cord. It isn’t the whiplash jerk you were expecting, but your head feels thumped, and your stomach tries to push itself into your throat, and there’s an endless spine-stretching moment when the rope starts pulling you up while gravity is still pulling you down.

You bounce back up, then down again, then back up and down, at the same time swinging forward and backward like a human pendulum. You open your eyes, then quickly shut them again because the upside-down view of the world makes you dizzy. Your heart is pounding so hard you can feel it in your ears. Your upended lungs feel so squashed that you can’t get enough air.

What seems like hours later, the swinging slows and stops, leaving you dangling at the end of the line with your arms hanging. The blood rushing toward your head makes your brain feel too big for your skull.

Then something grabs one of your limp arms. The pickup team in their little inflatable boat has reached you. They haul you in and undo your harness. You collapse in the bottom of the boat, shaking all over. You feel a strong urge to curl up into a ball and burst into tears.

From what sounds like a long ways away, you can hear your friends cheering. You’ve done a bungee jump, and you might even live to tell the tale.

That’s our adventure. It’s finished; please take a deep breath. We’re all okay, except that I need to explain something.

I have no idea if this description is accurate, because I made it up. I didn’t—wouldn’t—couldn’t—ever jump off of that bridge. Just watching other people bungee jump was more than enough adrenaline rush for me. I don’t have the kind of physical daring for stuff like that. Or the disregard for my well-being. In fact, I secretly suspect that bungee jumping was invented by a cabal of chiropractors and massage therapists as a way to increase their clientele.

I didn’t try parasailing, either. Mountain climbing? Forget it. Glacier climbing? Not a chance. Jet boats? No, thanks. Though I did hike a couple of trails where signs warned me that rocks might fall down upon me at any moment.

I also stood with one foot on each side of a spot that is adventurous in a way that thrilled the geologists in our group: the Alpine Fault. The Pacific and Australian tectonic plates meet and slide past each other at this fault, which extends through much of New Zealand and where earthquakes can and do happen regularly. None did while we were on the spot. I was grateful.

Otherwise, our group explored spectacular landscapes: Sharp-edged young mountains carved by glaciers. Dry rocky hills pockmarked with old gold mines. Thriving farmlands fenced with trees sharply trimmed into tall hedges. Rain forests so green and lush that it felt as if lingering over a picnic would put you at risk of being covered with moss like everything else in sight.

We also learned a bit about the history and culture of this fascinating land, from the Maori who arrived first to the various Europeans who came later. We discovered why flightless birds probably evolved that way (predators in the sky but not on the ground) and that several of them, including the country’s iconic kiwi, had to be brought back from near extinction after predators like the stoat were introduced. I learned that the New Zealand accent is much easier to appreciate than to imitate.

Along the way, I was reminded that for me, the adventure of travel isn’t a physical one. I don’t need the adrenaline rush of stepping out of my physical comfort zone. It’s more interesting—and quite exciting enough, thank you—to venture out of my emotional comfort zone.

That kind of adventure travel involves having the conversations that help me learn a little bit about other places, other cultures, and other people. It requires me to be both a curious and a courteous visitor. And perhaps most important, it means keeping one thing in mind: I’m among people whose landscapes seem exotic and whose pronunciation seems strange to me. At the same time, they might be seeing me as someone who comes from an odd place and talks funny.

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Digesting Everything I Needed To Know

Robert Fulghum may have learned everything he needed to know in kindergarten, but I didn’t. Possibly because I never went to kindergarten.

But I did learn, not quite everything I needed to know, but a lot of useful and interesting stuff from Reader’s Digest.

In a household where both parents and all four daughters were avid readers, there was a lot of competition for the fat little magazine when it showed up in the mail every month. My memory is that it often had the bad timing to arrive on housecleaning days, which meant Mother would stash it somewhere until the work was done. There it sat on top of the fridge, out of sight but not out of mind, its unread jokes and stories a distracting temptation while we vacuumed and dusted. It was a strong incentive to be the first one to finish, of course—though, oddly enough, quite often the person who got to it first was Mother.

Reader’s Digest was a predictable mix of material that was mostly condensed and republished: a long excerpt from a nonfiction book, at least one story of a dramatic rescue or recovery, short pieces of insight and observation, and, of course, the jokes scattered throughout the pages like chocolate chips in the cookie.

I read the whole thing. It’s a bit surprising, all these years later, how many things I remember. (None of which I can think of right this minute, but I could call you later when they surface in my brain. Would two a.m. be convenient?)

I do recall the awfulness of one story about a girl who was about 11 or 12 (close to my own age at the time) and dying of leukemia. During her last days in the hospital, her parents told her if there was anything she wanted, they would do whatever they could to get it for her. She had just one wish: to see her brothers and sisters one last time. But hospitals then didn’t allow kids under the age of 14 to visit, and rules were rules. As I remember it, the parents didn’t even ask. The best they could do was sneak the oldest sister in for an illicit visit. The unkindness and unfairness of that sad story made me angry at the time. It still does.

As an adult, I continued to subscribe to Reader’s Digest for years. While its formula didn’t vary much, the content did evolve over the years as society changed. This was brought home to me once when I bought a box of books at a garage sale. In it was an aging little paperback of “Playboy Party Jokes.” I opened it, prepared to be suitably shocked. But the book was even older than it looked; I had already read most of the jokes in Reader’s Digest.

One of my high school teachers warned us not to use Reader’s Digest as a source for any assignments. Always go back to the full version of an article wherever it was originally published, he said, because “they chop off the ending to make room for all the jokes at the bottom of the pages.”

This was sound enough advice as far as it went, but even as a teenager I knew he was mistaken about the editing process. The Reader’s Digest editors may have made lots of cuts, but they used their red pencils more like scalpels than hatchets. It’s an example I try to follow as an editor myself. Possibly some of my current or former clients may disagree. Unfortunately, their comments had to be deleted due to lack of space.

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Lighting Up the Neighborhood

Christmas lights, for me, are like beautifully wrapped gifts or elaborate holiday cookies and meals: I’m not up for doing them myself, but I’m happy to enjoy the results of other people’s labors. After all, somebody has to be the appreciative audience.

The lights on some houses in our neighborhood are familiar year after year. There’s the one with a waterfall of tiny white lights along the eaves, the one with a little train that appears to be moving, and the one with several lighted reindeer who often provide a glowing backdrop to evening meals for their living cousins.

One nearby house on a major street used to get more elaborate every year, highlighting every horizontal or vertical line on their house, draping lights over every tree and shrub, stringing lights and ribbon the length of the fence, and filling the large yard with lighted reindeer and artificial trees. Then one fall the yard was decorated with a “For Sale” sign, and now the new owners merely put one line of lights along the roof. My theory is that the previous owners decided to sell because they just couldn’t keep up with their own Christmas-lighting reputation. I imagine them now, having sold all their decorations at a garage sale, living happily on a dark, inconspicuous dead-end street.

One yard features a small light-draped bush and a slender sapling with lights wrapped around its trunk and several large flashing snowflakes in its dainty branches. This is quite attractive from one direction. If you approach from the other side, though, an unfortunate alignment of shrubbery means you see what appears to be a lighted reindeer whose head, no doubt whirling with the pressure of getting all around the globe in one night, is about to explode.

My favorite light display, however, isn’t the most spectacular or elaborate, but the one that makes me chuckle every year. Two thick bushes in the yard are simply decorated with strings of colored lights—arranged horizontally in precise, perfectly spaced, perfectly straight rows. I always imagine the homeowners out there doing their decorating with the help of a couple of rulers and a level. My inner perfectionist approves of the symmetry; my inner anarchist wants to sneak over there and impose some randomness.

And my inner underachiever is just grateful that our house isn’t very visible from the street, so we have a perfect excuse not to put up Christmas lights at all.

Categories: Odds and Ends | Tags: | 2 Comments

Thankful for Small Things

When it comes to being thankful, of course what matters most is family and friends—those wonderful (well, most of the time) people who make life such a joy (well, most of the time).

But I’m grateful for plenty of minor things, too. Such as:

Bathrobes. On a cold morning, nothing quite matches the cozy pleasure of slipping into a soft, fleecy robe that wraps you in warmth from chin to ankles. Then there are luxurious silky robes that make you feel like a Hollywood star from a lavishly costumed 1950’s movie. Cool cotton robes just right for summer mornings. Practical terrycloth robes. Given enough cash and closet space, I could easily become the Imelda Marcos of bathrobes.

The taste of a crisp slice of apple with peanut butter on it. And the fact that grocery stores now have so many scrumptious varieties of apples—Gala and Fuji and Honeycrisp and more—besides the Red Delicious, Golden Delicious, and Granny Smiths I remember from childhood.

Peanut butter itself, for that matter. (Hint—try it in oatmeal.) Thank you, George Washington Carver.

Seeing deer in our yard. Sometimes, like this morning, it’s the flash of a white tail disappearing into the trees. Sometimes it’s a browsing mule deer that acknowledges us with the twitch of a big ear as we walk past, but who isn’t even concerned enough by our presence to stop chewing.

My African violets that bloom so beautifully year-round, in spite of the haphazard care that they get.

Colored pencils and calligraphy markers.

The washer and dryer right there in our very own laundry room.

Bad puns and wordplay. Such as the editor’s favorite breakfast, synonym rolls. Or the fish in schools who sometimes take debate. Or, perhaps appropriately to the season, the fact that the roundest knight at King Arthur’s round table was Sir Cumference. Who got that way, of course, from too much Pi.

Happy Thanksgiving.

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Too Much Reality for Reality TV

What might happen if a TV reality show followed you around for a few weeks and filmed everything you did? Could your life compete for viewers with the lives of celebrities like the Kardashians?

If a reality show camera crew visited our house, here is what I imagine they might report back to the producer:

Do we have to follow her every day when she takes a walk? How come a woman with 17 grandchildren walks so fast? Easy for her to go marching along like she has a drill instructor inside her head—she doesn’t have to carry a camera. It’s a lot of work to lug this thing back and forth to get different shots. Not that there’s anything much different to film—once you’ve seen one deer or one flock of turkeys, you’ve pretty much seen them all.

And why do these people get up so early? He’s supposed to be retired, and she works at home, which as far as I can see means she sits in front of her computer and writes a few words now and then, in between playing solitaire and checking Facebook. It’s not like they have to beat rush hour traffic and get to work by 8:00 a.m. But there they are, all bright-eyed at 5:30 in the flipping morning. Today, I kid you not, they were lying in bed at 6:00 a.m. talking about what Shakespeare sounds like in the original Klingon! I mean, you can’t make this stuff up.

And the way they spend their evenings. Boooring. Mostly, he sits in his chair with his book and she sits on the couch with hers. Once in a while he reads bits out loud about people nobody’s ever heard of, like some old general named Marshall, I think it was. So that gives us five minutes of sound, at least. Otherwise, whoop-di-do. We’ve had to resort to close-ups of how fast her eyeballs move back and forth across the pages—I’ve never seen anybody read that fast. Sometimes they play some domino game called Mexican Train. But nobody cheats, nobody argues, nobody throws dominos when they lose. Where’s the conflict? Where’s the drama? Where’s the viewer interest?

When a couple of the grandkids came over, we thought we might have a chance for some conflict and maybe a temper tantrum or two. Not so much. Where’s the drama when she never tells them no? And let’s face it—little kids are cute, but you can only use so many shots of the expression on a one-year-old’s face when he eats a dill pickle. Besides pickles right out of the jar, she fed them peanut butter by the spoonful, so that at least gave us a little bit of “yuck factor” footage. But aren’t grandmas supposed to bake cookies? And if I have to listen to Hop on Pop one more time, I swear I’m going to throw this camera through the nearest window.

Last week they took a road trip. Hallelujah, we thought—finally, something to see. Fat chance. You know what passes for scenery across the whole western half of South Dakota? (We’re in South Dakota, right, not North Dakota?) Anyway, the “scenery” is prairie. All the way to the horizon. With pretty much nothing on it but cows. There’s a tree every mile or so, and you have to drive for miles and miles before you see what they call a “town.” What if you had car trouble out there? Who would you call? Ghost Town Busters?

But today was the last straw. She was actually cooking for a change, but at the same time she was dancing in the kitchen to Johnny Cash, twirling around and waving a sharp knife in time to the music. I think she was doing a polka. The Kardashians never did anything that embarrassing.

This is way too much reality to ever attract any viewers. Let’s go with Plan B. Have you heard back yet from that woman who trains boa constrictors as service animals?

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Gross! You Really Eat That Stuff?

Given any control over the remote, I wouldn’t have chosen to watch a television show about “bizarre foods.” But stuck in a crowded waiting room, with no reading material, in a seat close to the mercifully muted TV set, I didn’t have a lot of choice.

The show featured closeups of food in the process of being caught, cleaned, or cooked—all of it artfully arranged for maximum grossness by some luckless intern food designer. The limp tentacles of octopi dangled over the rims of bowls, squishy shellfish oozed slime, and various sorts of crabs displayed their eyestalks and claws to best advantage. These shots were interspersed with closeups of attractive young women whose busy bloody fingers were gutting fish and skinning piles of songbirds the size of robins. All this culminated with closeups of the intrepid reporter tasting various completed dishes and commenting with his mouth full.

All in all, it was enough to make me vow never again to forget to charge my Kindle.

Really, though, for anyone familiar with butchering chickens or cleaning fish or pheasants, there wasn’t much about the foods on the show that was truly bizarre. Well, maybe except for the tentacles.

“Bizarre,” would be a better description of some of the things that creative cooks, with strong imaginations and even stronger stomachs, do with sausages or spaghetti or frosting for Halloween parties.

But all those things, disgusting as they might be, aren’t half as bizarre as plenty of the stuff you can buy in any grocery store. Such as items so processed that the manufacturers feel obliged to clarify on the label that it’s intended for human consumption, with descriptions like “processed imitation cheese food” or “meat product.” Or “fruit” snacks that are made primarily of sugars, starches, and filler, but that are touched by actual blueberries or strawberries somewhere on the assembly line.

Then there are the weird forced marriages of substances never meant to go together, like jalapeno bacon ice cream or chocolate pumpkin pie.

And let’s not even get into the secret home-alone comfort foods we might enjoy in private but would never eat in company. (I promise not to ask about yours, and I’m certainly not telling you mine.)

Of course, whether food seems normal or weird depends mostly on what we grew up eating. My own limited middle-of-the-country palate recoils at anything spicier than a green bell pepper and thinks “curry” is something you do to horses. One of my friends, raised in the Southwest, thinks green chili is a basic vegetable but is repulsed by rhubarb. In truth, I suppose, almost every dish that is someone’s “bizarre food” is someone else’s “just like my mama used to make.”

Note to anyone who grew up eating my cooking: please, be nice and keep your comments to yourselves.

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Toasted Dust and Toasty Toes

There’s nothing quite like the cozy pleasure of turning on the furnace for the first time in the fall. Oh, you can postpone it for a while, even when the mornings are getting cool enough so you wake up and are tempted to pull the covers up to your neck and stay tucked in for another few minutes. You know that during this “shoulder season,” you might need to put on a jacket to go out and get the morning paper, but it’s still likely to get up to 80 degrees before lunch time.

But eventually comes that first genuinely cold morning when you know the time has come. You get out of bed, reach for your short summer bathrobe, and realize your goosebumps are telling you it’s time to scurry over to the closet and get the heavy winter robe instead. You put it on, then perch on tiptoe to minimize the contact between your bare feet and the cold floor while you rummage through the clutter in the bottom of the closet for your slippers.

Wrapped up but still shivering, you go down the hallway and nudge the thermostat up from 50 to 70. Almost immediately the furnace, which has been hibernating since the middle of May, comes to life with a soft rumble. Warm air begins flowing out of the vent in the bathroom, bringing with it that distinctive autumn aroma of toasted dust.

When you go out to the kitchen to make coffee, you linger at the counter while it brews, your toes stretching in the delicious warmth coming out of the vent below the cupboard. You curl up in your chair under an afghan, cold fingers wrapped around your first cup of steaming coffee, contemplating the cold-weather pleasures of soups and sweaters and bread baking in the oven. The house begins to surround you with comfort.

And you didn’t have to do anything but adjust the thermostat. No chopping wood, no carrying coal, no building fires. It’s practically a miracle. All you’ve had to do is wave your magic wand—er, pen—over your checkbook and pay the gas bill.

*By the way, it’s much easier to celebrate the joys of crisp fall mornings on a late-October day when the predicted high is 70 degrees.

Categories: Living Consciously, Odds and Ends | 2 Comments

The Unlocked Room Mystery

All I meant to do was change my clothes. Really. I didn’t mean it to turn into a big drama.

First, a little background. The family was gathered at my youngest sister’s house the day before our father’s funeral. Now, any time you have a houseful of a couple of dozen people who are sad, stressed, and exhausted, there’s potential for plenty of drama. Especially when it’s right before lunch.

I took the slacks I had just pressed into the guest room, closed the door, changed my clothes, and started to leave the room. The door wouldn’t open.

At first I assumed I had simply locked it by mistake. But no matter which position the lock was in, or which way I turned the knob, or how much I jiggled and pushed and pulled on it, the door stayed shut. The knob turned in my hand, but the latch didn’t move. Apparently, something was wrong with the mechanism.

I was acutely embarrassed. Here we were, in the middle of a sorrowful family occasion, with everyone grieving, and I had to divert people’s attention from taking care of difficult and important things because I couldn’t, for God’s sake, get myself out of a room that I didn’t mean to lock myself into?

But finally I had to admit it was time to summon help. The next time I heard someone out in the hallway, I knocked on the door, got the attention of a passing niece, and explained my predicament.

And the family, in our own particular way, sprang into action. Warning: here comes the drama.

My niece went and told my sister the homeowner, “Your sister is locked in the guest room.” Her response was “Which sister?” I guess I should consider myself lucky that, when she found out which sister it was, she didn’t opt to just leave me in there.

A self-appointed committee of problem-solvers gathered outside the door. Now, you’d expect these first-line rescuers to work together in a helpful, courteous, and cheerful manner—after all, one was an Eagle Scout and three were civil engineers.

But other family members chimed in, as well, helpfully and just a trifle too cheerfully. Here is a sample of their advice and support:

• “Should we make some pancakes to slide under the door?”
• “It’s a good thing somebody brought that thin-sliced ham; it would fit under the door.”
• “Don’t panic in there: heavy breathing will just use up the oxygen.”
• “We could get one of those chocolate brownies under the door if somebody stepped on it first to mash it flat.”

While the problem-solvers pondered outside the door, I explored inside the room. Where I discovered:

• If this turned into a long siege, quilting magazines were the only available reading material. However, there were board games in the closet.
• The piece of plastic that someone slipped under the door didn’t work to budge the latch. Too bad it wasn’t a credit card; while I was waiting for rescue, I could have done some online shopping. Oh, but I didn’t have my phone. Never mind.
• Despite all the mysteries and thrillers I’ve read, I don’t know how to pick a lock with a nail file, a bobby pin, or a knitting needle.

After due pondering, the rescue committee came up with a solution. My brother-in-law slid a screwdriver under the door and told me to take off the doorknob.

It takes a long time to remove a couple of two-inch screws which are threaded along their entire length, too stiff to turn with one’s fingers, and close enough to the doorknob that you have to reposition the screwdriver every half-turn. Especially when there’s way too much laughing going on outside the door, interspersed with moments of silence when you begin to wonder if everyone has forgotten about you and gone off to have lunch.

Which, of course, they didn’t. Once I got the screws out and took the doorknob off on my side, they were right there to remove the lockset on the outside.

The door still wouldn’t open. One of the engineers figured out the problem: a broken or jammed thingamabob inside the mechanism that kept the latch from moving. He popped loose the offending part, the latch shifted, the door opened, and I was free. Just in time for lunch.

Of course, the meal was garnished with more good-natured smart remarks. But as one of my sisters said, “We needed that laughter.” It certainly was better than yelling, blaming, and hysterics. Some families may do drama with more, well, drama—but this method works for us.

I do think, though, that somebody could have slipped me a squashed chocolate brownie.

Categories: Family | 2 Comments

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