The Locked Door – another story for distraction

As usual I should be busy working on something else at this very moment – but I think this is a little story that is very blog worthy. It involves one conversation, a shower, various small straight objects and one locked bedroom door. (Hmm, that sounds bizzarly racey. But don’t get your hopes up for that kind of story)

So, this morning Zsolt asked me to stop locking the bedroom door at nights. I should preface this by quickly mentioning that we sleep with the door closed. It took a considerable amount of time before my man agreed to the closed door – but with the troubles we’ve had downstairs coupled with a humming deep freeze not far from our room (because we live in an apartment, so everything is close to our room), he eventually agreed that we could close the door connecting the room to the apartment.

Anyhow, this is an old and smelly apartment. Sometimes we leave the living room windows open to allow for fresh air circulation at night. Except lately I’ve become rather paranoid about this – what if someone breaks in through the window in the middle of the night? Right? Okay. So, we are now closing the windows. EXCEPT, this remains a smelly old building, and come morning it’s worse since there has been no air circulation.

Anyhow – my solution to this was to leave the windows open, but close and lock the bedroom door so that if someone did break in, we would be separated from that drama.

However, this morning my man asked me to stop. He said, “It makes me feel trapped.” And how can I argue against that? You just can’t. So I said, “okay, I will no longer lock the bedroom door.”

End of conversation?

Well, no, not quite.

Later in the day, I decide to take a shower. Because that will later involve me running around in a towel, I therefore close the backdoor leading to the balcony in our bedroom so that I can run around without clothes later on and not be seen since we normally have it open with the screen door for more fresh air (to be clear, this is a different door that leads directly outside – which we always have closed and locked at night. What Z and I were talking about is the door connected to the rest of the apartment).

Anyhow, back door locked. I hop into the shower and get clean – because today I met with this wonderful author Stacey Atkinson and wanted to be clean, as one does, when meeting.

After the shower, I wrap up with my towel and head for the bedroom, except the door is closed.

I try to open it.

The bedroom door is locked.

Is this a joke?

I made the mistake of asking Zsolt if he locked the door.

No, he didn’t.

For about five minutes, I entertained the idea that someone had busted through the back porch door and was now in our bedroom robbing us of our bedsheets, and locking us out as they did a search. (Paranoid, much?)

But no, that wasn’t the case either. In my day dreams and reflections while heading for the shower, I simply did what I said I would not – and locked us both out of the bedroom.


Zsolt was really unimpressed. Though to be fair, I seriously can’t even remember doing this – obviously I did it, but in no way do I recall the action.


I try to unlock the door with a coat hanger.

I try to unlock the door with a meat holder stick thing.

Zsolt tries to unlock the door with a drill bit.

We unscrew the door handle and try to unlock the door magically.

We nearly break the door handle.

Zsolt attacked the door handle device vigouraly, essentially stabbing it with his screw driver.

We watch Youtube and think we’ve got it.

We nearly break the handle, again.

I am ready to take out the entire thing, but then worry: if we knock off the handle on both sides, how do we twist the actual lock device to allow the door to open?

So we do nothing.

At this point, I am supposed to be at the coffee shop to meet Stacey.

Also at this point, Zsolt (normally so wonderfully calm) has flipped his lid, and is ready to ram against the door till it breaks open. He is literally ready to run it down – and I am assuming part of this crazy was connected to that whole sense of being trapped. He really wanted to break the door.

But then I remember: the screen door! It would be better to break a screen than to break a door.

So, I slip on my PJ dress and rainboots, grab the house keys, and go around to the back yard. Here I very carefully pushed out the screen from the lining, (and then fixed, ‘cause I’m freaking lady McGuiver), and unlocked the back door to enter the bedroom!!

Holy hot dog, did that feel good. Stepping into the bedroom, I went over to the other door and unlocked it. Simple stuff.

In my head I was like, “WHO IS AWESOME? CATHERINE IS AWESOME!” and then I mentally punched the air and moonwalked into the living room to announce my awesomeness to my husband. In reality, I walked into the living room (where Zsolt was cooling off), took off my rain boots, and then put away the key.

What is the lesson in all of this? Why bother reading all the way to the end of this post? Why bother writing it? I guess I find it hilarious that one little lock can cause so much chaos in our lives. We’d be terrible on The Amazing Race Canada if they somehow randomly choose us to be on the show and tackle challenges. One door, one little basic lock, had us arguing and ready to destroy something.

So, apart from some concern over 100% subconscious behaviour that I cannot remember, I guess the real lesson is . . . hmmm . . . I’m awesome?

Yeah, that sounds about right.

; )

Distraction done!


Daydream fallout

Funny story, today my father lost the car keys. So I’m in the kitchen minding my business (mixing brownies, boiling eggs and prepping some curry) as he runs around the house huffing and puffing over ‘where the heck are they keys’.

And I think to myself, Should I help him? And I answer myself, “Don’t worry about it.” Because I know 100% that they will turn up. Key always turn up, hardly anything ever gets lost, and ‘misplaced’ is not a reason to stop what I’m doing.

Except my Dad feels differently, and he’s pulling up the bed sheets and remaking the bed; he’s going through the newspapers and shaking them for that ‘jingle’ sound; he’s going back to the car and retracing his steps; he’s checking the kitchen (and I am mostly ignoring him, except for suggesting he leave it alone for a while so the memory can float up in his brain) and having no luck.

So I slip into my little pre-Easter world. There’s loads to do, plus I have all kinds of side work I ought to be focusing more on . . . this whole ‘multi-tasking without over loading’ thing is posing a bit of a challenge. I have work to do. I do it. But then sometimes I can’t calm down, and photo booking isn’t always the answer.

Today I had to walk away from my computer because it was making this ‘whirring’ sound so loudly I thought it might crash. Crashing computers suck. So do crashing brains (like my brain last Tuesday after two meetings and a nerve-wracking viewing of the Hunger Games, which was good, but not exactly the post-exertion cool down I should have followed.), which means this upcoming Easter weekend in general is going to be awesome. Family, food, and chocolate – hello, heaven on earth!

But thank goodness for the weekend . . . and yet there’s still so much to do . . . and the brownies aren’t looking their best because I overcooked them by about five minutes. . . but the curry looks divine.

“ARE THESE THE KEYS?” my dad declares, heading into the kitchen and waving them around.

“Yep,” I reply, still lost in my world and trying to be Zen with my food.

“They were in your coat pocket!” he tells me

(Now he wasn’t furious or anything like that, actually he was relatively cool headed considering he’d spend a good deal of time thinking he’d gone crazy, searching the house and getting nowhere.)

And all I can say is:  “Hun?” Because I didn’t drive the car today, and I sure can’t remember picking up those keys.

But there you have it – totally my fault. Apparently I’m the one with too much on my mind and absent-mindedly picking things up and placing them elsewhere.

(Once I put a container of milk in the cupboard with the dishes, but I was distracted by a boy so maybe that’s okay.)

So Dad, I apologize. You are not crazy. I’m crazy. Poor man was put through the ringer and all along I was totally nonchalant, and all along it was totally my fault.

But at least the curry is delicious. And he seems pretty happy eating it right now, so I guess all is forgiven.

Moral of this story . . . Sometimes it’s better just to stop and help others, despite being wrapped in ourselves . . . next time he loses his keys (and he will – and it will not be my fault), I’ll help discover where they were mislaid. It’s basically the least I can do!

 Happy Easter!!