a day in the life of a damsel...

Lesson of the Day: Being locked out of ones house can provide a remarkable lesson in machismo and female diminution. (Who knew?)

The phone rings at 7 a.m. on my day off, rousing me from a thick slumber: my grandmother has locked herself out of her house during her morning walk and wonders if I still have her key on my ring. Ten minutes later I am in my car for the 45-minute drive to her place. Upon arrival, I insert the key into the deadbolt and triumphantly turn the lock. I shove the door, but it doesn't budge.

"It's the bottom lock," Gram says. "You don't have the key to the bottom?"
I sigh. I never had the key to the bottom lock. It's one of those cheap (or so I thought) doorknob locks with a tiny bar that twists from the inside, that we rarely used owing to the heavy deadbolt above it. She informs me that some neighbors were over trying to jimmy the door open with a credit card, but hadn't been successful. I inquire about the garage key, but alas, that is locked in the house as well.

I decide to give the lock-jimmying a shot. How hard could it be, right? It's just one of those stupid doorknob locks; the little latch that joins the doorjamb is curved on the out-facing side, making it fairly easy to push in with a thin yet sturdy object. At least, this is the theory.

My eyes scan the immediate area for a suitable tool. I spot my grandmother's handicap placard hanging on her rear-view mirror: it looks perfect. My first thought is that we won't be able to get to it, since the keys are locked inside the house.

"Oh, no problem," Gram says. "I have the ring with the car keys and the deadbolt key, just not the set with the doorknob key and the garage key."

"Why aren't all your keys on the same ring?" I ask, not sure I want to hear the answer.

"Its easier for me this way," she says simply. I ponder the logic of this, since the alternative (having all the keys at our disposal at once, and thus being able to enter the house undeterred) seems much easier at the moment, but I will myself to let it go.

I sweat over the jimmying effort for several minutes, succeeding only in mutilating the plastic around the placard. I can get the plastic in between the door and the doorjamb, but it wont slide down to release the latch. It also refuses to be inserted directly over the latch; it merely comes up against a solid object and stops. I try several pieces of cardboard I recover from my car, as well as a Kinko's card that has a remaining balance of about $.02, but the lock will not give.

"I wonder if Buddy is home," Gram muses, craning her neck toward a neighbors house. "I think Buddy would know what to do."

This is the third time she has mentioned this Buddy, so I assume he has some expertise on door locks, or owns some miraculous lock-picking tool. I ask about it.

"Oh no, but men are better at this kind of thing, you know."

She hasn't meant to be insulting, but I feel slightly stung, having just driven 45 minutes across town AND spent the past 20 minutes making what I felt to be a perfectly competent (albeit unsuccessful) effort at opening this door. However, I realize that if the worst quality I ever have to deal with in my strong, beautiful, supportive grandmother is a few generational quirks and old-fashioned beliefs, I can't really complain. So again, I bite my tongue.

Soon, a burly and sweat-soaked fellow appears in front of the house. "Still haven't gotten it open?" he calls. I assume he is one of the neighbors who was involved in (or witness to) the earlier effort.

He tells us he'd like to give it a shot, having been very adept at picking locks "in a former life."

I picture a younger version of him, slithering into homes under a sheath of darkness with a sack of stolen goods over his shoulder. Not only am I unfazed by this vision, I am hopeful. I have either worked with the criminal element long enough to be desensitized, or the social worker in me is just inclined to see the skills that can be gained from just about anything. Apparently, Gram shares the sentiment. "We don't care what kind of life that was, as long as you can open this door!" she cracks.

He goes on to explain that he used to be a prison guard, and they had to "pick open all kinds of things."

My hopes deflate. He is not a lock-picking burglar, after all. And I am not aware of any prisons that contain locking brass doorknobs. Despite my gratitude at his willingness to help, my illusions about his lock-picking abilities fade. But hey, if the guy wants to help, fine by me.

Burly Sweaty Man spies the mangled and discarded placard on the ledge. He rubs it between his fingers like a designer fingering fine silk. "Yeah, not sturdy enough," he says dismissively. (Stupid women, step aside and let a real man do the job!)

He proceeds to grunt and labor over the door as my Kinko's card gets another beating. As he gives us a brief lecture on the Anatomy of a Lock, I stare at the growing sweat stain on his cap, and wonder how clear sweat turns black on a red cap. After a few minutes, he announces that he has some perfect pieces of plastic at home that might do the job, and that he'll be back in a minute.

Instead of standing idly around, I decide to continue working the door. I return to my car for another search of potential lock-breakers, and find the cracked and weathered family sled that I haven't had the heart to discard and instead have carted around in my trunk for several months. The thickness seems perfect: it is hard enough to push the latch but thin enough to slide between the door and jamb. I break off a piece of the thick plastic and start in again. The lock simply wont give. I have a momentary urge to pound the doorknob with one of the giant river rocks in Gram's front yard until it falls off, but I resist.

When Burly Sweaty Man returns, he sees the thick blue plastic on the ledge, and picks it up. "Yeah, this would be too thick," he says.

"I don't think this door's going to open," I say, although who am I but a meek and helpless damsel?

I see that the "perfect" kind of plastic he has brought is a Safeway card (of the exact same variety as my Kinko's card), and something else that I don't see because I have retreated to the driveway to sit and wait for Gram to realize we will have to call a locksmith.

After a while, I see Burly Sweaty Man put down the Safeway card and look again at the handicap placard.

"This should be perfect," he says.

Uh huh.

He thrusts the placard in and out of the doorjamb several times, wipes his brow. Tries again, adjusts his cap. Soon his gaze falls upon the blue plastic from the sled.

"Wheres the rest of this plastic?" he asks. Yes, the same plastic that was too thick 15 minutes ago. Did I mention what a stupid little woman I am?

I lead him to my trunk, where he rips from my poor dead sled another hunk of blue plastic. (Apparently little women, should they accidentally stumble upon the right materials, sometimes just get the size and shape wrong, so he graciously chooses a more suitable piece.) He bends it back and forth confidently.

"This should do it," he says.

Tiring of the whole ordeal, I leave to get Gram some breakfast. When I return, Burly Sweaty Man has ceded the battle and gone home, and a locksmith is en route.
And we've only wasted...90 extra minutes!

Promptly, Eduardo arrives in his locksmith van. We tell him that we've tried to jimmy the lock with every piece of plastic within a five-mile radius, to no avail.

"Well then, I guess I'll put away my credit cards and try something else," he says smugly, and although I laugh, I wonder if hes mocking us. Or, I'm just oversensitive, having had my delicate female sensibilities pummeled to bits by our last caller.

After several attempts (the toughest lock in the west, I tell you!) Eduardo manages to get the door open with his nifty little "click click click" tool. Finally, were in!

While Gram writes a check for Eduardo, she asks me to try the key to see if it still works in the lock. She hands me the key, and it won't even go into the lock. Eduardo assures us that the lock wouldn't have been damaged from the tools he used.

"Gram, are you sure this is the right key?"

"Yes, thats it," she says.

I try again, nothing.

"Aw, the Princess cant do it?" says Eduardo, smiling genially. Apparently he has noticed the princess license plate holder on my car. I cringe inwardly.
I know, I know. If I'm going to put princess on my vehicle, I should expect to be treated like a prissy, helpless little female, but still. It was a nickname given to me a long time ago, and it stuck. Not because I'm prissy or helpless, but because I like -- and deserve -- to be worshipped and exalted. And what is wrong with that, I ask you? :)

Eduardo tries the key. Unsurprisingly, it does not fit. He tries several others on the ring (which I would have done next, had he not taken it from me), finds the right one, and jubilantly turns the knob.

"Here ya go, Princess," he says, and hands me the right key.

I briefly entertain the idea of gouging him in the eye with it.

He must see the look on my face, because he says "Aw, Im just kidding, Princess," and pats me on the shoulder.

Finally, Eduardo is gone, and I settle into one of Gram's chairs to listen to the latest gossip about The View (initially I think shes talking about the backdrop on the Regis and Kelly show that shes turned on) and whether Starr doesn't like Rosie (Starr who?), and what movies in the theatres are worth seeing.

On the drive home, it occurs to me that it has been a long time since I felt the least bit belittled or dismissed due to my gender. I guess I live in a fairly insulated world, where a woman's competence is never questioned, where sexual orientation and gender identity are virtually non-issues, where stereotypes are routinely challenged and sought to be overcome. While I feel very fortunate to be a part of this world and to have the people in my life that I have, I suppose its easy to forget that my world is not THE world. Returning to that world feels like squeezing into a pair of shoes that don't fit.

So, all in all, it was an educational day. Gram is now having at least three extra keys made for each lock on her door. I have gained a new respect for cheap brass doorknobs. And my next vehicle (which will arrive next week, yay!) will be devoid of all references to royalty.

Sorry, Princess. I guess we cant stay in Kansas all the time.

the things that matter

I have a fair amount of responsibility at work. You know, reports, recommendations, judges, blah blah blah. Whether or not someone gets out of jail depends on the information I approve and distribute; a mistake on my part can cause jail time to be prolonged unnecessarily, it can cause the premature release of a perpetrator and the re-victimization of a vulnerable person. If it were my ass in custody, or my safety dependent on someone's incarceration, the job I have would seem like the most important in the world at that moment. But somehow, I don't normally feel cowed and humbled by this awesome duty that has been bestowed upon me.

So, I'm wondering if maybe I just don't take things seriously enough, if nothing is sacred anymore.

Then today, I get a phone call. "Brogan's a little shaken up and wants to talk to you.” 

I hear a rustle of the receiver being exchanged, and then a tiny voice comes over the line. "Susie," she says, "I bit into my burrito and my tooth bent back and its about to come out." There is a squeeze in my chest as I listen to the waver in her voice and think back on the very few times in her life I have heard that distress. I have a flash of her at five years old after an encounter with the dagger-like claws of a cat, latched onto me like a Velcro monkey and trying so hard not to cry even as blood spilled down her face and into her eyes, asking in that same shaky voice, "is it bleeding?" I feel her four-year-old arms like a boa constrictor around my neck at the Haunted Mansion, a ride she insisted we visit at Disneyland, while she buries her head in my neck and wails, "is it almost over?" I feel her warm baby weight in my arms as we rock in a living room chair, me singing softly as she whimpers over the injustice of new teeth -- the same teeth she's slowly becoming too grown-up for.

So many times I have marveled at this brave little fawn who is so fragile and so strong all at once, who wears batman boxers under her flowery jeans, who chooses football gear for her dress-up bears but still loves glittery lipgloss. This little tomboy who picks fabric with flaming motorcycles and skeletons for the blanket she's asked me to make for her, then almost chooses pink velvet for the backing. This tough little peanut who bit back the tears, like always, before another one of the many long separations that have punctuated our entire relationship, then broke down and sobbed in my arms for 30 minutes; who never seems to believe my reassurances that tears are not weakness; who insists on always being "brave."

As she tells me about the errant tooth, her voice is full of apprehension, but I hear a flicker of something else: hope. Hope that I can somehow make it better, that I will reassure her that its okay, that she can somehow draw from the sound of my voice the strength she needs to navigate this important life event. Suddenly, I am belted to my knees by the enormity of the responsibility that goes along with my role in her life. When she is hurt, or scared, or upset, she wants me: my voice, my comfort, my reassurance.

Me.

As always when faced with a task of this magnitude, anxiety and self-doubt rises in my chest, and my heart aches with the need to do this right. Thankfully, as it seems, I do. As we talk, my words and her responses soon fall into their familiar, easy rhythm, fitting around each other like the pieces of a puzzle. We discuss the almost-out tooth, I validate her concerns, we talk about the tooth fairy, I say something silly, she laughs. Soon the waver in her voice is all but gone, and when the phone rings again an hour later, she is victorious: the tooth is now a tiny pearl in her palm. Now she is giddy with anticipation of a visit from the Arizona Tooth Fairy: maybe she will get another floppy, rubber, bandana-wearing antenna cactus with two dollars tucked in his hat. (Apparently in Houston, where she lives nine months out of the year, tooth fairies do not bring floppy rubber antenna cacti).

As anyone who has ever been a parent -- or in the role of a parent -- knows, the love of a child can make you do extraordinary things. It can make you stay up until 6 a.m. on Christimas morning wrapping gifts, only to drag yourself out of bed half-hour later to watch them be clawed open. It can make you sacrifice time and money that were previously spent elsewhere in order to provide clothes to cover her reedy, growing limbs, ice skating lessons, birthday parties, road trips to stretch her mind outside the borders of her small world. It can make you violate a personal commandment and enter the evil empire that is Wal-Mart, when the aforementioned floppy antenna cactus proves elusive at other retailers. And as I have found, it can make you stay for years in a place where you are no longer happy, simply to avoid letting her down.

Tonight, as I tuck the blankets around her shoulders, Brogan says, "Susie, what does the tooth fairy do with all the teeth she gets?"

"I dont know, what do you think?" I say, thinking of the tiny white teeth -- hers, and her sister's -- tucked away in a small pouch in my jewelry box.

"I dont know," she says thoughtfully, and then adds, "maybe she gives them to all the new babies that are born. Kim's teeth were sharp like mine, so maybe I got hers."

I smile at the innocent common sense of this suggestion. Why wouldn't teeth be recycled, passed from one generation to the next, like outgrown clothes? As I say goodnight, I think of writing a story, a tooth fairy who collects outgrown teeth and delivers them, shiny and new, to drooly, cooing mouths that will one day outgrow them as well, the cycle repeating throughout time. I think about the things we give one another, things we outgrow, the things we receive and treasure from those who no longer need them or have some to spare, the things we are given that we then pass on to others.

So tonight, I will slip silently into a darkened room and collect the glittery pink tooth fairy box with its tiny offering. I will exchange it for a pack of monster truck stickers and a $5 bill (the quest for the elusive rubber cactus having been unsuccessful). As I take her little tooth out of the box and tuck it in with the others, I will think about time passing, limbs growing, teeth being passed on in a sensible chain of shared humanity. I will think about beloved rubber cacti and little girls who can wear shimmery pink boots and hot wheels boxers at the same time. I will think about what she has given me, and I her.

It seems some things are still sacred, after all.

peacocks and disillusionment

It's funny the things you remember when you're chained to a desk with a screeching fire alarm in your ears (a sustained blast drill, we're told), an unidentified rumbling in the airspace above you, and a restlessness in your chest that comes from being completely unfulfilled, and yet immobile.

so, I'm sitting at a restaurant in texas somewhere, at some time, and it's a long, communal, last-supper type table near a window. I'm sitting with a lot of others from my high school and some other high schools...on our way to a writing competition maybe?...my best friend to my left and a boy across the table for whom I have pined, silently, for a number of months. from the window we have a view of a courtyard where several peacocks strut around gallantly, feathers splayed. it must have been spring.

my friend and I, and this boy, who is now nameless and faceless but for a mushroom of sandy-blond hair, are engaging casually in that witty sort of banter that high school kids believe is the mark of intellect and desirability. at one point, my friend makes a remark about something being hideous. the water glasses? the view? I don't remember now. I just remember the word, hideous, and the response from across the table.

"wow, impressive vocabulary," the boy says (seriously, mind you), and I watch his eyes suddenly glaze over as he looks at her anew.

I stare at him flatly. beside me, my friend blushes and sputters, giddy over the sudden attention.

hideous? really? wasn't that one of my third grade spelling words? i am torn between contempt for his low threshold for admiration and my own need to prove myself. dammit, why couldn't I have said hideous? or a word that would truly have merited appreciation: vituperative, pusillanimous, meritorious?

thoroughly disgusted, my tender teenage illusions shattered, I stare out the window where one of the peacocks is doing his best to mount a homely and disinterested female. a few of the other students notice, and there is some snickering and pointing from our group. but the boy across the table is still gazing starry-eyed at my friend, who is lapping it up. and who could blame her?

I have no idea what happened after that, it's just that one moment in time, fossilized in my mind. why that moment? what was the take-home message that was so important that I am still lugging it around 15 years later?

maybe it's that people don't really change. maybe it's that they do. maybe it's to remind me how far I've come, and yet, how much I'm still the same. who knows.

well, back to my work. I'd like to have a view of a courtyard with mating peacocks, but instead I have a view of a roomful of inmates, who most of the time display the same kinds of behaviors. I guess it's just animal instinct.

hideous, really.