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.