Prison Break

It's windy on the hill. This past Tuesday, the wind got up to 40 MPH on the hill. I know this, personally, you see, because I spent a few panicked hours trying to pick the front gate lock in my pajamas. When Joshua left for work on Tuesday morning, I walked him out, inadvertently locking the padlock and chain on our front gate. Now, in my defense, the padlock is basically junk...we've been forced to cut our way in before when the lock has frozen and/or rusted. Still, on Tuesday, none of these treacherous conditions existed save the gale force winds. When I was ready to head to the office, I called Joshua: "Honey, do you have any idea where the gate key is?" His reply: "On my keychain." In Broken Arrow. Here is where the facts become somewhat disputed: He claims that I never keep up with anything. Glasses, keys, cell phones, purses-you name it. Based upon my "prior bad acts," he asserts that I probably lost my gate key, but in the same breath, he claimed that he put a copy on my keychain. I, however, contend that, much like I admittedly lose everything, Joshua is cursed with an ADD-like inability to complete a task. My belief is that he set out to put a copy of the key on each keychain. He started the task, affixing one to his own keychain, but then, he became distracted (Perhaps by a video game and/or power tool) and neglected to equally equip his wife. Regardless, I asked him: "Is there any other way I can get out of the gate?" He responded: "Well, you could cut and bend a chain link, but you aren't strong enough to do that."

As innocuous as that sounds, such a statement at least when directed at me consistuted "fighting words." I was going to hack my way out of that gate....even if it was last thing I accomplished in this life. "I'll call you back in 30 minutes if I am not out," I promised. Joshua claimed that I would need "vice grips." I acted liked I agreed with that assessement: "Well, of course." Honestly, I have no idea what "vice grips" are. I thought it was some tool you attached to a work bench that you twisted the bar around to tighten a hold on something. Joshua, however, acted like it was some sort of handheld device so I played along. He mentioned a hack saw and a screwdriver. Whatever. A link had already been cut, and I just needed some of those "pincher" things. As it turns out, Joshua has about a million different variations of "pinchers" in his tool box, some skinny and pointy, some short and fat, some squeezeable, some with a little wheel that tightened the "pincher" mouth. I marched to the gate with several different "pinchers" tucked in my pajama pockets, determined to prove my tool-savvy husband wrong.

About 45 minutes later, I was exhausted and seriously contemplating driving my car through the chain link fence. I even starting surveying the fence, looking for weak points to test almost like an eager-to-escape dog with a shock collar. It seemed that every minute that I was unable to effectuate my escape only escalated my sense of panic. Would I be trapped here all day? Could I carry my laptop on my back and climb over the at least five-foot chain link fence complete with barbed wiring along the top? My friend, Regan, asked why I did not just shoot the lock off with our gun, and thankfully, I did not think of that during my state of emergency. After almost forty-five minutes of trying to bend a very thick chain link, I managed to get it very close. Now, all I needed, in my estimation, was some lubricant. Where would I find lubricant? Yikes. Surely there had to be some "tool" lubricant. I went to the garage and found WD-40. It was a fancy bottle with a strange application device. The bottle indicated it was lubricant. It look several minutes to figure out how to spray said lubricant. I soaked my hands. Now, my hands couldn't grip the tools. I was never going to escape, I thought. Joshua is going to come home and find me, very windblown, and passed out from exhaustion in the front yard. I imagined him standing over me, "Lauren Allison, I told you so." No way, I thought. It was time for Plan B.

Plan B involved calling every person in Bristow I knew, seeking assistance, preferably in the form of really big "pinchers." Before any rescuer arrived, however, I would have to comb through my blonde Diana Ross hair. I called Marylane. I called Regan. Frankly, I probably would have called every person with a 367 prefix to escape the prison yard. Regan informed me that my very sweet neighbor was a maintenance man and might have bolt cutters. I called him immediately, and five minutes later, he effortlessly cut me out. My neighbor is officially my hero.

I collected myself and called Joshua at work. "No problem," I said casually, "I'm out." The evil padlock was officially destroyed, cut by a pair of giant "pinchers." A few days later, I put on my heavy dress coat to head to work in the snow. I jammed my hands into my pockets and pulled out a tiny silver key. I put it on my keychain just for good measure.