This morning, Teh 'Bride had to go to an all-day meeting in Trenton. So she had to leave early because Trenton is far from where we live. Consequently, I had to get Ian ready for school and drive him there; this posed no problem, because Monday is my late day.
Ian's new school is literally a block-and-a-half away. He usually walks to school but today it was raining so I drove him.
The rain wasn't really that bad so, even before taking Ian, I had already decided that I was going to go for a run. Hence, when I drove him, I already had on my "running togs" - viz., sweat pants; a tech shirt and a jacket; running SNEAKERSYESSNEAKERSFUCKYOUDRNIC!1!
I'm going to jump ahead here and tell you the bare minimum about the run just to get that out of the way; because today's post is not about the run. It's about the Inaugural Post in my week-long Je M'Accuse series of posts, during which series I will admit to various personal failings and tell you why I consider myself to be a failure in each Area of Failure Du Jour. So here are the run numbers for today: 7 miles in 1:06:35 for a craptacular 9:30 pace.
When I got home, I grabbed my iPod and my water belt and went out the door for my run. Inside the water belt I now also carry my cell phone, which I have done ever since I dislocated my shoulder back in May in a fall so violent I can easily imagine it having broken my leg and a few ribs; but back then, I carried nothing on my runs other than my iPod. Obviously, that was stupid and I was lucky that I didn't break a leg when I fell behind the school because I fell at like 5:30 a.m. and nobody would have found my corpse until 8 when people started to arrive for school. And I would have been a corpse by then because I'm a pussy and 2-and-a-half hours of pain would have killed me.
So I think I'm sooooo smart for carrying a cell phone, now, so I can call for help.
But I think I'm even smarter because on my last longish run (of maybe 9.5 miles), I realized at the end of the run, when I had run out of water, that I was passing by some convenience stores and, if I had money, I could have bought more water; but, alas, I didn't have money.
So now I carry a fiver in my hydration belt, because I want to be ready for every possible contingency.
One thing I don't carry in my belt: a key to my house.
But wait! Before you start calling me a "fucktard" or a "dimwit" or a "person of such low intelligence that you could be a member of Fox News' target audience", let me explain.
My first explanation: Fuck YOU for calling me a "person of such low intelligence that you could be a member of Fox News' target audience", because - Ouch! - that kinda stung.
Second: We have a hide-a-key for our house "hidden" in the most bloody obvious place; so carrying a key on my person just seemed redundant. Plus, when I run early on weekday mornings, Teh 'Bride is invariably up by the time I get home and she has already unlocked1 the kitchen door for me; and when I run on weekends, it's at like 10 a.m., so eveyone's up by then so the door doesn't even get locked.
Upshot is ... it's been so long since I've had to use the hide-a-key that I have no idea how long it's been missing. But I found out it's missing this morning at 9:13, when I got home from my run.
And the library Teh 'B. works at is a mere 3 miles from home and I had my cell so it would have been child's play to call her there but it also would have been retard's play because, as I said earlier, she wasn't there; she was in Trenton. And her cell phone was off. And what perhaps represents an even greater obstacle to contacting her: It was also inside our house. (She almost never remembers to carry it.)
And so I cased the joint, ripped down a few window screens, but the fuckers who live in this house must be fucking paranoid because EVERYTHING WAS FUCKING LOCKED!1! Which also means they must be rich, so I HAD to get in there.
So anyroad, after a certain amount of stalking around the house like a wild animal, and actually trying to pick the kitchen door lock with a paperclip that I had in my car (which I keep unlocked, because if anyone wants to do me a favor, please steal my 2002 Dodge Neon), which works like a charm for guys on TV shows but not for me, I finally went to our next door neighbors and rang their door bell to see if they could call me a locksmith.
And of course Janet, the neighbor, was very nice, and she called me a locksmith and invited me in, but I was reluctant to go any farther than their welcome mat because I was sweaty and stinky and muddy from my run. But she insisted and I came into their kitchen and Bob, her husband, was home, too, and we made small talk and they told me how much they liked Ian and how whenever Bob cooks out Ian comes over and talks baseball with him and he even forgives Bob for being a Yankees fan; and I said, "Yeah, Ian's got the people skills in the family."
Because even though I wave hi to our neighbors when I see them and maybe say "How you doing?" I never really stop to talk to any of our neighbors because I lack Ian's people skills.
Which, Je M'Accuse Numéro Un, makes me a Bad Neighbor.
1 We live in a ridiculously safe 1-mile-square mid-Northish Joisey town where there is zero crime. So why lock the door at all?
Well, because we have a 10-year-old son who, no matter how often we tell him how safe it is where we live, continues to think we live in Al-Capone-St-Valentine's-Day-Massacre-era Chicago or something, and is obsessed with checking to make sure EVERYTHING is locked at night and castigates me unmercifully if I EVER forget to lock a door or window until I cry like a gun moll who's boyfriend is pushing up daisies, see, because he tried to muscle in on the wrong mug's territory, see, and he got what he deserved, see?