Sundays are reserved for sleeping in, as far as I'm concerned. But today I woke up early and decided to get a head start on my day. I would take Gracie for a walk around my 'hood, take her to a doggie play date at my friends' place (I'm dog-sitting till Wednesday) and even go to the gym and stop at the grocery store before I had to be at work at 2.
Grace and I set out on our walk around 10:30, the sun was shining, the wind was gusting. Gorgeous, I thought. We got to my friends' place, I tried to let myself in and found that the (newly cut) key unlocked the handle but not the dead bolt. I had the downstairs neighbor let me in around back, but I couldn't get their back door to budge, either. I called the other dog sitter (by way of calling Josh at work to get her number), but didn't get an answer. So I called Josh back and asked him if he wouldn't mind trying the door. I walk back to my place, cursing my weakness and assuring myself that as a guy, he would be able to unlock it (sexist, much?). Well, we drive back (too stressed to walk over at this point) and he couldn't get it, either.
This is where I reached panic mode and called the dog's owners. Nope, they hadn't tried the keys before they left. We were about to call the landlord (still no answer from the other dog-sitter, who we later found out was kayaking all morning) but Josh had an ingenious plan ... find a ladder (they're on the second story) and climb in through a window. We head back to my place, all the while contemplating our apartment-dwelling friends nearby. I decide to call a co-worker who owns a house a few blocks away. They're not in the phone book, and I presume it's because her husband is a TV reporter. I'm about to give up when I remember the Internets, and Switchboard provides their number. Mike answers, I have the hasty "Remember me from Thanksgiving? Sooo may I borrow a ladder?" conversation, and thank goodness, he has a ladder. We scoot over to their house, pick it up, and promptly break into the apartment after trying two windows.
After returning the ladder, we are seriously hungry. I've got 90 minutes before I need to be at work. I remember the pizza place a few blocks away has a $5 pizza special on Sundays. Sweet. We order with 75 minutes to spare, down our beverages, get refills, and watch customers who arrived 15 minutes after us get their salad *and* their pizza. The clock ticks by, and boom, we've waited 45 minutes for our pizza before our waitress tells us our pizza order got lost in the great beyond. Now I've got 30 minutes before I have to be at work, and I'm still sweaty and very hungry. (I'd like to take this point to point out that I am never ever bitchy with wait staff. They don't make enough money to put up with rude customers, I could never do their job, and I had to deal with enough rude customers while working retail in high school.) I kindly point out that we've been waiting a very long time, and I have to be at work in 25 minutes and don't have time to eat before hand. She kindly takes our sodas off the bill, and gives me a diet Coke to go. I rush home, cram a slice of pizza in my mouth, and take a two-minute shower. I'm five minutes late to work.
Tonight I head over to let out the dog, and a black cat crosses my path. The end of the street is practically foggy under the orange street light - very Stephen King-esque. I'm clearly creeped out.
Driving home, I see the full moon.
Coincidence? I think not.