Later on, Kelly got in trouble for portraying J. Edger Hoover as a bull dog and John Mitchell as an oversized basset hound.
Anyway, there was a character - Churchy Le Femme, the turtle - who had the world's worst case of triskaidekaphobia (fear of the number 13). One of the running gags of the strip was when he'd hide under the bed saying "Friday the 13th fell on a Wednesday this month!"
After my experience Monday evening, I agree. In fact, I'd go as far as to say that you're really in trouble when Friday the 13th falls on a Monday.
The funny thing is, it had been a fairly typical Monday until I got home.
Now, we know how cats feel about closed doors. In general, a closed door is contrary to a cat's theology. My feline companion, DJ, is no exception. The moment I open a closet door and she is within the vicinity, she will run in. She's spent the day in the closet once or twice because I didn't realize she had slipped in while I was getting my coat.
And, although it had been a fairly typical Monday, I was tired. I didn't want to fuss with pulling DJ out of the closet. Besides, there was a lot of stuff in this closet that could potentially hurt her. Yet, for whatever bizarre reason, I wanted to search it right that minute.
So I got my flashlight (no light in the closet).
I went into the closet.
And closed the door.
You know where this is going, don't you?
Well, I looked for the desired item without success. I turned around, and turned the knob.
It kept turning. 360 degrees without catching.
I tried turning it the other direction. Same result.
I tried applying pressure. Nope. Tried pulling. Nope.
Did I mention the hinges were on the outside of the door?
This is a "window pane" type door - meaning there are sections of wood about the height, depth, and thickness of a window pane. I knew that only about an eighth of an inch separated me from freedom.
I am not claustrophobic. I didn't panic, although I was becoming a little anxious. My primary thought was how I was going to prepare chili for a luncheon I was hosting on Valentine's Day, and how I was going to get to work.
I looked for a trap door in the ceiling. No dice.
I found a candle in a can, and started bashing that against the door with all my might, in hopes that I would eventually get through that 1/8".
Wasn't happening fast enough to suit me.
There are some selves along the back of the closet, which meant I had about a square foot of space to work in. In spite of this restriction, I braced myself against the shelves and started kicking the door. I've got pretty strong legs, but there wasn't enough space to get any momentum.
I did manage to crack the top pane of the door, though.
Incidentally, my kicking foot has been hurting since (at least) Wednesday. Don't suppose there's a connection, do you?
I hit it with the can a few more times, thinking the crack gave me a good start. Somewhere in there, I gouged the index finger of my left hand. Scrapped a couple of layers of derma right off.
This was not happening nearly quickly enough to suit me.
I set the canned candle down. I slowed my breathing, and tried to think calmly. Was there anything else in the closet that might be more effective as a battering agent?
Well, there was something. In fact, it was one of the things which limited my range of movement in the closet.
A twenty year old Hoover canister style vacuum. It has rounded corners (it somewhat resembles a rounded trapezoid). I aimed one of those corners at the crack I had created earlier. Et viola! Two or three firm bashes later, I had created a hole in the door large enough to get my hand through so I could turn the outside knob.
[Click image on left for larger view]The noise had frightened DJ, and she was hiding under the bed.
Now, I'm not awfully proud of this part of the story. But we're all friends here, and I trust you.
I have a temper. Most of the time I keep it in check. I've even learned to express it in appropriate ways before the kettle blows, as they say. But I knew I was plenty steamed when I got out of the closet.
And I knew I needed to start cooking, and that DJ would have her cute little pink nose in every aspect of the process. What patience I had when I got home had been spent by this point. I don't believe I would have ever seriously hurt her, but I didn't want to take that chance either.
So I set her out on the enclosed back porch while I was cooking.
I listened to music while I was cooking. The combination helped calm me down. By the time I was mostly done cooking, I was ready to let DJ back in the house.
When I went to bed, the house was about 68°. This seemed normal; it had been fairly warm over the weekend and during the day Monday. I keep my thermostat on 68.
The fan did seem to be blowing an awfully long time, though.
I woke up around 5 am the next morning, with DJ curled up on the inside of my knees. The fan was blowing, but it seemed awfully cool.
It was 59°.
I had this theory. The heating unit is on the other side of the closet I had trapped myself in. I thought it was possible I had tripped some safety mechanism when I was trying to kick the door down.
So I shut off the thermostat, and went to the garage. Pulled the car out. One can normally see the pilot light, but it wasn't visible.
When I was a teen, we had gas furnaces. I have respect for gas, and have lit a few pilot lights in my time. I figured I could deal with this.
There was a sign on the heating unit that read, in bold lettering, "Do not attempt to relight pilot light by hand. System will ignite the pilot light electronically."
Seemed worth a try. Went back into the house and turned the thermostat back on.
Returned to the garage. The pilot light was visible once more.
I had survived my sojourn in the closet. I had been in there for about thirty minutes. But the experience seemed to color the remainder of the week.
At least until this morning.
Alexandria is a member of a Toastmaster's group which meets at 6:30 on Thursday morning. She invited me to today's meeting because they were having a speech contest. "There's sure to be some inspirational speeches," she'd said.
I'm not going to detail even one of the speeches. They mostly had to do with taking responsibility for your own feelings, and your own life.
Which got me to reflect on how I had responded to my foolish choice of Monday evening. I had allowed the negative consequences of that choice to color how I experienced the rest of the week. I didn't have to allow that experience to color my week - without any conscious thought, that was a choice I made.
It wasn't too late to make a new choice.
Yesterday, Wednesday, was hectic and stressful, and I got caught up in trying to meet other people's needs and accommodate their feelings and so on and so forth. I was pretty much a basket case by the time I got home.
Again, that had been my choice. A choice made from habit. God knows how or when that habit began, but it wasn't too late to make a different choice.
So, after hearing those presentations, I made a choice to be easier on myself. To focus on the path in front of me. To take off the friggin' red cape, and be an average human being again.
There were a few stressors today. But, somehow, I dealt with them better. And as I ticked each item off my mental "to-do" list, my stress was reduced.
Now I feel fairly normal. All thanks to three speeches I heard this morning. Three speeches I would not have heard, if my friend had not invited me to the Toastmaster's meeting.
Merci beaucoups, mon ami!
Oh - the Valentine's Day chili? It was a hit.
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