Just in case things weren't complicated enough between me and the she-devil, the garage door decided that yesterday would be an opportune time to break. Convenient, you know, considering I had to be the one to break the news that something in the perfect home is, um, less than perfect. It's actually more along the lines of 'totally fucked up.' (I suppose this is just another reason in a growing list of reasons for me to escape my current living situation, but given the hectic state of school and work, I have to bear with it for a little while longer. On a side note, we got to talking and hopefully soon we'll be having a huge margarita-drinking party. As in, a party for the sake of drinking margaritas. If there's anything I've learned in this life, it's that if you don't like someone while you're sober, you can at least tolerate them, and possibly even enjoy their company, with the help of alcohol.)
After putting my bike in its usual spot in the garage once I got home Saturday morning, I went to close the garage door and discovered that the portable opener wasn't working. And, neither was the one attached to the wall. I eventually lucked out and managed to close the thing, but not before inadvertently locking myself in the backyard.
In an attempt to cover my bases, I unlocked the side door of the house so I could let myself in after first ensuring that the garage door closed. I neglected to count for the side door getting blown closed by the wind, and thus locking me out against my will anyway. This meant I had to resort to reentry from the front door, a simple task turned nightmare on account of the side gate being padlocked (and, naturally, I don't have the key). So there I was, locked in the back yard, and it occurred to me that the only way for me to escape would be to jump the wall. Okay, I can do that. Oh, and in my work clothes. Okay, not so thrilled about that part, because 1.) work clothes are not meant for scaling walls and leaping to the ground, and 2.) see number one.
Desperate times call for desperate measures, however, and I was determined to escape the confines of the large yet desolate yard. I hope the neighbor kids were watching, because it's not every day you see something as amazing as me climbing a wall, butt-scooting along it to the edge, and leaping down to freedom on the other side. All without my getting so much as a scratch on my skin or a scuff on my clothes. The sheer skill involved in such a feat is indescribable.
What's made the whole broken garage door fiasco a whole lot better is this: I got some quality bonding time with my roommate's fabulous girlfriend. We were testing out the garage today and accidentally let go of the rope holding it, thus causing the door to go flying closed, nearly causing an earthquake right at the foundation of the house. We both jumped in surprise before laughing uncontrollably, and then we privately agreed to NOT tell The Clencher about that part. The shared secret allowed us to bond so much, in fact, that with the two of us complaining together about the heat, The Clencher finally caved and turned on the air conditioner. Which segues now into my newly formulated theory:
If at first you don't succeed, get your roommate's girlfriend on your side, and then you most definitely will succeed.