Humorous misadventures tend to crop up in my life like mushrooms in a wet lawn, and this week’s scrape is typical of the genre.  Tuesday was a beautiful day, and as soon as I got home from work I opened my bedroom windows wide.  I dumped my work bag (with keys, cell phone, ID, etc.) on the floor and walked out of my room…and the wind slammed my door shut behind me.  Somehow the impact jarred the lock in the process, so I was locked out of my room.  Normally there’s a little hole for a key in those cheap interior door locks, but this one was so tiny, not even one of my bobby pins fit in it.  I tried picking it with a piece of wire for 10 minutes without any luck, in spite of all my childhood practice with similar locks. (Ed and I routinely broke into each other’s rooms for the fun of it.)  All of my tools were also locked in my room, but the hinges and the screws for the doorknob were on the wrong side anyway.  I was going in search of a ladder to try to get in through the window when Sam came home, so I used her phone to call the emergency maintenance line (because of course the apartment office was closed by this point).  Maintenance informed me that there would be a $35 lockout fee, but they could send someone.  Fabulous.  While I was waiting for the maintenance guy, I fiddled with the wire one last time…and with a click, my door swung open just as the maintenance man knocked outside.  I sheepishly informed him that his services were no longer required.  He wasn’t pleased at making a trip for nothing, but he didn’t charge me the fee after all, so it could have been worse.  I’m keeping my trusty piece of wire outside my room in case it happens again.



Books: I’m reading Zorba the Greek by Nikos Kazantzakis, which is supposed to be somewhat of a classic.  A friend recommended it highly, and now I’m beginning to wonder if we could possibly be talking about the same book.  So far Zorba is pretty horrifying rubbish–horrifying in its misogyny and irresponsibility, rubbish in its pretensions to be philosophy when it’s nothing of the sort.  The moral of the story, insofar as I can distinguish one, is that life must be lived deeply and sensually in every moment, because this life is all there is, and if you don’t, you’ll die alone and miserable.  Hey, look, I just saved you 300 pages.  Perhaps I’m being harsh; I haven’t actually finished it yet, and often the ending of a book modifies my opinion of what came before.  Occasionally the titular character does say something interesting or quotable.  The rest of the time Zorba attacks life like a rabid bulldog and chases after anything remotely female while the story’s narrator (who is of a delicate, high-strung nature, traits guaranteed to irk me beyond measure) mopes about for no apparent reason, doing nothing whatsoever.  Occasionally these two opposite characters attempt to philosophize at each other, contradicting themselves at every turn and falling into fits of despair with enough regularity that I want to ship them both off to a therapist.