Dirty Doggy-Doors and PLCs.

We all have our own "reevaluate stories." Stories that usually consist of an event in our lives where we have one moment of clarity. One moment of "what the hell was I thinking?" One moment of recognition that we may need to take a little time to reevaluate our lives. We've made a PLC, a poor life choice.

I think college is full of these stories. And had I been blogging at the time, I may remember more of them.

But just the other day I had one such moment. And it came at the most unexpected time… especially considering I've been out of college for a year and half and the "reevaluate" moments are dropping off a bit. Thank God.

But, like I said, just the other day I found myself pausing, shaking my head, saying out loud to myself, "what are you thinking?"

I was half way through our doggy-door at the time.

Yes. Doggy-door. The kind that have the swinging rubber flap. Meant for dogs, not humans.

Let me explain.

I had gone over to my parents' house on the weekend to do some laundry and hang out with them, Penny, and their cable TV (I currently do not have cable in my apartment… which is jaw-droppingly unbelievable to The New Guy… but that's another entry).

So I pull up to my parents' house around 10:30 in the morning and discover no one is home. The leash is missing from the porch hook, so I figure they have taken the dog for a walk. It's a sunny day in Seattle, so I figure they could be out for a while.

All the doors are locked.

As they should be.

And I don't have a key anymore because after my sister lost her key to our parents' house, my mom developed a liability clause that said anyone who has a key and looses it is responsible for replacing all locks on the house. I didn’t want to carry around that kind of pressure on my key chain, so I relinquished my key privileges.

Anyway, I'm standing on our back porch looking at the locked door and I realize I have two options: take a couple minutes to retrieve the hide-a-key, or see if I can fit through the doggy-door.

And considering that finding the hide-a-key would involve me walking an extra 24 steps (12 to retrieve it, 12 to return it), I decided on the doggie door option.

So I walk around the back of the house, go down the stairs to our basement door, and give the doggy-door a kick to make sure my mom hasn't put the shield in – the shield the doggy-door makers include with the doggy-door to keep burglars and lazy-ass daughters at bay.

The shield is not in. So now the question is, can I FIT through the door?

So I get down on my hands and knees, shove my left arm through the door, followed by my head, kind of moving in a "S" formation.

And keep in mind that this doggy-door has been around for a few years… with one side facing the outside… meaning it's not exactly the cleanest thing. And probably not something I want on my freshly washed hair. But, whatever.

So my left arm is through up to my armpit, and so is my head. I soon discover that entering the house through the doggy-door is not as easy as I thought it would be.

My shoulders are too wide to fit through the actual opening… so I twist counter clockwise and maneuver each shoulder through one at a time… forcing the right shoulder (the one on top) a little too much, leaving a rug-burn looking scratch on the part of my arm that would be my tricep (if I worked out).

But hey, I'm half way done because my shoulders and head are successfully through the doggy-door.

So now, I'm halfway inside my parents' house, still on all fours, cut off at the waist. The front two "fours" are inside on the hardwoods, and the back two "fours" are still outside. My hips are about six inches higher than my head. Not exactly comfortable.

Meanwhile, the dirty rubber flap is resting at the base of my neck and back and I'm just hoping there is not poop or something equally nasty on it.

Next is the hips. Probably the widest part of my body. And this is where the trouble starts. Because I CANNOT get my hips through the opening. I try twisting. I try approaching it at a diagonal angle. And just as I'm sitting there thinking of another way to try and get my hips through the doggy-door, I realize something:

I'm on all fours, half inside, half outside, stuck in the middle of a doggy-door, and WHY THE HELL did I not just go get the hide-a-key? Am I really so lazy that I would rather shove myself through a 12x16 inch opening then walk an extra 24 steps to get a damned key. This is a PLC. For sure. It's time to reevaluate.

But for now, I'm stuck. And I need to get unstuck. On the last try I did get my hips through… but I lost a belt loop and my jeans now have dirt stains and who-knows-what-else stains on them. My face is red because I turn red anytime I exert myself or get stressed and I look as though I've just been mowing the lawn for thirty minutes.

So I'm inside at last, laying on my back on the hardwood floors trying to catch my breath, and I hear the porch door unlock.

My parents are back from walking the dog.

My mom looks downstairs at me and says, "What are you doing?"

And I really don't have the heart to tell her that her youngest daughter just spent the last 15 minutes trying to get through the doggy-door because she didn't want to walk to find the hide-a-key.

So I say, "Nothing."

And she's heard this answer so many times from me and my sisters that she raises her eyebrows, cocks her head as if to say, "did I raise you this way?" grins, and walks away.