Don't mess with me. . .

Logan was at his sleepover. I was heading out to pick up dinner. Bruce and Meg were headed out back to sweep sand off the patio. It had just rained hard - a rate of nearly one inch an hour - and things outside were a bit dishelved.

When I hit the driveway I realized I had forgotten something important. My keys. Megan had gotten a hold of them just moments prior and they sat somewhere in the house, which clerly was of no use to me. I called up to the door, "Can you toss me down my keys?"

But they were already out of earshot.

Humpf. Fine. I'll have to go back up the stairs and get them myself. I headed for the basement door in the back of our garage.

Locked.

Bruce has this habit of locking the door between the two spaces the moment he comes home in the evenings after work. I assume his subconscious theory is that no one is going out again for the evening and if they do, they'll go through the basement to get there. Except, this is not always the case.

I turn and head for the front steps. Climb the 12 of them, reach for the handle of the storm door. Locked. What the hell?

I ring the door bell. I ring it again. And again. I obnoxiously press the bell and leave my finger on it for a REALLY long time. Nothing. They must be out back already. Fine.

I walk to the side of the house. I yell over the 8 foot wood fence, "Are you out back? Are you there? Can you let me in? I. Need. KEYS!"

Nothing.

I go back to the front door. I ring the bell some more. I'm getting really frustrated. I'm even starting to curse. That doesn't happen often, seriously. I knock. The back of my fist instead of the top. It's more than a tap but less than a forceful entry.

It does not matter.

Shatter. Tingling ring of broken glass falling to the floor in my front hall. My fist, apparently, through the lower third of the door. Not my intent. And I'm still not convinced I hit it hard enough to actually do that on a normal pain of glass - in fact I know I did not.

Regardless I reach in and unlock the door. I tip toe myself in my sandaled feet around the broken glass. I walk out into the backyard to find husband and daughter with brooms on the patio.

"You locked the basement door. You locked the front door. The lock is on the gate...and now the front door is broke..." I began to rant - but it was a nervous sort of rant. It was then that I noticed, and I turned my hand out to show Bruce as well, "And apparently I cut up my hand and I'm bleeding."

The bottom section of 30+ year old glass on our crappy front door is now totally removed. My hand has superfical cuts across the knunkles - which makes it hard to get a bandage on it. The only thing that fits the spanse is a giant gauze pad with tape -- and yet the tape ends up on the base of my fingers which really, really sucks. I'm attempting this morning without a bandage.

The cuts don't need it. Megan might. She's sitting here with me pointing to my cuts chanting, "You need tape on you. You need tape. Mommy, ok? You ok? Get tape."

I swear, I did not hit that door that hard.

But just in case, I'm off to the gym in a moment to maintain my might.