Coppa fetha.

I have this nasty habit of locking my keys in my car.

Today, it happened while I was running errands for work.

I was at Partyland, taking care of a down payment for a raffle barrel we will be using for Santa's Grand Event. I had just finished running some other errands, and I needed to get back to the office for a lunch meeting with one of our sponsors. Rushing out of the store, I rumbled through my purse looking for my keys. But, by the time I had gotten to my car, I still couldn't find them.
"Uh oh. This can't be good."

Sure enough. I glanced down at the passenger's seat, and there they were, sitting ever-so-serenely next to my iPod and the bank bag I had yet to deliver. Lovely.

First, I tried calling both of my parents. Neither of them picked up their cells, the home phone, or my Dad's work phone.
Then I called Cindy, and through bursts of laughter, she gave me the non-emergency phone number to the Orem City Dispatcher.

I called THAT number, and luckily, they do lock-outs for free. Thank heavens, since other locksmiths charge up to 50 bucks. Anyway, so the cop shows up with his funky little tools and starts to pry at my car-- to no avail. He then says to me,
"Yeah, this is unlucky. This model of car is one of the hardest to unlock. We could be here for a while."

Long story short, we were.

And it was cold.
And my jacket was in the car.

BUT, it was unlocked. Eventually.

Considering this, I have decided my opinions on cops have changed.
I have come to the resolve to stop hating them for merely existing.

In fact, quite the contrary, I think my most recent experience with them has caused me to become rather fond of them.




Thank you, popo. I luh you.