It happens to all of us at some point in our lives, and I was just skating along without a care in the world when my disorganized side decided to come out and play. So, even though the events I am about to recount fall well within the realm of things I can generally handle, given the circumstances of the rest of that Saturday, it was just insult added to injury, my friends.

The what is that I locked myself out of my house.

The when is on a Saturday morning when my Nittany Lions were getting trounced by the stupid *&$*ing Buckeyes.

The where is three stories up overlooking a sharp drop-off onto craggy rocks below.

The why is that I was tired the night before and hadn’t reattached my house key to my car keys.

The how… well, that required a few bevies and plenty of luck.

This is the way the day went down… hill:

I get up early and throw down a pot of coffee while getting in a little pre-game dork-out with a few episodes of BSG. About 08:30, I’m heading out the door calling the crew to see if their fridge holds enough champagne and OJ for a sod like me. I’m turning the lock. I’m pulling the door closed. I’m starting the car and driving over the Pali while wailing some Springsteen because the damn radio’s broken (but I’m the only one can hear me so it don’t matter). I’m stepping out of the car at E and Amy’s house, and I’m cursing like a sailor because that’s when it hit me -- there was one key too few on the ol’ keychain.

Fuck it! Pour me a mimosa; it’s too early to do aught about it anyway. Turn on the game.

So, a few hours later, there we sat -- six very melancholy football fans: one with a desperate love for PSU and an almost equal hatred for OSU; one with a need to see the Longhorns avenged by someone -- anyone -- hanging a crippling loss on the Buckeyes; one with the sense not to dislike PSU; two with not a rat’s ass in the world to give about who won except that they didn’t want me to turn violent; and one who, at the tender age of nine months, just wondered why everyone was yelling at the TV.

I continued with the mimosas until it was well past time to act like a responsible adult and call the landlady, the locksmith, my state representative, and/or the cops; but still, I headed home with the vague hope that I hadn’t really locked the door.

Oh, but I had.

It was just too much to face at that point, what with a devastating fourth quarter still turning its sharp blade in my heart. I headed down to the bar where I knew I could at least sit sullenly, if not find someone with whom to commiserate. Instead, the bar was full of Notre Dame fans yelling at the refs far away in East Lansing -- just my damn luck (‘o the Irish). The other team that embarrassed my boys this year, and I was dead center in a pub full of ‘em. Okay, so I pretended not to care and watched the University of Hawaii game instead -- always a safer bet around here. By the time I had started my fourth beer, the only thing I wanted in the whole world was to get into my damn house.

It was with determination that I drove up the hill and into the garage. It was stolidly that I walked down the ramp to street level to the back side of the building and stared three stories up, 15 feet, at a one-foot wide ledge. "Fuck it," I said. "No way in hell am I paying $60 to have some locksmith come out and let me in. I can do this my own damn self."

Step one: recruit other tenant upon whose back to stand while trying to reach the ledge.

Step two: find step ladder that sympathetic tenant will hold up as I try, in vain, to scale the now even more precarious height.

Step three: fall on my ass and realize that this is not a good idea.

Step four: praise Jesus that there’s a full size ladder hidden among the foliage in the courtyard.

Step five: up we go, over the ledge, slipping once or twice but finally clinging by toes, fingers, and the hair on my knees (that I’m glad I forgot to shave because I took any help gripping I could get).

Just a few feet further, inching around the corner of the ledge, not looking down at the crags onto which I would certainly fall, ending my ignominious existence in a fitting manner... and I'm in. Only a little worse for wear with a few scrapes on the ol’ knees, hands, and pride. Hey, at least the poor dude whose back I was climbing got a free show since I was wearing a short skirt while shimmying up the proverbial drainpipe.

The first thing I did was pop a beer; second, wave off the troops enlisted for camp-out purposes should I remain sans domicile; third, shower off the beer I had sweated out while doing my little cat-burglar routine; and fourth, take a fuckin’ nap.

Breaking into places is hard work.