Like last night.
Headed to the park for a six-mile run, got out of my truck while talking to mom on the phone... and bam. Locked my keys in the car. This was a problem (your fault, mom). The other problems involved freezing my little Jenas off, and feeling like my pea-size bladder would burst with any sudden movement. (Obviously I can't tinkle in the park bathrooms for fear of getting "taken out back," if you know what I mean.)
Frantically, I called Grahm. He thought I was ridiculous for not remembering there's a Hide A Key under the truck. Perfect, problem solved. Except it wasn't.
Hide a key should change its name to "Wife Camo" cause no woman will ever find it. Next time I'm on a diet, hide the bacon burgers in this thing. I swear, I'd never find it. It's a freaking black hole under there. I felt like I was searching for Atlantis, or a non-plastic section of Joan Rivers's face.
"It's the black box, babe. Passenger side. Back tire. It's black. It's a box. Just look."
"I'm looooooking! All I see are car parts. It's dusty under here! Come save meeeee."
Did I mention that I had to be on my back on dirty, cold cement the entire time? It was all one gray, filthy blur. Gave me a new appreciation for mechanics and prostitutes.
Since Grahm works 30 minutes away, I had to sit. And wait. And wait. I was desperately trying not to look like the little girl about to pee in her Nike shorts, or the crazy woman about to rob all of the cars.
Eventually, he got there. (He had to leave work early and everything.) And 2.5 seconds later, I had the keys to the truck.
...I know you're staring at his cute little bunzippitydodas now.
Now excuse me while I slap a "20% Off Sale" sticker on that badmamajamma so that next time, I'll be all over that Hide A Key like rat on Cheetos.