Do NOT go near the door!

Leaving Izzy and Moe's deli today Slightly British Daughter said, as I exited through the door with the sign reading "Entrance": "You ought to write a blog post about always going out the wrong door!" (She'll say there was no explanation point there!!)

Let me tell you some of my door stories...

Besides  going out and/or in the wrong door frequently, I have other issues with doors - they seem to cause me problems.

One of my favorite, and most pathetic door stories, involves a time when I had been waiting for a friend to pick me up. My girls were little, my son hadn't been thought of yet. I was a stay-at-home mom who rarely got out. And I was anxious. Oooooh, I was going to have an outing.

I got dressed (in something nicer than my "uniform" of ripped jeans and flannel shirt) and probably even took the time to put on mascara. Way back then I didn't need the whole 15-point paste and polish that I currently feel obliged to go through before going out.

When I heard my friend pull her car into the driveway I went running for the door. I don't know what happened next - was it a momentary lapse of good sense? Did I suddenly get it into my head that I was part gazelle?

Whatever the reason (or lack thereof), as I ran toward the door, I leapt over the large (30" x 24" and around 16" high) ottoman in the middle of the room. OK, I didn't really  leap - I attempted  to leap. When I think of that wannabe leap I remember a grand jeté type (see picture) move.

Obviously something rather different happened, because I wound up (on the other side of the ottoman at least) face down with my butt and legs in the air. I never was particularly coordinated, which is why I really question what possessed me to think I could take flight.

My girls witnessed this and still remember me getting up growling: "Go ahead! Laugh!"

Fast forward a bunch of years. The girls' had a good friend who lived in the neighborhood. It was night time and she was on her way over for a visit. I thought it would be fun to jump out at her (I was still a stay-at-home mom and it was getting dangerously close to the time that we all knew I had to get out of the house - for everyone's sake!)

I waited, crouched down, in the entryway. Knock. Knock. I leapt up (again with the leaping) and yelled something akin to "boogaboogabooga!" Oh shit! Her father was with her. I crouched again and tried to escape into the house unseen. I did hear her answer her father (like it was standard procedure at our house), when he asked her if the girls always did that: "Oh no, that was Mrs. Caterson." Blush! Die and die again of embarrassment.

I did not go near the door for quite awhile. Doors are not safe.