KEEP ON TRUNKING

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You will all be pleased to know that my wife can resume the traditional way of entering her car.

Now, for most people, there is but one way to get into your vehicle and that’s though the driver’s side door. My wife, however, has been using the less conventional method of squirming through the trunk into the backseat and then crawling into the front seat. You see, she’s preparing for her circus act.

No, I’m kidding. She’s not in the circus. Anymore. I guess some backstory is in order.

It all started a few months ago. My wife told me that the key to her car door was sticking sometimes, making it difficult to unlock the door. I took her keys, figuring she was doing something wrong. This was a car. I am a guy. She is a woman. Clearly, she just doesn’t know the finer points of it like a man does, even if it is unlocking the door, which, with minimal training, a badger could do.

I confidently took her keys and strolled out to the car. I inserted the key in the lock and began to turn it. Nothing. I tried to turn it again. I began to talk calmly to the door. Nothing. I began to yell at the door, rocking the whole car back and forth as I tried to force the lock open. My wife, sensing my frustration (and hearing the threats to the car that were being broadcast to my neighborhood) rushed outside and took the keys from me. "Don’t worry about it," she said. "I’ll just get a new key made."

So she went on her way and had a key made. Funny thing about that, though -- if the original key doesn’t work, and you opt for a copy of it, chances are you’re just getting duplicated ineffectiveness.

But she was not going to admit this to me. For one thing, she was afraid I would try and fix the door. She knew she would come outside and see her beloved car in 2,000 pieces as I tried to fix the door lock.

ME (pointing to a disassembled part): Honey, I think I’ve found the problem.

HER: That’s the radiator, you moron! And I’m also fairly sure that taking apart my windshield wipers will NOT solve the problem!

She instead just hobbled along with her imperfect key. She would spend 10-15 minutes each day trying to get into her car, patiently rocking the key back and forth, speaking in soothing voices, trying to coax the key into working. (I, on the other hand, would have taken a much more direct approach, and used a crowbar to smash the window.) On one occasion, I asked her why she didn’t just leave the car unlocked. Right as the words got out of my mouth, I realized that it was a mistake. I got the look -- the look from the woman who couldn’t believe that I once left the back gate unlocked; the woman who was aghast that I would leave the garage door open during a walk around the block. Safety is her number one concern, buddy boy, and don’t you forget it. (You know, now that I think about it, she seems to be almost too careful. Maybe somebody’s after her or something. I wonder if it has anything to do with the three burly men who showed up at our door last week demanding $50,000 from the ferret race losses, or at least one of her fingers as a show of good faith. Hmm. Probably unrelated.)

My wife finally agreed to come to me for help once the gentle rocking stopped working, the soothing tones were ineffective, and the crowbar was starting to sound like a good idea. She was in a parking lot -- a very well populated parking lot -- and the key had made it clear it had no interest in opening the door. She decided that she would see if it would work on the other door. No luck. But there was still one lock left -- the trunk. She strode to the back, slipped the key in and heard the familiar clicks of tumblers turning. The trunk opened, and she knew she had won.

She then realized she was going to have crawl through the trunk, so she started to feel like she had suffered a very big loss. She looked around to make sure there were no police officers ("I swear this is my car!" "Sure it is. Let’s go.") and began her journey through the vehicle. Once she made it into the driver’s seat, she was on her cell phone to me in a flash, letting me know what happened and that, she was pretty sure, I was to blame somehow.

The very next day, I went to the car dealership and had them craft a new key -- one that would actually work -- for my wife. I made several copies, and trashed all of the non-working keys. Now, her door can be locked and unlocked with the greatest of ease. And that’s a good thing when you’ve got that kind of a gambling debt.