Last week we had a silly little horrible adventure. I had come home from a long day of work and right away made a beautiful dinner. We decided to eat it out on our 2nd-story balcony, which we had been doing for the last few nights since the weather had been so good. I cut into my stuffed chicken breast, and taking a bite, realized it was very undercooked. Frustrated, I went to throw the food back in the oven, but I couldn’t get the door open. I gasped, and with huge eyes, stared at Fernando for a few seconds in silence–half wanting to laugh at our stupidity, but horrified at the same time. Immediately, I grabbed a knife and thought I could pick the lock like I used to back in Provo. But it was to no avail. We were really stuck. On the second floor. With nobody around. Thirty minutes later after trying to pry the door and windows with our silverware, we conjured up a plan. Fernando wanted to jump. I was nervous like I’ve never been nervous before, thinking thoughts like: “he’s honestly going to break his legs and I’ll be stuck on this blasted balcony forever!” and “if he breaks his legs I’ll have to take care of him for the next two months!”. Obviously, since you are reading this, I got off the blasted balcony. Eventually, Ferd talked me into letting him jump off the balcony. All of the other doors and windows in the house were locked, so he ran to the neighbors to use their phone to call a locksmith. I waited and waited…occasionally picking at the lock with my bobby pin…sitting down…cursing my cold, undercooked dinner. Nine thirty rolls around. The locksmith FINALLY arrives. And gives us great news that we should feel safe about: our locks are un-pickable. He drills a hole through the lock rendering it useless. And $105 later I’m off the blasted balcony, just in time for bed.