By admin
Writing your own bio is hard. Really hard. On my first attempt for this site, I wrote what is far more suited to a blog post, so here it is:
Rachel knew she was a writer in the 2nd grade, when her teacher, Mrs. Kleinman, told her mother she’d be a high school drop out. This is not to say that because Rachel was destined to drop out of high school, she knew she was a writer. In fact, these two events have no causal relationship whatsoever. Thus, it would be more correct to state, “In the 2nd grade, Rachel knew she was a writer. That same year, through no fault of Rachel’s new-found career, Mrs. Kleinman told her mother she would drop out of high school.”
Well, that’s not exactly true, either. The reason Mrs. Kleinman was convinced of Rachel’s impending delinquency had to do with writing. It had to do with writing too much. Rachel fell behind on her Alphabet Stories, and by the end of the year had only reached the letter “P.” You see, starting with the letter “F,” Rachel entertained her friends with a soap opera about a bowl of Fruit that lived in a Field. At “G,” a bunch of Grapes came to visit. And the saga continued throughout the alphabet, 8 – 12 pages at a time; and a second grader just can’t write that much in a single week.
Contrary to Mrs. Kleinman’s dire prediction, Rachel did graduate from high school – on time, even – and continued on to Smith College and the University of Southern California. She studied theatre and mathematics and earned a degree in technical direction for theatre. You may have noticed she did not study writing. Rachel forgot, for a while, that she was a writer. Or maybe being forced to finish her Alphabet Stories over the summer vacation soured Rachel on writing, for a time. We’ll never know for sure.
But Rachel couldn’t escape writing for long. As her job at Center Theatre Group evolved to fit the changing needs of both the company and Rachel herself, words and language played a larger and larger role. Before too much time had passed, words and language were nearly her entire job. And she couldn’t have been happier about it.
Because Rachel loves words.
By admin
There is a vaguely nauseating feeling of foolishness and dread as the door shuts. I am fully aware that it is locked. Last time I did this, I was completely oblivious, until I tried the handle and realized I was stuck outside. At least I am dressed this time.
I will spare you the tedious, extended shenanigans and jump ahead four hours to the arrival of the locksmith. Saved! I think. After several hours outside in the 100+° heat, I could not be more relieved. In 10 or 15 minutes, that lock will be open, and I’ll be inside, enjoying the A/C and some nice cold watermelon.
Nope.
The lock won’t budge. David, the locksmith, tries several different methods to pick it, but this lock will not give. I’m feeling pleased with the safety of my home, but frustrated to be on the wrong side of the door. David is going to have to break the lock.
I picture a surgical strike at the heart of the mechanism – drill out the center and it magically releases and David replaces the barrel. This is not when he means. When he says break it, he means the whole thing. David takes a wrench and twists the handle 100, 170, 240 degrees. Soon it is rotating a full 360. And the door still will not open. This is where the real work begins. David returns to his truck for yet more tools and begins to dismantle the entire handle. Since we are on the outside, the handle is not designed to be disassembled from here. In fact, it is expressly designed to resist exactly what David is trying to do. I feel ever more pride in my choice of lock. It is doing a fantastic job of protecting my home from me.
The sad remains of my door handle.
The smashing, prying and bending begin. Pieces fall away. I recognize some of them from when I installed the handle earlier this year. Soon, David is able to reach into the mechanism and unlock it. And the door
still will not open. Really. It’s unlocked, but the tongue part will not retract. David continues to beat the handle into submission. I can’t watch.
A full hour after he arrived, David has opened the door. He has a used lockset, similar to my now-defunct lockset, in his truck. He replaces my shiny, nearly-new, matching handle with a scratched and scabby interloper. But at this point, it’s in better shape than mine, and it works.
Thank you, David.
The moral of this sad and, yes, tedious story? Always carry your keys – even if you’re not planning to leave the vicinity of your front stoop. Or unlock the door, stupid.
And buy Schlage. Or, if you’re prone to lock-outs, don’t.
