Where Do I Live Again?

It's been a while since I've posted, but trust me, that doesn't mean life hasn't been interesting, just too interesting for public consumption.

A quick story:

This past weekend I moved. I know, I know, I've done it so many times they should give me a degree for it. A Masters. A Doctorate. Something big.

Anyway, I worked all day while S.O. moved the apartment (including dogs, fish, plants...you know, all my treasured items) to our new apartment. Just to clarify, this means that when I went to work at 11am, I left from address "A" and I came home to address "B" at 11:00pm that night.

I pull into my way-too-tiny-for-my-liking space, that I'm not completely sure actually is my parking space, and go to the elevator. Which is broken. Which means I'm taking the stairs. No biggie, it happens.

I trudge up a few flights of stairs, come into the hallway and put my key in the lock. The key goes in smooth as glass, but won't turn.

It's okay I tell myself. It's a brand new, freshly cut key. I jiggle it a little thinking maybe it was one of those keys you have to very carefully not push in quite all the way. I wiggle, jiggle, pray, get angry and almost start to cry. I have worked hard. I've been on my feet ALL DAY. I'm tired. I want to sit and take my shoes off. I want to see my fur babies.

After about 15 minutes of this I start to bang on the door, "S.O. let me in, my key doesn't work!" "Hey, let me in!"

I don't hear the dogs. Ah, he's out walking the dogs. How sweet! Which means he'll be back any second and I can get inside. So I take my shoes off and wait. I try the key a few more times.

Finally, I get really upset. I start batshit crazy pounding on the door and yelling S.O. LET ME IN MY KEY WON'T WORK.

At this point, I hear a voice from the other side of the door. A lady's voice.

"Please go away. There is no one here by that name. You're really scaring me." says the voice which sounds as though it's likely holding a butcher's knife from the kitchen.

I look up at the apartment number and notice something.

I don't live on this floor. This is the correct last two digits of the apartment number but the wrong floor.

Oh dear GAWD, I've been scaring this poor woman to death thinking there is someone trying to break into her apartment.

I go up to the apartment that actually is mine and low and behold, the key works. Perfectly.

*I left her a note the next day explaining my mistake.