Getting Through Closed Doors Auntie Fina’s Way - The Only Way

Disclaimer: I admit it; I don’t appreciate my locks. Never have, and after what happened this week, they will never appreciate me, so it’s a mutual feeling of distain. Take that you shiny bast@&ds, I trump your protective, strength with or without keys—you don’t have an Auntie Fina, I do. I win!!

To the lock advocates out there, I get it, I truly do that my locks work humbly, tirelessly, effortlessly to keep intruders, guests, friends, and strangers from getting into my business. Day in and day out, they’re there without expecting anything in return from me outside of the occasional wipe from time to time.

Blah, blah, blah, who cares? Me? Nope. As long as nothing of mine gets stolen, touched, out of order, and I don’t have to fight off an invader in my home with a baseball bat, I expect my locks to be strong and resilient and do whatever it takes to protect, honor, and serve me — it’s a given in my world, it’s an Italian thing.

I did cross the line, however, this week … by demolishing a lock in my house into smithereens. Do not judge me! I lost my key and I had to get into my room. I had no other choice. So what? Maybe I did have other options, but my lineage and OCD would not permit me to resist a challenge.

Just so ya know, it was a slow death, a miscalculated death, and an Auntie Fina’s Italian curse death for my lock — and I liked it. Ha!! You gotta believe me; I was really working on developing a new attitude in my life, one of patience, acceptance, tolerance, peace, and love. I tried to find my “happy place” in my mind when I could not open my door, but I failed.

After several attempts of breathing in and out and thinking “happy thoughts,” it quickly began to turn ugly for my lock — a slow turn of the knob with my delicate, compassionate hands transformed into my father’s large hands, the same ones that slap me across the face twice when I told him I did not want to attend Catholic school anymore. My face still stings every time I think of his slap.  

Back to the lock, I didn’t have a power drill and I wanted to borrow one from my neighbors, but then I heard Auntie Fina’s loud voice in my head saying to me “What the hell are you thinking?? What are ya? An idiota?? You’re showing your deceased  ‘la famiglia’ such disrespect. Do you think I got your Uncle 'No Exit' Louie out of jail by me asking his guard for the key? Huh?”

The next thing I knew I was running downstairs grabbing screwdrivers, pliers, a hammer, and wrenches to bust that mother-of-a-lock open. I went back upstairs and I heard Auntie Fina say to me, “Do us proud, and get that lock open, Uncle “No Exit” Louie and I have confidence in you. Capice?” I took a screwdriver and pierced it in the lock twisting and turning at the same time. Nothing. I took a large screw and banged it in the lock with my hammer. Nothing. I used my pliers, twist, turn, bang, twist, turn, and another bang. Nada!

I realized I had to not only act like Auntie Fina but also become Auntie Fina, if I were ever to get my door open again. Who knew that mother-of-a-lock had layers and layers, and more layers of thick metal? What a freaking nightmare, but I was too far into it to quit.

Yeah, right. A break-proof lock — not for Auntie Fina, and apparently not for me either! I took out another screwdriver and jammed it in that mother-of-a-lock; next, I took out my hammer and pounded, and pounded that SOB of a lock. Then, like a ballerina performing in The Nutcracker, I focused my pace and used my pliers with a slow, gentle, twist and became one with the lock. It started to move!

I put a screwdriver back in, tilted it up, and twisted as hard as I could. After a few turns, the lock’s casings exploded off the knob; I yelled, “Auntie I love you while doing a pirouette in the air.” I told myself that I am stronger than that mother-of-a lock and I will get this door open, as if my life depended on it. Its casings now resembled a busted, open flower, and I took my hammer one last time and banged the living cr+p out of that mother-of-a-lock.

I could feel Auntie’s Fina’s hands on my checks … pinching and pinching them. Bang!!! The metal layers began to melt away like aluminum foil in a 1200-degree oven. Then I gave it one last jolt in honor of Auntie Fina and that mother-of-a-lock flew straight across my room. My door was open. Ayy … who needs a locksmith?