Come Out, Come Out, Wherever You Are!

“There are some things, I don’t even care if I get them back. I just want to know where the f*** they went.” — George Carlin — Losing Things

Where is the damn key?

I hate losing stuff, and usually, I don’t. Not that I’m so organized or anything, but generally, I follow the motto, “A place for everything and everything in its place” – even if that place is a kitchen junk drawer.

My car key dangles from a ring, along with a house key, in my purse, and I keep it there. Actually, it’s not a key. It’s a keyless remote gizmo, and if it’s near my Nissan (like, in my purse), all I need to do is press the car handle button to open the door, and press the starter in the car to get going.

Things have been a little hectic for the past week with Kate, Rob, and the two kids here for Spring break. One day, I wanted to use the car, and asked about my key. They don’t have it, Mike told me. He’d given them the extra key from the kitchen drawer. “You still have your key,” he said. Except that I didn’t.

No biggie. I took the key the kids had been using and ran my errand. My key would show up, I figured. Maybe I had driven the car earlier and put my key on the counter for Rob and Kate. Maybe they had taken that set, too, by mistake, and now had two sets. Maybe it got stuffed in a beach bag or Kate’s purse. Or a backpack. Or it might have dropped into a suitcase on the floor. Except that it didn’t.

Surely it would turn up, when all of the beach bags were empty, and all of the beach towels were washed, and all of the suitcases were repacked, and all of their gear was out the door. They left yesterday, and with their stuff out of here, the beach paraphernalia put away, and things back to normal, I was confident that the key would make its presence known.

Except it hasn’t. Just where is the damn key?

Not that this is any big emergency, really. We do have the extra set, and only need a spare just in case one gets lost… like mine. But, replacing it isn’t as easy as going to Ace and having them cut another one. This doodad costs around two hundred fifty bucks, and buying a replacement is a crummy way to spend that chunk of money.

Why can’t I find it? I’ve looked in every bag I own, dumped out my purse several times, combed through every drawer, pulled up the couch cushions, crawled around to search under the seats in both my car and Mike’s, and still, nada. The thing is, I couldn’t have lost the key while I was out somewhere, because I wouldn’t have been able to start the car without it. If I’d dropped it in Target, I never could have driven home from Target. So, it must be here, right? This condo isn’t that big, with only so many places where it could be hiding. It’s pissing me off. I can almost feel the damn thing smirking as I rummage through bags and look under dressers. “Dumb ass! I’m right here where you dropped me. Didn’t you hear me clunk when I landed?”

I’m holding out hope that it will just appear – Tada! We all know that one of the early signs of dementia is not misplacing our keys, but in finding that you’ve put them in some weird place, like the refrigerator. Hmmmm, maybe I should look in the vegetable crisper.

 

 

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