My chronic ability to lose things
I lose things. Chronically. My inability to keep track of my belongings is only second to my inability to remember anything – errands, appointments, my schedule.
I’m just a mess.
Last Monday, I lost my purse. Or forgot it, which is nearly the same thing. We were running late – we’re always running late – for the bus.
“Hurry up, we’re going to miss the bus and I don’t want to drive you to school this morning!” I end up either driving them or something they’ve forgotten – they get it honest – to school about three or four times a month.
“Did you make my lunch?” The Little Professor asked.
“It’s beside your bookbag.”
My Sassy Saint wandered by. “Have you seen my sweater?” She gave the livingroom an idle glance.
“It’s upstairs, on the rocker! I told you 10 minutes ago to put it on!”
“I couldn’t find it.” She meandered upstairs.
“Get in the car.” I ushered them outside. “Don’t worry about the door, I’ve got it!”
In the hullabaloo, I left my purse behind. I had my car keys and cell phone. I didn’t realize it until I reached the grocery store.
Not there. Well.
The next day, I lost my cellphone. I go through my email and check the weather over a hasty cold breakfast. (Eating is something I do so I won’t die or have the Long Suffering Husband complain I don’t take care of myself.)
I put it down to chase down a child and make them brush their hair a second time – I suspect it was actually the first – then I got ready for work, signed a permission slip and made lunch. By the time I chased the children out the door, I’d forgotten all about it.
Until I wanted it.
Sunday, I lost my keys. We went to Grampy Grumpy and Grandmama’s house. We drove down together – the LSH insists on driving when we’re together, I can’t imagine why – and I didn’t need them until Monday morning.
I couldn’t turn over the car to warm it up. It looked like I actually would have to scrape the ice off the windows. I turned the house upside down.
“They’re here somewhere,” the LSH said, picking up one end of the couch. I wouldn’t have put them under the couch, by the way.
“They’re as big as two fists put together and they’ve got a 10-inch ribbon attached to them. If they were here, we’d know.”
When in doubt, I call Grandmama. Of course they were at her house, because that isn’t where they belong. The LSH picked up the couch for nothing.
Last Wednesday, I lost my wallet. It wasn’t in my purse; a myriad of other things – things I did not need – were, but not my wallet. I did not notice this until I was at the checkout; embarrassing. I looked in the car; nothing there, either.
I called the LSH. “I know it was the Professor. He got a dollar out of there last night for Boy Scout dues.”
He looked for it, but couldn’t find it. That wily Professor must have carried it off.
After brooding on it all day, I pounced as soon as he got home after school. “What did you do with my wallet?”
“Put it back in your bag,” he said carelessly. “Do we have anything for a snack?”
“It’s not there. And I’m starting dinner soon.”
“Is it in the car?”
“No, I looked.”
“I’ll go check.” He scampered outside.
A few minutes later, he came back inside, my wallet held triumphantly aloft.
“Where was it?”
“Under the seat. I guess you must have lost it again. What’s for dinner?”
(Wallace-Minger, The Weirton Daily Times community editor, is a Weirton resident and can be contacted at firstname.lastname@example.org)