Sometimes I feel as though my life has strange cycles. Sometimes you’re cruising along and everything falls into place and other times everything is out of whack, and not just the normal things little stupid things.
I lost my car keys.
Part of it has to do with being sick. I didn’t do much driving all weekend. When we did go somewhere, Esteban drove. On Sunday, I realized that I didn’t know where my keys were and I did some cursory searching for them. I also recently purchased a new purse. It’s far larger than I’m used to. I like the little ‘clubbing’ style purses and this new one is of the Mother or Grandmother size. Sometimes, I carry my lunch and 24 oz. Bottle of water in it. I think it could double as a stylish diaper bag. Thus, I am often loosing things in it’s cavernous hollows. So I naturally figured that the keys were possibly stuck under something in my purse, like maybe the family-sized box of tissue or extra pair of pants I carry around with me at all times. (Well, maybe I don’t but you get the picture)
They weren’t there.
There’s a saying out there somewhere, maybe I heard it in one of my many redundant college Psyche classes or something, but basically it is that ‘only a crazy person would continue to perform the same action and expect a different result each time’. Didn’t matter, I just kept searching my big-assed purse for my keys, over and over and over.
They’re still not there. Not after the third time searching my purse. Not after the tenth time searching my purse. Still not there.
For the record, I do not lose my keys. I have had the same set of keys since I was eighteen when I owned my first car. Now, the keys on the ring have changed and the ring itself has changed, but it’s still the same set of keys, you know?
So right now, I stole Esteban’s key to my car and the little electronic locking thing off his key ring. The worst part of this is that we only have two ignition keys to the Monte, since Chevrolet has made these little weird security chips on the keys and it costs something like $20 to make a duplicate. And since Weetabix never loses her keys, what’s the point?
I think Esteban might be at fault. That guy is always losing his keys. I don’t fathom how, since they contain every key to every lock he has access to in the entire world. It’s like I’m married to a janitor. When he takes off his pants at night, they make a BOOM when they hit the floor. It’s insane. He actually used to wear out the pockets of certain pairs of pants and I’d replace them for him (such the little homemaker I am sometimes! Me and my Singer’. We can save the world, I tell ya!). Anyway, if his keys aren’t in his pockets, the man is flustered as they could be in any one of 57 of his normal spots for key shedding OR they might be in a surprise location’. Such as a shelf in the basement or possibly the mailbox in the garage.
I, on the other hand, have exactly four places my keys could be: my purse, the table next to the front door (for when I come in the front door), the table in the kitchen (when I come in through the back door) or in the phone alcove (when the phone is ringing when I come in the door).
I’ve checked each of these places five times.
I lied. One time in my life I lost a set of keys, but they were not my own set. Here’s the scoop:
Two weeks before my wedding, I bemoaned the fact that Esteban and I had two vehicles, neither of which were desirable wedding transportation. I still driving my skanky rusty college car and Esteban had his pickup truck which, while was arguably a far nicer and shinier mode of transportation than my piece of shit, it was, in my opinion, a sign of low class and ill-breeding for the bride to drive a four-wheel drive pickup truck to her wedding. Not that I’m particularly high class or well-bred, I just didn’t want to flaunt that fact at my wedding, ‘k?
Markus attempted to rent a 1920’s Bentley to drive us around, but he was unable to set it up, so instead he rented a lovely silver 1999 Dodge Intrepid to be my chariot.
Doesn’t Markus totally rock or what? (Remember girls! He’s single!)
I loved the Intrepid. It actually turned me on. He dropped off the car on Friday night, which we then drove to the rehearsal. The next morning, it was all mine. I woke up early and drove it out to the reception hall with various decorations and helped decorate. Then I drove it back home, where I filled it up with my wedding dress and all my wedding stuff. I then whipped off my shorts and t-shirt and took a quick shower. I jumped back out of the shower, threw the same clothes back on and went to pick up my mother to go to the hair stylist/make up appointment.
No keys.
I searched everywhere.
No keys.
A big stress zit spontaneously formed on my cheek.
Still no keys.
My mom picked me up for the hair appointment and Esteban and Markus went back to the house and tore it apart. Still no keys. They combed the twenty feet of grass between the car and the front door. No keys.
They were so gone. Missing from Absentonia.
End result: the bride drove a pickup truck to her wedding. The rental company could not be reached until the following Tuesday. The Intrepid sat in our driveway the entire weekend. I have a big lovely stress zit in several of my wedding pictures.
Our lawn has been mowed and raked countless times. We have removed every piece of furniture from our living room and cleaned the rugs and painted it. We have remodeled our bathroom.
Still no keys.
It’s a complete and utter mystery. We’re all boggled.
I’m envisioning those keys on a gondola strolling around Venice. I’m thinking that Mr. Scott beamed them aboard the fucking Enterprise. Jimmy Hoffa has them clutched in his decomposing fist. Leonard Nimoy should dedicate an ‘In Search Of’ to that freaking set of keys, because they are so out of here that it’s not funny.
But I digress.
So, the whole point of this is’ I have no idea where my keys are.
I think Esteban might have lost them. Note to self: search Esteban’s 57 Key Hiding spots when I get home.
Speaking of lost: this morning I went looking for my set of black comfy loafers and guess what? They are also gone. I could find my blue loafers but not my black ones. I’m starting to wonder if I don’t only own one set of comfy loafers who have chameleon properties and can change from black to blue to beige. It would explain a lot.
Overheard:
‘Have you ever pooped into your own hand?’
Who says that married folk run out of things to talk about?
