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I can’t find my wallet. I can’t find my keys. There is a piece of good news, if I find one, I assume I’ll find the other. I’ve searched the house, gone to every bedroom and place where it could possibly be (and not be). I’ve retraced my steps several times. The search for these essentials is a recurring occurrence, almost as painful as Lindsay Lohan’s lifetime membership at rehab. But the story always ends on a “happily ever after” note, when my wife enters the journey for the search. She found my wallet and my keys. She always does.
(They were on the floor, two feet away from where I started)
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I share your pain and gift for losing the keys and wallet. That’s why I have the keys and wallet dish where I supposedly put all those things when I come home. I say supposedly because a lot of the times, I don’t do that. I must get back in the habit.
On several occasions, Rhoda has anointed a dish to hold the keys and wallet, but they never seem to make it there…