Sometimes the confluence of events is pretty ironic. I go whole years not giving any thought to keys in general. Well, unless one of my friends is making a complete jackass of themselves and I ask for theirs and make ready the guest bed. Yesterday, I’m just minding my own business, all excited about setting up the new computer and making a healthy, tasty dinner. I approach the house, hit the button on the garage remote, and slide into the garage. I turn the key to the car to remove said key and the key broke apart in my hand. Okay, I have a spare, no problem.
I usually find my mail waiting on my desk when I get home—no mail—my son usually goes to the mailbox to get it—one of those keyed-security mailboxes. I ask him. He tells me, looking down, which always means something’s not as it may appear, that he can’t find it. After a brief and mostly painless interrogation, he admitted that he made his twin sister go out and get it yesterday. She had lost the key. The search began—no pocket, drawer, bed, or closet was left unturned. On the plus side, I did find a few things that had been lost in the pit of Hell that is my daughter’s room I’d been looking for, like all of her socks, no two in the same place. Two kids were in dire trouble with me—one for pawning off his job on his sister and one for losing the key. Dinty Moore replaced pork chops for dinner. No time to take new computer out of the box. Crankier and crankier I became.
Just when my blood pressure lowered and my voice started coming back to me, I got a call. From the office. From a late-working employee. Who had gotten her key stuck in my office door. It wasn’t budging. Called the emergency facilities folks, who didn’t return my calls. Tired, cranky, sexy sheets calling to me, I finally went to bed, hoping for the best.
What does it all mean, these keys that have come to me in torrents of torment? If you have a clue, please let me know!
Where did I put my keys? ~ Everyone
Published on: Apr 7, 2006
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