Salad

With a toddler to keep track of, my wife and I have misplaced more than our fair share of vital accessories. Mornings aren't really complete unless my wife has to scramble around for her car keys or shoes just before she's supposed to head out the door; as for me, I recently spent more than two weeks looking for my own keys, only to discover them at last at the bottom of my daughter's toy basket. I'd like to think she put them there -- my daughter, that is -- but I've learned to know better.

Yesterday, A. had a blowout at day care, and my wife returned home with a plastic bag filled with soiled clothes and shoes. Within ten minutes, we'd misplaced the foul package. It hadn't been tossed into the garage; the dogs hadn't smuggled it away to the bathroom; it hadn't been tossed into the dirty laundry. As far as we could tell after a few minutes of searching, it had simply vanished into thin air. We looked under the couch, we looked inside the garbage can, we looked under the sink. I made two trips out to the car to make sure it hadn't been shoved under one of the seats.

I even looked in the fridge. Around here, you never know.

The offending bag had now become an obsession. I had already suspended dinner preparations -- it really seemed unlikely that we'd eat with a missing sack of poop somewhere in the house -- and my wife and I had begun to wonder if we were the victims of an elaborate prank.

At last, the bag of unholiness revealed itself. Somehow, it had wound up on the kitchen counter, under several bags of lettuce, carrots, green onions and tomatoes I had set out in the hope of making a nice salad.

Wtih order restored, I resumed the task of preparing dinner. After a short discussion, though, we decided to skip the salad.

TAGS: Absentmindedness, Filth
POST TOOLS: