Actually, the freezer ate my sister’s iPad cover. (And remember, SHE’S the one who “lost” her red Acura several months back, but I digress….)
Last week Robin emailed me lamenting her loss. Two days later, she emailed her joy in discovering the iPad cover in her freezer. She said, “I now remember why it was in the freezer. It’s perfectly rational why I put it there.”
Apparently, the strip of red tape she used to identify her iPad had loosened and fallen off while she was doing Words With Friends on her sunny deck. She rubbed alcohol on the sticky area where the tape had been. Nothing worked to clean it up. So she thought, “I’ll freeze it and scrape off the goop.”
Once placed in the freezer, however, she went on with her day, and afternoon, and next day, clueless as to the cover’s whereabouts. “Shirley,” she yelled to her partner, “Where did you put my iPad cover?”
Meanwhile…. brother Ross lost a pair of “cheater” eye glasses. He told me, “I recently purchased a 4-pack of 1.75s and placed them strategically around the house— in the office, bedroom, TV room. But I took one pair in a black flexible case when I went to visit Robin. After returning home, I could not find them anywhere so I e-mailed and asked if she had found them.”
(At this point, the iPad cover was still missing so Robin’s concern for a $6 pair of cheaters was, to be honest, muted.) (To which I ask, how valuable was the iPad cover? But I digress…)
“Nope,” she wrote.
He combed his house and garage. Two days later he discovered the case on the black seat of his car. “The case is black, the leather seat is black, they blended in,” he rationalized. In other words: the Prius ate his cheaters. Sort of.
Our “Wonderful” household isn’t much better. We have written all our passwords — everything from the Bank of America to my New Yorker accounts — on several sheets of paper that are stapled together and frequently updated. Even more frequently, that list goes AWOL.
“I want to order the new Cussler, so what’s our Amazon password?” Mr. Wonderful asks. “Look on the password sheet,” I say. “Where is it?” he asks.
Did we place the list on the kitchen counter beneath the phone book? Or in the bills-to-be-paid folder? On his desk? Or mine?
Once found, a new situation arises. “I can’t read this — where are my glasses?” Mr. W. asks. FYI, we own 16 pairs of cheaters, in every magnification, color and style. But they have feet and they are constantly afoot.
So we go on a search — to the living room, down to his work bench, out to the screen porch, up to the attic. In desperation I open the junk drawer. “Got ‘em,” I holler.
“Great,” he says. “Now, what did I need them for?”
I restrained myself from asking where HIS iPad cover was.