The list of things I cannot find finally got so long that I tripped over it this morning before coffee.
What are you missing? offered The Mister.
Um, I can't find my best set of keys, the set with all the discount and membership cards attached to it. (Is there an official name yet for those things? Fobs? Mini-cards? please help.) I've been managing with the second set, which I have been using for so long that they have begun to take on a life of their own, sprouting a Shaw's Supermarket fob this month. This is potentially dangerous, in a Borges or Christopher Nolan kind of way.
And, my driver's license. I have my expired license, which I use in place of the current one. Given the choice, I prefer the old one anyway because it's a better picture of me. Even though Massachusetts has retired the graphic design of my old one
and moved on to something new, no one has yet remarked on the expired status. I've written checks, purchased plane tickets, and bought beer (yes, I was carded: you want to make something of that?). Not even the nice police officer who took my information after my car was broken into in Harvard Square last week said anything. He just wrote the number down and handed it back to me. Perhaps he thought I'd had enough to deal with that day already. The perp took my ipod and my gps, which he most likely figured out was in there because of the suction cup marks on the windshield (You have been warned). No knitting was harmed in the caper, but my knitting bag did get a huge snootful of broken glass. This will be relevant in a moment.
And the pattern book for the sweater I'm knitting. This was perhaps the most critical of all, because I have reached that point in a top-down sweater when one begins to wonder if one has enough yarn to make everything long enough. So I stopped at what I thought was a reasonable, can-live-with-it-but-only-over-a-matching-t-shirt length, and made to pick up where I left off with the sleeves, and there I was forced to stop without the book.
I've been knitting the stripes by referring to the first repeat, so it's been almost a week since I'd seen the pattern, and that means it could have been anywhere. It was time to deploy The Mister's remarkable ability to find anything. I think we have spoken of this before. If you're new here, you might want to read that story.
He dug everywhere, in all my little piles I have fooled myself to think make the place look tidier than everything not-in-a-pile, under sofa cushions, under sofas, on top of books in bookshelves, in the bathroom (you know the reason for that one, right?), in the boy's room, in my car . . . and on and on. I hovered behind him, muttering things like "It isn't there, I already looked" and such, but on he forged. I went into the basement to transfer laundry to the dryer, and when I came back upstairs, there were things on the counter that hadn't been there before. My keys!
"Where did you find them?"
"In a bag in your office, along with a couple of karate patches." (I was wondering where those went)
I finally left him alone and went for a bike ride. When I came back, sitting on the counter next to my knitting, was my pattern book.
"Where did you find it?"
"Where would the last place something like that would be?" he said with an arch of his brow. "Perhaps, in your knitting bag?"
"But I looked in my knitting bag." I did, really. But here's the reason why I didn't find it, and what The Mister demonstrated. I had put off cleaning the car window glass out of it because I was dreading the damage to the yarn, all those sharp cutty kind of edges, but finally faced down the task last week: dumped it, vacuumed it, picked carefully through the yarn, and put everything back where it belongs, including the pattern book. But the knitting bag has a lining that does this.
Problem solved. No sign of the driver's license though. I guess I'll be in line tomorrow morning at the DMV, but at least I'll be able to knit.