Jilda and I lose things. It seems the older we get, the more we find ourselves searching. I’ll bring something into the house, put it on the table and it disappears. When I ask her where she moved it, she swears she hasn’t seen it. That’s when …
Jilda and I lose things. It seems the older we get, the more we find ourselves searching. I’ll bring something into the house, put it on the table and it disappears. When I ask her where she moved it, she swears she hasn’t seen it. That’s when the squabble begins. Often I have no one to blame but myself.
When I work on the truck or lawnmower, I head to the shed to fetch tools. About half the time, I can’t find the wrench I need. My hands are the only ones that touch those tools, but that is no comfort. I use bad language. There’s a good chance I’m on the devil’s “A-List.”
Jilda is as bad. She devotes a significant portion of her life looking for her reading glasses. And our house is not that big. Back during the first part of summer, she found a 10-pack of reading glasses from Home Shopping Network. When her package arrived, she had a smug smile on her face as she opened it. “By George, I’ll be able to find my glasses now,” she said triumphantly.
In late August, I heard her storming through the house mumbling. When I asked what was up, she said. “I’m looking for my reading glasses!” “Didn’t you buy 10 pairs a few weeks ago?” I asked. She wheeled around and gave me a look that said: And what do YOU plan to cook for dinner. I clammed up and started helping her search.
Fast forward to this past week. While petting our collie Caillou, I pulled a flea off his ear. His hair is so thick that fleas are rarely a problem, but I knew it was time for some meds.
On Monday, I stopped by the local vet and bought a flea pill that cost more than my first car. The vet tech saw me flinch when she told me how much it was and explained that it was an expensive med. I started to ask if I could pay for it on the installment plan, but I was afraid she’d fail to see the humor. I took the pill home.
Caillou is finicky about taking meds, so Jilda fixed a special mix of rice and hamburger meat so that he would take the tab without a tussle. When she got ready to put in the pill, she couldn’t find it.
She called me at work asking where I’d left it. “On the table, where I leave everything,” I said. She looked, and it wasn’t there. I asked if she’d thrown the bag in the garbage by mistake. “I didn’t, but I’ll look.” She took the bag of trash outside and went through everything. No pill.
I racked my brain trying to retrace my steps for the previous day. I could not remember for sure where I’d put the pill. When I got home, I went back through the garbage. It had gotten a little ripe sitting in the sun, but I knew that pill had to be in there somewhere. It wasn’t.
Back inside, I stood at the sink scrubbing the stink off my hands. I chided myself for being so forgetful. While drying my hands, I glanced through the window into the backyard. Sitting on the workbench outside the shed was a paper bag. In the bag were things I’d bought for an oil change for my lawnmower. I knew before I walked out that the pill would be in the bag. Drying my hands, I stepped outside. When I reached into the bag, the pill was at the bottom.
The hard part was telling Jilda where I’d found the medicine.
Rick Watson is a columnist and author. His latest book “Life Goes On” is available on Amazon.com. You can contact him via email at firstname.lastname@example.org.