Well, I found my wallet. I didn’t think there was a wallet to be found any more and then yesterday, while I was looking for my keys, I found my wallet. Isn’t that just the way it goes?

Almost two weeks ago, while I was getting ready to take My Darling B to the farmer’s market, I went to grab my wallet from the spot where I always set it, on top of the liquor cabinet, but it wasn’t there, so I looked in the other place I sometimes set it, on the book case in the hall. It wasn’t there either. It wasn’t in my coat pocket and it wasn’t on the desk. I couldn’t find it anywhere in our bedroom and I must’ve checked the pockets of my pants three or four times before I gave up the wallet for lost, called to have my credit cards canceled and went to the credit union to get a new debit card. I even applied for a new driver’s license because by then I figured I’d probably dropped my wallet in a parking lot somewhere and it wasn’t going to be found until sometime in late April or early May after a warm spring shower melted the last of the snowbanks piled up against the curb.

Then this morning as I was gathering up my things to head out the door for work I went digging through the pockets of the pants that were hanging up in the closet, knowing that my keys were in one of them, and the last pair of pants that I went through had the keys and, hey, what the hell’s this? Oh. A wallet. The missing wallet, chock full o’ worthless credit cards. Well, gee.

Good thing my head’s still screwed on tight.