Y'know this gettin' older thing is a real pain. Like this morning. Suddenly I couldn't find a 4 by 6 inch index card on which are inscribed all of my User ID's and Passwords to access my various sites on the World Wide Web. It's always in the same place, resting on top of my printer. But not this morning. So I spent about two hours tearing my den apart. I emptied a waste basket, then another one, then another one. Three separate rooms. I went out to the garage and looked in the recycle bin. I went through about half of the Sunday New York Times, thinking the card had slipped between the pages. I went through several files in a couple of file drawers. I accused SWMBO of stealing the card. She helped me look for awhile and offered several worthless suggestions about where it could be. I said "I give up", then I searched some more. I got down on my hands and knees under my desk. (Wow, is it dusty down there!) Then I looked everywhere I had looked before. Nada. Zip. Then I asked Blackwell if he had taken it. Blackwell is a cat, for cryin' out loud, and he was staring at me like I had completely lost my mind. Which I nearly had. That card had to be here somewhere.
Then I found it. It was lying on the coffee table in the living room, underneath a Netflix envelope. When I finished the movie I watched last night, I took the envelope and the disc to the other room for SWMBO to view later. But I also picked up my index card at the same time, unknowingly, unwittingly.
I mean: I have the information written on the index card so I don't have to remember all of it. But it doesn't help if I misplace the card and can't remember where it went, now does it?
Pam Peterson knows how I feel.