Where in the dickens are my keys? I just put them somewhere, not one minute ago. Okay, think fast. I gotta get going. Francine will be furious if I'm late, and I'm already cutting it way too close for comfort. The restaurant's 20 minutes away in normal traffic and that's exactly what I've got. Where the hell are my keys?
I thought I put them down on the kitchen counter, next to my computer books and my wallet, right where I usually keep my wallet, sunglasses, Fisherman's Friends for sore throats, grocery receipts, and condoms. Hey, I might love Francine, but I'm a free agent -- always on the look-out for someone. Gotta be prepared. No, the keys aren't there. I scanned the granite countertop. I hate these granite countertops! Why are they all the rage in new kitchens? Can't see anything on them. It's like camouflage. A close look ... 30 seconds pass ... no keys. Ah, but I did find a water puddle. I wonder how old that is. Can't see them. I don't know how many times I've put something down on the counter and picked it up wet.
Okay, I'm looking in the dining room, a round room perfect for my circular dining table, but no keys on it. My bookcase, the one that separates the dining room from the living room, now there's a treasure trove for concealing things right out in the open. Perhaps I put the keys on the top? No, I don't see it on that top shelf, which has all my display books -- Frank Gehry, Alfred Hitchcock, Giatta de Lorentis, Hillary Clinton at the White House -- no keys on top of Hillary's cankles. All right, is it on the display table between the dining room and foyer? No, I don't see it there among the photos, my nieces and nephews enjoying the pontoon boat we rented for Mom's seventieth birthday, my friend John's parents after his memorial service, Francine and Lester (my college buddy who even at 50 is still chasing girls half his age), another photo of Francine, this time with me -- on our third anniversary. That's about when she started pressuring me to marry her.
Okay, 17 minutes to go until Francine starts getting mad. I still can't find my keys. Lemme check the bathroom right around the corner from the foyer. It's a small bathroom, but it's complete. When I renovated it two years ago, I opened up a closed triangle off one corner I didn't even know was there until we did the demo. This is MY apartment, after all. I bought it before I met Francine. She wants me to sell it so we can move into one place of our own and get married. Why can't we keep things the way they are?
There they are, right above the toilet. I was going to the bathroom and left the keys right there. What was I thinking? Of course, I was screeching in agony from the burning sensation. Guess that's something I should probably tell Francine. Gonorrhea isn't exactly what your girlfriend wants to hear, is it?
15 minutes to go. I'd better get myself over to the restaurant. It's her mother's eightieth birthday. Can't be late. How many red lights can I run and get away with it?
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