Where in the dickens are they? 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 I've got exactly 20 minutes to go. Where the hell are they?
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 my invariable sore throats, grocery receipts, and condoms. Hey, I might love Francine, but I'm a free agent -- always on the look-out for someone with a tighter you-know-what, and I gotta be prepared.
No, they aren't there. I scanned the granite countertop. I hate these granite countertops. Can't see anything on them. It's like camouflaging for all the things you want to find -- especially them. A close look ... took thirty seconds to do it ... nope, not there. Ah, but I did find a water puddle. I wonder how old that is. That's the worst of the granite pattern, can't see wet spots or water. 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 now. It's a round room, just perfect for the circular dining table I've got, but they’re not on it. My bookcase, the one that separates the dining room from the living room, now there's a treasure trove for open concealment. Okay, perhaps I put them 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 -- nothing on top of Hillary's face or above her cankles (we love you, Amy Poehler).
All right, are they on the display table between the dining room and foyer? No, I don't see them there among the photos, my four nieces and nephews, enjoying the pontoon boat we rented for Mom's seventieth birthday, and a picture of my friend John's parents after his memorial service, Francine and Lester (my college buddy who at 50 is chasing girls half his age with the miracles of Rogaine and Viagra), another photo of Francine, this time with me -- our third wedding anniversary.
Okay, 17 minutes to go until Francine's gonna start getting mad. I still can't find them! Let me check the bathroom, that's 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 that 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, too, so we can move into a place we bought together. I like my apartment. Why can't we just keep things the way they are?
There they are, right above the toilet. Of course, I was pissing and left them right on top of the toilet. What was I thinking? Of course, I was screeching in agony from the burning sensation. Guess I should probably tell Francine. Gonorrhea isn't exactly what your wife 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, after all. Can't be late. How many red lights can I run and get away with it?
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