By Mary Lynn Bruny

I keep losing stuff in our house, which I believe is a sure sign that what I’m really losing is my mind. This misplacing of things seems to be happening more and more lately. I would like to blame work stress or the chaos of raising kids, but I do not have either of these excuses. I would like to blame my extremely busy and exciting life, but I do not have this either. What I do have is a brain that is reaching its sell-by date and seems to be running on fumes (which often results in writing with mixed metaphors).

How can it be that an organized person such as myself spends so much time combing our house, trying to remember where I have set things? If I could take this time and do exercises I would be ready for the Olympics. Okay, that’s a stretch but I would certainly be less jiggly.

I didn’t used to be this way. I was an “everything in its place” kind of person with my canned food labels facing forward. My husband – kind of a Mr. Magoo type whose brain is always multi-tasking – used to be the guy who always misplaced things.

“Someone has stolen my car keys!” he would often declare indignantly. “Really,” I would answer flatly, trying not to sound sarcastic. “They stole your keys but left without taking your vehicle. Fascinating.”

Of course his keys were always hiding in some pocket. After years, he mastered the act of depositing those wily keys into a bowl by our front door. It’s feats like this that makes one understand why our species has thrived on the planet.

His wallet, however, has yet to be controlled. Apparently it will not stay in a pocket and instead likes to hide in crevasses, like behind couch cushions. Its favorite spot, however, is that dang space between the driver’s seat and the center console of my husband’s vehicle. You know, that crack which is wide enough for stuff to fall into but not big enough for your hand to get into to grab said items. I think this is the work of sadistic car manufacturers.

But now I cannot roll my eyes at my husband’s shenanigans. Well, I can and I do but I shouldn’t, because now I am worse. For instance, my coffee cup and my AirPods seem to have wings and land in rooms I can’t even remember being in that day. But it’s my cell phone that ends up in the oddest places around the house, like on a shelf in the refrigerator.

Partially I blame this on women’s clothing manufacturers. Can we women please have pockets on our clothes that actually fit things bigger than a paper clip? And what’s with the fake pockets? What a stupid concept! That’s like having a purse that doesn’t open. Why would you have an object that is supposed to hold things but actually doesn’t hold things? Insanity!

Last weekend I was trying on summer-weight joggers. (The pandemic has turned me into a lounge ware aficionado.) A pair of joggers I liked had fake front pockets. With my spacey brain I would forever be trying to stick my cell phone into those fake pockets. When I couldn’t, I would absentmindedly set it down. Then later when I needed my phone I would spend 10 minutes looking for it before giving up and heading to the pantry for a snack. Chances are high my cell phone would be right by the chips and cookies, a completely logical location according to my crackerjack brain.

By Mary Lynn Bruny. Mary Lynn writes about local real estate and home-related topics. Contact her by e-mail at [email protected]. To read previous The Lighter Side articles, go to