The Secretive Saga of the Lost Keys OR the Cat Done Did IT! OR Did He?

Recently, amidst all of the moving anguish, I lost my car keys.  I had driven home with them, so somewhere between the garage and the kitchen they vanished.  Mildly irritated, I began to search.  The debris of sorting through everything in the house and taking all the items off the walls has left our home in a sort of mid-move limbo, whereupon we merely get to use the bed and make trails through all of the stuff on the floors.  I wanted to make a junk angel in the debris, but I was shot down by Cressy who said, "That would hurt.  Something will stick in your popo, Mommy."  (I love my daughter and her way of cutting right to a point.)

I thought about what I had done with the keys.  I searched the car, the kitchen, and the garage before I started spreading out.  Pretty soon I was ready to shake down the neighbors, HIM, and anyone who had been anywhere near the vicinity in the last ten years.  (If you knocked on my door on Sunday, that's why I was talking about a polygraph test.)  No keys.

After crying, throwing a temper tantrum, (Cressy brought me a tissue box and said she found my patience), looking at the Internet to see how much a stupid Ford key was going to cost me (OMG, you should see what they charge for a frickin' key!), I gave up and went to bed.  (Cressy asked me what I was going to dream about and I said, "Finding my keys."  She said, "I'm dreaming about the sprinkler party next Saturday."  Oh, those priorities.)

The next morning, HIM called up to deliver his theory on the missing keys.  I was, shall we say, less than receptive.  But on the good side, it made for a whole blog, so WTH?  Okay, take a deep breath and ready yourself for it.  It's coming right now.  HIM said, "Have you considered that the cat might have taken the keys?"  And he was completely serious.

I love HIM.  HIM is a smart guy.  HIM has moments of brilliance that astound me.  That question/bleeping thing he said was not one of those moments.  I believe I couldn't speak for a moment after he made the observation/accusation.  I wondered, in the 2.3 seconds of lucidity that remained at that point in time, what he thought I would do with the cat, if the cat were indeed the culprit.  After I calmed down, some funny shizz popped into my head, which happens more than I'm willing to admit to most people other than my psychiatrist.  Out comes the bamboo pad.

That's a police spotlight on Megaroy, my daughter's moron cat,
in case my illustration is less than self-explanatory.

But I couldn't stop.

Really, I couldn't.

It was like I was compelled.

Yes, I misspelled a word.  Funny thing, there's no spell check
on hand writing.  (Well, there's the dictionary, but where's
the fun in that?)

Someone should name a new mental disorder after me.

I'm so wrong but I can't help myself.

It just kept happening.

There.  Now I'm finished haranguing HIM, and to a lesser extent the moron cat.

And for closure, the keys were under the stool in the kitchen, right where I'd dropped them, in my scramble to get the sprinkler ready for outdoor hot-weather watery funness for our daughter.  I hate the keys now.  It would have been funnier if the cat had stolen them.