The Black Hole

Here's a random little story for you all. Basically, it's one of those stories that you can either totally relate to or you shake your head and think, "I'm so glad that's her problem and not mine".

Either way, hopefully it makes you giggle.

. . .

I have a problem that has been growing increasingly noticeable ever since trading in a considerable amount of brain cells for offspring.

It's called "The Black Hole" and it's where a wide assortment of possessions and tasks get lost. For eternity.  Or so it would seem.

{photo source}

For example: A year or so ago, I bought Chuck a nice little insulated lunch box for when we go fishing or on picnics or any sort of outing where we would prefer to cart along our own food. I think we used it once {maybe twice} and then I decided to put it in a very safe, convenient spot. Never to be found again.

Black Hole.

I could bore you with a long list of casualties, but then you'd be bored. And besides, I can't even remember everything I've lost after "organizing" the house. . . and I'm becoming quite the professional at losing things just when I put them down somewhere during day-to-day life.

For example: We use a mixing cup to measure out Zoe's food, right? It's the perfect size and it's the only one we have. It has served us well for years. A few days ago, I fed Zoe her breakfast and when it came time to feed her dinner, the cup was no where to be found. We looked everywhere.

Black hole.

I finally found it behind the clothes hamper {seriously?} yesterday.

. . . .

Chuck could make a modest living if he got paid for teasing me about The Black Hole. It's really too bad he doesn't. He claims that when we move into the new house with a massive garage, I'm going to lose the car. He's such a dear.

Yesterday, I decided to whip out a batch of snickerdoodle cookies. When it came time to roll the dough, I carefully and very deliberately placed my wedding ring far away from the sink. . .  in the middle of the counter. . . well out of Hannah and Zoe's reach.

I knew where that bad boy was and he wasn't goin' anywhere.

I may have remembered where it was, but what I couldn't seem to remember was to put it back on after I finished baking. I would think about it but then get side tracked with who-knows what task. When I finally walked into the kitchen and went to grab it . . .

Uh-oh.

I swiveled to Chuck who was looking mightily suspicious in the living room. I asked him where my ring was because I KNEW I put it right there. I rammed my pointer finger into the counter top to prove my point.
I left my finger there as I regarded him with narrowed eyes.

Like I mentioned earlier, he's always teasing me about losing things. I could only imagine what he'd do if he found my forsaken wedding ring hanging out on the counter with me no where to be found.

He feigned innocence and so the search began.

We looked pretty much everywhere, with my blood pressure and doubt regarding my mental sanity rising by the second. Soon Chuck decided to check in the garbage disposal and claimed he could feel something. Sure enough, he pulled out my wedding ring.

I couldn't decide if I should give him the worst crusty look of his life or kiss his feet.

After all, something smelled fishy and it wasn't my ring.

I settled on a discrete crusty look and a sincere thank you; slipping the ring on and checking for damage.

"Did you put it in there?" I asked.

"I would never put your ring in the garbage disposal," was his contrite reply.

Only after we sat down to dinner with his mom much later that night did the truth come out. He was teasing me {of course}, and I was finally able to weasel the story out of him. He had put the ring in his pocket and fished it out only as he put his hand in the garbage disposal. The punk had the ring the entire time.

Like I said-- It's a pity he can't make any money off of my poor brain power.

. . . .

Suffice it to say, I have a serious problem recollecting where I put stuff at least nine times out of ten. So if you would like something permanently misplaced, just drop it off at my house. Odds are good you'll never see it again.