I now have concrete proof that black holes do exist. There is one in my house. In the past two weeks, it has swallowed: my son's music book; my husband's keys; no fewer than seven socks from different pairs; my son's glasses (same son); my son's Game Boy (different son); my son's math book (second son again), and now--here's the kicker--the row counter from--you guessed it--Icarus.
You know, the row counter that I need to tell me which row of the indecipherable lace pattern I'm currently knitting, so that I end up with pretty scallops instead of spaghetti? That row counter.
I would love to blame the minions of the house, because it goes without saying that they are careless and lose things. Also, since they are all males, they are afflicted with "man eyes," for which there is no known cure. But I--I am The Finder.
"Mom? Where's my math homework?"
"In the downstairs bathroom."
"Honey? Have you seen my cell phone?"
"Third shelf down in the garage."
"Mom? I can't find my jockstrap and cup!"
"Check my purse."
I am the mother of boys. Dignity, order, and reason have long since departed this house. But until now, I have always been able to locate missing toys, clothing, pets, electronic devices, and all the other various and sundry tangible objects that populate modern American life. Until now, I've been on one long run of success.
My run is over. I have spent more hours than I can count looking for things in the past two weeks. And I have found precisely nothing. Not one item in the above list has made its reappearance. I have searched the house, the garage, the storage room, and both cars. I have crawled under beds and into closets. I have rousted untold numbers of spiders from their hiding places. The music book, keys, socks, glasses, Game Boy, math book, and--most importantly--row counter remain in absentia. I'm throwing in the towel. I am no longer The Finder. I am retired.
Don't know. Haven't seen her.
Icarus Countdown: 5-7 rows to go (stinkin' missing row counter!); 16 days left.