That's my story and I'm sticking to it.
Last night I was working my seven-hundred-and-ninety-three-bazillionth row of garter stitch while assembling my Log Cabin Afghan. I finished the row I was working, detached the needle tip that I was using so that I could attach it to the cable that was holding the square I planned to attach on next, capped the end of the working cable, and went to pick up the needle tip...which was gone. It was in my lap one second, and the next...gone.
I did what any rational person would do and carefully shook out everything in my lap. Not there. Then I stood up, shook out my skirt and shirt, checked the floor, lifted the bottom of the sofa slipcover, and ran my hand under the edge of the sofa. Nope. I took off the sofa cushion and looked under it. I slid my hand under a dog lying on the sofa. Still nothing.
I paused, took a deep breath, and carefully walked the family room floor, looking for the needle. I checked the coffee table. Twice. I checked the kitchen counter, even though I hadn't been in the kitchen. (What...isn't that where things magically turn up in your house?) I went upstairs and interrupted the KH on a phone call to ask him, with barely repressed irritation, if he had taken my needle tip to drive me around the bend, because it was working. (Hey, he does that sort of thing. It was a reasonable suspicion.) I'd have interrogated the kids, but they were all in the swimming pool and I was reasonably sure none of them were telekinetic.
I went back to the family room, checked the floor and the table again. I made the dog get off the sofa and ran my hands through his fur. (You never know.) I pulled everything out of the gap between the sofa and the side table. I lifted off the sofa cushion again and ran my hands through the dog hair, crumbs, and what I think was a half-eaten cookie (not mine, though--I don't leave half cookies behind). Nada.
I lifted the sofa skirt and looked under with a flashlight. I checked the dining room, where I haven't been in two days. I looked on top of the piano in the living room. I checked the entry table. I looked in the dryer, because all sorts of strange things turn up in there. Nothing, nothing, nothing.
I went upstairs to get a different needle tip, cursing all the while. I returned downstairs, sat down--and there was the missing needle tip, lying on the sofa. On the cushion I had already taken off the sofa twice.
I managed a deep breath and carefully set it on the side table, well away from the edge, feeling the need for a little break. I had a snack, checked my email, and ordered pizza. Then I picked up my knitting, reached for the errant needle tip...and promptly knocked it into the no man's land between the sofa and the side table.
I got off the sofa--again--and dug everything out of the gap--again. No needle tip. I closed my eyes and counted to ten. I ran my hand along the side of the sofa...and shoved the needle tip under the sofa so far I couldn't reach it.
I moved the side table (a huge, full steamer trunk), shoved the loveseat out of the way, and wrestled the nine foot sofa out of its spot to, finally, capture the needle tip.
After a little rest, I put everything back where it belonged, sat down again, and at last grafted the last square onto the strip I was finishing. I carefully wove in and trimmed all the ends. I laid it out on the table to admire it, and wondered why it looked...different. I pulled out the last strip and laid it beside the new one. All the squares were oriented the right way. The colors were in the right order. There were four squares in each...uh, oh. There were four squares in the first strip. There were five in the second. That last square I went to so much trouble to graft on? That square should have been the first square in the next row.
Sabotage. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.