By: Ann Brown
The following is a list of shit I can’t find and have made numerous attempts to find but life is short so I have given up and I will either buy a new one or live without it:
1. My yakisoba pillow. It held and caressed my face like a lover. A gentle lover. A gentle, macho lover. Who rides a Harley. And bakes cinnamon rolls. A gentle, macho, swashbuckling lover who kisses me with the perfect balance of burning desire and superior aloofness. A lover who considers it his honor to work three jobs in order to support me financially so I can write my blog, refill the Sangria, and work on my tan. A lover who pines for me and worries I am out of his league. And who thinks of me when he sees a Paul Gauguin painting. Or a Paul Klee, when he is stoned. God, I miss that pillow.
2. My blue Mephisto sandal, left foot. Last seen in New York, August, 2010. And until I actually meet the man in the parable who has no feet, I will continue to feel sorry for myself for having only one Mephisto sandal.
3. Directions to the laser hair removal place that people keep recommending to me (note to self: WTF? Just how obvious IS my facial hair that after schmoozing with me for a few minutes, people casually mention a great hair removal place?)
4. The deed to Robin’s and my burial plot. Also, I can’t remember if we are getting buried or cremated because I wasn’t fully paying attention when we voted. I know we are sharing a plot with Karen and Craig. (How FUN is that going to be? I want to be put next to my sister so we can stay up late in Eternity and watch PROJECT RUNWAY.) Oh, wait, I remember: we are getting cremated because Karen hates to be cold. This is a huge sacrifice on my part because I hate to be hot. Maybe I can be cremated on “low”. Or “cold smoke”. Robin is pretty handy with his Traeger smoker, he could DIY and save a few shekels. Buy himself that rotisserie attachment. Or a trophy wife.
5. The piece of paper onto which I write my weight when I weigh myself. Also the box with the electric combination lock and exploding Anthrax into which I put the piece of paper. Also, the fireproof vault into which I put the box. Also, the two guards in front of the vault.
6. The bag of baby artichokes that I KNOW for sure I put in the crisper a few months ago and I KNOW for sure I did not cook and eat. As God is my witness, I will not buy another bag of baby artichokes until I find that one.
7. Robin’s DNR paperwork from his surgery last year. I want to do something creative with it for Valentine’s Day, like a decoupage paperweight or something.
8. The Ziplock bag of 200 wooden chopsticks that I stole from some restaurant in the late 1980’s and have kept in a kitchen drawer in case I ever find myself faced with an impromptu sushi party for a crowd. I currently only know three Japanese people but I want to be prepared. In case they bring friends.
9. Lyrics to a song I started in 1970, during my Joni Mitchell dulcimer period. I don’t want to finish the song so much as burn the lyrics. When one is so full of hubris and marijuana as to rhyme “psychedelic poodle” with “do do do doodle” (or with anything, really), one must take care to leave no evidence behind.
10. The scathing letter I wrote to Dick Cheney a few years back, telling him that if I ever meet him I am going to do everything I can to punch in the face. Where IS that letter? I wonder if I mailed it. Hunh. You know, the Dick has been lying low lately. Maybe he got my letter. I might look all old and squishy and shit, but I honestly believe if I was face to face with the Dick, I could totally kick his ass. I have deep anger from which to draw upon.
11. My notes with numbers 11-20 that I wanted to include in this blog post. Shit.
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