Me and the Scarecrow

A riddle for you: What has 9 bazillion pounds of yarn for the petting and is as dumb as a box of hair?

Answer: That would be me. No, I'm not being self-deprecating, although I may need to apologize to boxes of hair everywhere for denigrating their fine, hairy intellects. Truth is, I'm an idiot and need only a little girl from Kansas with a small black dog, a man made of tin, and a strange talking lion to accompany me on a journey to get a brain. Because here's what I did:

I went to Knit for Life last night (that's not the dumb part). I walked from my car into the hospital and sat in the same spot and knat for two hours (still not the dumb part, although my back might beg to differ). I walked out to my car...and my keys were gone. ALL my keys. I emptied my purse. I emptied my knitting bag. I looked in the gutter and on the ground around the entire path I took from car to hospital. And yet, believe it or not, we're still not to the really dumb part.

'Cause I finally gave up and went home (thanks to the valet key I keep in my purse--the only known proof of any brain activity in my head whatsoever) and just as I was driving onto my block, I remembered: I had eaten a banana on the way to Knit for Life (no, still not the stupid part) and I had not wanted to leave the peel in my car so that it smelled like monkey breath all the way home (getting closer to the dumb part). You can see this coming, can't you? I walked into the hospital, I found a garbage can, I tossed away the peel....and as near as I can figure, I also tossed out a keyring containing three or four sentimental-value type keychains, a $50 computer-chip-containing car key, the remote fob that goes with the key, my house key, the key to my work, three assorted little dealies from supermarkets that give you discounts while shopping, and a bewildering number of odd keys whose purpose remains a mystery to me.

It is, I believe, one of the great mysteries of life how pretty much everyone I know somehow manages to accumulate a number of keys whose purpose is unknown to them. Either keys breed when we're not looking just to mess with our heads, or there is a sick little key fairy who sneaks them onto the ring while we sleep; then hangs around snickering to himself when we try to figure out what the hell the things unlock--maybe even walk around the house trying to open shit, with the apparent hope that perhaps--just perhaps--we or our significant other might have installed a lock on the microwave and forgotten to mention it. Or we all have memories that are fading faster than Tom Cruise's popularity. It's got to be one of those things. I vote for the fairy.

I called the hospital as soon as I got home and the nice young man from security (nice because he waited until I was out of earshot before muttering something about crazy old broads who probably have to write themselves notes to remind them how to put panties on each morning) went down to search the garbage can but, in a stunning display of efficiency heretofore unseen in any hospital I've yet visited, the cleaning crew had been and gone. Just like that, no more keys.

See what I mean? I cannot be trusted with shiny objects.

The good news is that Mr. K, who was apparently using the family brain the day we bought the Toyota, refused to sign unless they promised to give us a second key and key fob. He figured it would come in handy some day. I'd kind of hoped it wouldn't have anything to do with my marshmallowy brain, but you can't have everything (where would you put it?). And, since I use a garage door opener and go in and out of the house through the connecting door (which is never locked), the house key is not an emergency and we can copy Mr. K's this weekend. And even my boss took pity on me and gave me another work key. The supermarkets will probably issue me new savings cards. So really, the only irreplaceable items lost (besides the keychain made in a remote village in Africa that I got at a fundraising dinner and no small amount of dignity) are the half dozen or so keys to whatever the fairies stole them from. I guess I can live with that.

On the way home tonight, I stopped at Fred Meyer to pick up a new keychain or two--something loud and rattly and shiny and not easily lost (like the light up, moooing cow on the one I lost was somehow quiet and subtle--delusion is a sad thing). Turns out they do not have a 12 pound cowbell that rings at 78 decibels if dropped into a garbage can with a banana peel (I know--I was surprised, too) so I was stuck with a stylized silver key and a little medallion that says something about living and loving and laughing and not being a complete and total nitwit. Okay, I made the last bit up...turns out they don't have that, either. But they should.

Anyway, I got to thinking about what I might do to avoid such moments of brain death in the future. Here's what I came up with:

1. Connect my keys to a long, knitted string and thread it through my jacket sleeves like we used to do to humiliate kids when they lost their mittens too often. It has the added advantage of providing humor to anyone who wishes to come tug on the key sticking out of my right sleeve, thus causing me to hit myself in the head with the other hand as the string tightens up.
2. Wrap my keys in a ball of multi-colored sock yarn, such as Colinette Jitterbug in the Mardi Gras colorway. It could be raining steak knives and I'd still take a moment to make sure THAT was safe.
3. Paint my keys brown and wrap them in Hershey's wrappers. When have you ever known me to lose chocolate?
4. Have my forehead tattooed with the phrase "Ask me about my keys". It'd be a conversation starter if nothing else.
5. Tie them around my neck on a dirty, knotted piece of white string and then get my mother to threaten to beat me if I lose it. It worked quite well when I was a child.
6. Get a St. Bernard dog and attach my keys to its collar when not in use. It would be a bit more work, true...but I think it would be tougher to lose a whole dog than it was to lose a ring of keys (which was WAY easy).
7. Have all my keys remade in the same stuff they make superballs out of--you know, those ones that you used to bounce around the house while your mother screamed at you to take it outside and the cat nearly got whiplash trying to track the thing? That way, even if I drop them, they should bounce right back to me.
8. Give them to a bank manager and then default on a loan. I'd NEVER lose those babies--they'd be hot on my heels no matter where I was.
9. Roll them in ham and then just watch for the crowds of dogs and cats.
10. Announce to my husband that they have disappeared and cannot be found. History shows that whenever I utter this sentence about anything, the item in question immediately removes itself from wherever it is, rips through time and space faster than a medical office can go through a plate of free food (it's not pretty, let me tell you), and tucks itself lovingly into his hand so can look pityingly at me as I stammer unconvincingly that I looked EVERYWHERE.

I'll be headed off to Oz now, but I don't have a ton of hope. After all, even if he gave me a brain, it's a cinch I'd put it down somewhere and lose it.

Oh, I nearly forgot--the miners blankets are FINISHED. Seriously--they really, really are. Which might explain where my brain cells are. I think crocheting may actually eat them. Anyway, I'll get Mr. K to take a picture of me with all of them before I wrap them up and mail them to Utah. Is this exciting, or what??