By poor emmet
I don’t know if you are intimately aware of the amount of coffee grounds and egg shells your house produces. I am.
I find myself spending more and more time these days looking for things I have “lost” within the confines of my own house, maybe the car keys. Magazines, lottery tickets, even shoes. But last week, there was a tragic, loss, a roll of crisp $100 bills.
There never is more than $5 in change at any time in Cobb Manor. Money just comes and goes. (It goes much faster than it comes, unfortunately). But a sale of rare art work (right) brought some unaccustomed greenbacks into the house for a rare visit.
Prudence would have (should have) dictated that the money be deposited forthwith at the neighboring Bangor Savings Bank. But no. It was much too close to 3 p.m. for the deposit.
I have lost my soul to the Cobb Manor couch and the next day went just as badly. So much to read, you know?
But the next day I arose at the crack of nine and headed off for the bank, along with a season’s full of rubbish for the dump, er, transfer station. Since I sold my mighty Tundra, I compensate by buying more and more rubbish barrels, filling them and waiting for the change of seasons to visit the, ah, transfer station.
The BSB checkbook, where I last saw the $100 roll was empty. Naturally I suspected a cat burglar, making those infernal noises that I hear every night.
But just in case, I searched The Cobb from attic to cellar, even the front lawn. I checked every item of clothing, even the winter coats that had not been used since April. I looked in things, under things, over things. Then I did it again. And again. I searched the car. Three times. This went on for hours. This was serious. There was a lot of screaming and, naturally swearing. I don’t know why but that always makes me feel better.
She already thinks I am an idiot, but I had to confess to Blue Eyes when she called.
“You can’t throw any rubbish out until you find it,” she ruled.
Did she know that I had three yellow dump bags full to bursting with the flotsam and jetsam of the last three months? Some of the flotsam was quite revolting. Mold and vomit-inducing odor had invaded my rubbish collection.
Honest to God, this is what I did. I dated the rubbish bags by their contents. I knew I had not eaten Wheat Chex in months, so that bag with the cereal box at the top was eliminated. Sadly, I found the bag with the pierogi box right on top, from the previous night.
I brought that into the house and put it next to an empty rubbish barrel. There was nothing else to do. I sifted through the detritus, egg shell by egg shell, coffee grounds by coffee grounds. I had no idea I generated so much. The entire contents of the yellow bag were examined and carefully moved to a new bag.
Disgusting. No dough, though.
The search pattern was performed one more time, including under the bed…again.
When I finally gave up and admitted I had lost my fortune, I schlepped down to the cellar to finish the laundry I had started five hours ago, before the loss discovery and the endless search. What a headache I had.
I looked at the washer and dryer. I knew in my pathetic senior citizen’s heart that the money had never left Cobb Manor. An idea came from God. I pulled the washer away from the dryer and shined a flashlight on the floor. It was the very, very last place to look.
Happily hugging each other on the floor were the missing $100 bills. I dropped the laundry and raced to the bank, before I lost my fortune again.
Then I finally went to the dump and got rid of all those egg shells.
Don’t ask how the money got between the washer and dryer.
I have no idea. That’s why I never keep money in the house. I spent it through my red-hot checkbook just as fast as I could, naturally…