“The uterus is not a homing device,” Rosanne Barr screeched.  I was channel surfing and happened upon her eponymous sitcom just as she uttered that line.  I had never heard the saying before. It turns out that it is an old feminist slogan that is considered overused. 

I laughed out loud.  I did. I sat back and enjoyed the rest of the show.

I’m not much of a television watcher, but that one line hooked me.  Barr was blazingly funny and insightful until she wasn’t. I was a faithful viewer until she, and the show, went off the rails.

Neither my now-ex-husband nor my son can find their own asses with two hands and a flashlight.  I was the designated Finder of Lost Things. By the time I heard Rosanne say, “The uterus is not a homing device,” I was weary of always and forever spending my free time trying to find their lost stuff.

Something snapped, and one time, I quietly responded, “I don’t know where your jockstrap is. I put it away the last time I used it.” And that was my standard response unless the missing item was something important to me.

From then on, I made them find their own lost stuff.  I had the hardest time making them understand that if something was lost, it was not where it belonged.  Simple, right?  No. The two of them were hopeless.  They would keep returning to the laundry hamper, hoping the missing jockstrap would appear.  It was exasperating. 

They would huff and puff and stomp around the house, and I would finally say, “Where was it the last time you remember seeing it?”  Especially wth regard to the jockstrap, that question would provoke some sarcastic responses. (As you might imagine.)

It might be important to note at this point that not too long afterwards, my now ex-husband and I began divorce conversations.

I spent years looking for lost things. When I misplaced something, my inner Sherlock Holmes was incited into action. I cannot rest until I find the item. I will lie awake at night and ponder where it was the last time I saw it.

I have a pretty good track record of finding lost things.

I located missing W2s, the spare house key, and the often-missing Brittany Spaniel mixed with Labrador Retriever puppy.  Now that was an interesting combination.  The vet said he would outgrow his stupidity, or he wouldn’t. He didn’t.  It was funny, and then as he got older and older, it was heartbreaking.

And that’s where I am now — at the not-funny stage of losing things. It’s heartbreaking. I used to have a good brain.

The Finder of Lost Things has lost her ability.  I lose stuff all day long.  I spend my days tracing my steps, combing through computer files, or dumping my purse on the table in hopes of retrieving whatever it is that is lost at that particular moment, only to get distracted from the quest by another missing item..

It’s maddening.  I am just as irritated with myself as I was with my now ex-husband and son. 

This summer’s heat has finally broken. It has been a long and brutal summer. I hope to become a whirling dervish of activity on these cool days to get my house, my car, my purse, and my life in order.  This won’t happen overnight, but I hope to find and restore my Finder of Lost Things crown.  It really did suit me and gleamed brightly, no matter whether it was in lamplight or sunlight.

Wish me success.