Serving Bread

I can’t find my wallet. I can’t find my keys. There is a piece of good news, if I find one, I assume I’ll find the other. I’ve searched the house, gone to every bedroom and place where it could possibly be (and not be). I’ve retraced my steps several times. The search for these essentials is a recurring occurrence, almost as painful as Lindsay Lohan’s lifetime membership at rehab. But the story always ends on a “happily ever after” note, when my wife enters the journey for the search. She found my wallet and my keys. She always does.

(They were on the floor, two feet away from where I started)