The above post title is the new moniker I have given myself after I triumphed over the minor catastrophe of the day. It started with me coming across Charlotte's birth certificate while organizing, at which point I thought I should put it in our sacred file folder of justice. We don't really call it that, but I thought I should give it an important name to impart the significance this folder holds in our lives. It contains both our and Vivi's birth certificates, our marriage license, and the titles to our cars. So you can imagine my dismay when I casually flicked open the file drawer only to discover the file was....dun dun dun!...missing. Of course I immediately thought to call my husband, who is generally speaking the causer of all lost things in our lives. No offense to him, but seriously, I have never met someone so likely to lose items and so unable to locate items right in front of his face. In other words, if they were the proverbial snakes, he would have been bitten, many times. Before you decide I'm jumping to conclusions in blaming him for the missing folder, allow me to let you in on a little piece of our recent history in which Nate drove up to Boston carrying the folder in the car. In a moment brimming with irony, I opted to remove the folder from the file drawer and give it to Nate for safe keeping, lest the careless movers lose the box it was packed in. And that is how I came to be staring today at a file drawer full of magazine clippings, old resumes, and vet records for our cat, and no file of justice.
After a quick unsuccessful phone call during which I asked him where the file was, cursed when I received the "Um, I don't know" answer (forgone conclusion), and then proceeded to hear "leave me alone" when I called him back to double check a few minutes later, I reassessed my situation. Having given him every chance to remember where he put it and scoured every place I could have put it [note: there are only 3 such places; in case you missed it previously, I am a self-proclaimed organization guru], I had only one slightly terrifying and very challenging option left:
Jump into the mind of my husband and think of where he would have put the folder.
Sigh, stretch, crack knuckles.
Here goes nothing...
Nate's mind: Ok, I'm a serial procastinator and typically ignore what my wife says, but I think she might have told me to keep track of a few things on my drive up to Boston. Yep, here they are: wedding album, file folder of justice, fire box with our passports and wedding negatives, and laptop. I know she told me to put them somewhere safe when I got to Boston, but I'm exhausted from the drive, so I'll do it later.
This brings us, dear readers, to the climax of my story. In that brief moment inside my husband's head, I suddenly realized where the folder must be. I immediately ran over to the closet where I keep the box our wedding album is stored in, threw open the lid, and there it was smiling up at me: THE FILE FOLDER OF JUSTICE.
But what's the moral of this story? Should I make sure I am in charge of all important documents in the future? Maybe. Should I nag him more and become "that wife"? Perhaps not. The crisis was averted, and I enjoy bragging about my superhero ability to find lost objects. Win win.