Apparently, I have alarmed my apparent dedicated and faithful audience about my missing remote control.
The reason I use those words to describe my readers is because it never ceases to amaze me that people actually read this column, let alone are fans of it. To me, it's still something I just write to vent and to express my feelings about my life. The fact that people send me e-mails and stop me in the grocery store to ask me about my missing remote gives me more joy than I ever thought.
But enough of the sappy stuff, here's the important part. Ladies and gentlemen, the remote has been located and is now resting comfortably on my bed.
And of course, it was in a pile of clothes I looked in three times.
Two days after my column was published, I decided to do one last reconnaissance effort of cleaning my room/looking for lost remote.
I began with the pile of clothes gathering on a chair I have in my room that I never sit on, pretty much because it always has a pile of clothes on it. I even went as far as to move the chair to see if it fell underneath. It didn't. My ray of hope started to become a glimmer.
Then it hit me. Well, nothing physically hit me, but I tripped over another pile of clothes (yes folks, I'm not the neatest person in the world. One of my many faults). Of course, I had already looked through the pile three times, but as a part of the mass effort, I looked again.
I picked up my favorite pair of jeans, two pairs of socks that surprisingly matched, and my didn't-realize-they-were-lost sunglasses. As I dug a bit further, I felt a wave of confidence flow through my body. The light bulb popped up over my shoulder. I knew exactly where my remote was.
Underneath the clothes was my 15-year old Adidas bag that once housed my soccer equipment, but is now my trusty carry-on bag for various road trips. And for some strange reason, I knew that my remote was in my gym bag. Lo and behold, I opened up the bag, and there it was.
If it had lips, or a face, or anything besides buttons, I could have sworn it smiled at me and muttered the words, "Thank you for saving me."
You're welcome, remote control. You are welcome.
When I told my mom where I finally located it, she just shook her head and laughed as she chalked it up to another classic Dana move. I can't even say I was surprised to find it lodged in a gym bag that I hadn't used for weeks. Heck, the next places to look were the refrigerator, the freezer and my car.
One of these days I'm going to learn to keep my room, my car, and my life in order so things won't go missing. I always say that I live in a state of "organized chaos" but truly, it's just chaos.
When you work three jobs at any given time of the year, from the hours of generally 11 a.m. to 1 a.m., things tend to get misplaced. I live out of the backseat of my car, eat on the run and have a toothbrush at three different places in Warren. You would think if anything would go missing it would be my sanity.
But as a part of my newfound summer resolutions (which you will read more about in two weeks), I vow to try and keep my life in better order. That's right, Mom. I said it. I know you don't believe it, but I'm trying.
Oh, and I forgot to say, in my remote hunt, I also found Jimmy Hoffa. He was in the trunk of my car underneath my golf clubs, right next to my gray boots that I couldn't find for the last two months.
If you know where Dana's sanity is, e-mail her at firstname.lastname@example.org