that’s life: Keys, keys who’s got the keys?

By Tammy Keith

LITTLE ROCK — I’ve done it again, and I’m in the dog house.

Well, I would be, if we had a dog

house any more.

I want to publicly apologize to my

dear, wonderful, long-suffering hus

band.

As I was backing out to go to work,

in my usual 40 mph way down the drive

way, the thought crossed my mind that

I might have accidentally picked up my

husband’s set of car keys, too.

But to pause and look would have

made me 30 seconds later to work, for

which I was already going to be 30 min

utes early, and might make me miss get

ting to park in the shade under the big

tree, 30 miles away in Little Rock.

So I drove on, happily eating my

breakfast and listening to the ’70s music

on XM radio.

I was at work talking to a co-worker at

about 7:15 a.m., and he called.

“Can I call you back?” I asked, since

I was involved in a conversation with

my friend.

“No, do you have my keys?” he asked,

a little more sternly than he usually

speaks.

There was no, “Hi, buttercup,” or any

of the usual endearments.

I dug in my purse, and what do you

know, I did have his keys.

“Yes, oh, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.

I thought I might have done that,” I

said.

“OK, bye,” he said, and hung up.

That’s about as tough as it gets with

him.

But later in the day, I called to see

how he got to work. Or if he got to

work.

I started the conversation by asking,

“Is all my stuff out on the lawn?” He said, “No, you have too much

stuff to do it in this short of time.” He had called our 18-year-old, who is

working construction for the summer,

and John didn’t answer. Then my hus

band saw a neighbor mowing his yard.

The super-nice neighbor (regardless

that he’s a bald, bearded biker) gave my

husband a ride to my son’s job site to

get my son’s car to use.

The ordeal wasn’t quite over, though.

My husband, an instructor at UCA, had

his office and classroom keys on the key

ring I had. So, he and the class sat for

20 minutes in the hallway until someonecame and unlocked the door.

(Class, you can thank me later.)

I couldn’t help but laugh when he told me this. And laugh. And laugh.

He didn’t.

When I got home from work he wasn’t there, but I saw a sign on a wooden stake in my yard. It said, “Bed for rent.”

I thought my college-bound son had done it as a joke.

Then I came into the house, and there was a chair missing at the kitchen table.

A sign taped on the table had the word “Vacant.”

It didn’t dawn on me that it was my seat missing.

Then I went into the bedroom, and half the bed was neatly made. His half. My half had nosheet, no covers, no pillow.

Then I got it.

I laughed some more.

I went into the bathroom, and my half of the mirror was draped with a towel.

I turned around quickly and looked in my closet. I was relieved to see he hadn’t taken my clothes.

I went to thank my neighbor who’d rescued my husband, and he said my husband had seemed really ticked off in that five-minute ride he’d given him.

I told him about my husband’s little jokes, and he said, “What’s he gonna do? Trade you in for two 18-year-olds?”

I told him since I was turning 45 in August, that wouldn’t quite be enough.

I really am sorry, and I promise it won’t happen again.

But now I have to go get that Bed for Rent sign out of the yard before two 22 1/2-year-olds apply.

River Valley Ozark, Pages 131, 133 on 07/20/2008