Missing Screwdrivers and Keys and Other Such Things

The screwdriver has gone missing again. This is becoming a regular occurrence at our house. The last time was about a month ago, when my husband and I were taking apart our daughter's bike to ship it to her at college. I'd searched in all the usual places - the plastic tub in the hall closet, the junk drawer next to the fridge, the assorted bins and boxes in the unfinished part of the basement - but came up empty-handed.

"I'll just run out to Home Depot and get another one," I said to my husband, grabbing my car keys.

"Oh, no," he said, in a don't-you-even-think-about-it voice. "We're not buying another screwdriver. We must have at least five of them somewhere in the house."

True, I thought, but somewhere means anywhere, which basically means we might never see any of those screwdrivers ever again.

We eventually found a sort-of screwdriver, a really old one with one tiny Phillips-style bit attached. The nicer, newer one, the one with the assortment of bit sizes and styles is still AWOL, probably hanging out with the sucked-out-of-the-dryer socks in who-knows-where-it-went heaven.

As frustrating as the missing screwdriver episode was, it pales in comparison to my two - yes, two - missing car episodes. The first such incident occurred many years ago, in the dark, creepy Central parking lot at Logan airport. This was in the days before they'd marked the floors near the elevators with cute pictures of Paul Revere and Boston Marathoners to help harried travelers remember which floor they parked on.

This was also in the days before rolling suitcases, so when I returned from my business trip late at night, I lugged my suitcase up and down floors and across aisles searching for my car. Now one might wonder how such a thing could possibly have happened. I'd done the smart thing and jotted down the number and letter identifying the location of my car. The problem was I couldn't find the scrap I'd jotted it on. After a half hour of frantic searching, I eventually found my car, so I guess it wasn't really lost, just momentarily misplaced.

The second lost car episode was at the outdoor parking lot at Green Airport. Learning from my previous experience, I'd cleverly marked the location of my car directly on my parking lot ticket, tucking it safely in my wallet. No paper scraps, no chance of losing it.

When the shuttle bus guy asked for the location of my car, I confidently called out my letter and number. Inexplicably, my car was nowhere to be found. After a half hour of searching (fortunately this time pulling a wheeled suitcase), I began wondering whether my car had been stolen. But then I thought who in their right mind would swipe a dented, scraped, sorry-looking 1996 Nissan Quest van with 145,000 miles on it?

I finally waved down the green pick-up truck guy who helps customers find misplaced cars, and after a few circles around the lot we found it right where it was supposed to be. The shuttle bus driver must have dropped me in a location other than what I'd announced, and being hot, tired and thoroughly confused, I'd circled around and around in vain. It was a true "Twilight Zone" moment.

Thankfully, I haven't had to park in an airport parking lot recently. Those experiences, though, have definitely affected the way I approach parking in general. I now have a fool-proof system guaranteed to cut down on searching time.

At my usual grocery store parking lot, I drive three rows down, make a right, and park in the space to the left of the shopping cart return rack. If my space isn't available, I go for the space on the other side of the rack. In the unlikely event both next-to-the-rack spaces are taken, I park as close to my usual spots as possible. So far, so good.

I don't have any more large missing things to report as of late, just the usual smaller things - scissors, tape, remote, eyeglasses. No cars, though every now and then, the car keys go missing.

(This column was originally published on townonline.com September, 2006)