Fool Proof and Eighty Proof

I think "foolproof" is not the right word.
Or maybe it is. It is too complex for me.

Mari and I have been visiting kids for a few days.
I stopped the mail and the newspapers,
lowered the thermostats far enough to save a couple of bucks,
but not so far that the cats or the pipes froze: down 3 degrees.
Saved 47 cents; saved the cats; saved the planet!

I took one key on the trip: a house key.
I semi-hid my regular key ring--the one with the keys
to the kingdom, and the car, and the trailers--
in a place where I could not miss it upon return,
and where only a really serious burglar would find it.

When we got home, I could not find it,
demonstrating something about my burglary aptitude.

(It happens every time!)

I tried every remotely conceivable drawer in the house,
and Mari suggested pottery, and filing cabinets, and shoes.
Finally, I put my hand in my pocket: there they were!
I knew that, after a week away, I would put on my denims
and get the snow blower out.

I am congratulating myself, not for finding the keys,
but for admitting to myself that nothing less than
a dolt could miss finding my keys. Nothing less than a dolt
found his keys, in the pocket of the pants he was wearing!

Michael gave me a bottle of bourbon for Christmas.
Maybe it is time.

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