As personal disasters go, it fell somewhere between breaking a nail and traumatic injury in an auto accident, but maybe a bit closer to the latter. Somewhere between parking the car and arriving at the hair salon across the street, I lost my wallet.
I knew it wasn’t in the car, because I’d had it out to feed the meter. It wasn’t anywhere to be found in the salon; I looked under every possible shelf and structure. (Found some nice Aveda products in sample-size bottles down there, however.) Retracing steps turned up nothin’. Hands-and-knees on the freezing pavement to peer under parked cars — nothin’. And so it began, off to the Grosse Pointe police to file a report, up and down the block to the other businesses to see if anyone turned anything in, a check of all area trash receptacles. Finally, home to start the inevitable process of rebuilding.
In the list of Inanimate Objects I Fear Losing, my laptop is No. 1, but my wallet has to be No. 2. Never mind the cash and credit cards; it’s the documentation that matters. Driver’s license, registration, proof of insurance. Costco card, Blockbuster card, Border’s Rewards card, just in the “commerce” slot. Park pass, library card, health insurance card. My University of Michigan student ID, carried strictly for sentimental reasons, and because I like the flash of yellow (er, maize) I get when I see it there. (Also, because the photo is recent and the expiration date not until 2009, occasionally useful for claiming a student discount on merchandise I consider overpriced.) Every one represented an enervating errand or argument with a clerk. Sigh.
And yet, oddly, I didn’t feel upset. I figured there was an excellent chance my identity was strewn all over some thief’s coffee table, but an equal one that a nice, honest person had picked it up and that the phone would ring momentarily.
(The phone rang. One of Kate’s friends, prank-calling us with one of her stupid voices. She thinks because she star-six-sevens, I don’t know who she is. Oh, to be young again.)
Credit cards cancelled, I set about rescheduling today. First to the BMV; did I have my Social Security card nearby? Yes. Then to the insurance agent for dupes on my proof-of card, jeez I’m not going to get a goddamn thing done today, and…
A Jaguar stood idling in the driveway, a 50ish gent in a nice topcoat on the step. Holding my wallet. Every card was in its place, my paltry cash reserves untouched. “I would have returned it earlier, but I had somewhere to be,” he said in an eastern European-sounding accent. Of course he wouldn’t take a reward, but he gave me his card; his name is Harry, and he runs Harry’s of Grosse Pointe, a restaurant on Mack. My new favorite place to eat.
I guess what I’m telling you today is: The Secret works! Now if I could only get that billion dollars I’ve been visualizing…
Whatever you do, do not watch the reputed Gene Simmons sex tape. Are you listening? Do. Not. WATCH. Let me just say this, though: The day a man and a woman get into bed together, and the former does not remove his chewing gum, and the latter does not remove her platform flip-flops, they really and truly do deserve one another.
Headline you would only see in Detroit: Chevy Tahoe hybrid sips gas. Relatively speaking. (The particulars: The rear-drive hybrid Tahoe rated 21 m.p.g. in the city and 22 m.p.g. on the highway in EPA fuel economy tests. That compares with 14 m.p.g. city and 20 m.p.g. highway for a similar gasoline-only Tahoe.) P.S. It costs 50 grand. Sigh.
Re the eight-million-word revelation that John McCain is a sleazebag with shady ethics: You don’t say. Best single snark, from Metafilter: I hear she lets him be on top sometimes. That’s a better deal that he’s been getting from Bush.
Another glacier-glasses day. Upside: Ample vitamin D! Downside: 15 degrees. Enjoy it.