I Can't Find It

I know it's here.

At least, it was here.

But now it's gone.

As John Hiatt sings, "Gone, like my last paycheck-- gone, gone away... gone, like the car I wrecked... gone, gone away!"

Yeah, it's like that.

See-- I'm due in traffic court this afternoon, and the one single, solitary piece of evidence that I could use to exonerate myself is missing. Because, um, my wife and I are fucking slobs.

Remember that quaint and jovial post about searching in vain for the auto loan papers for my wife's car?

Well, yeah...

I wrote that back in August, and things haven't improved much. Because, today, I'm searching in vain for the placard that was on the windshield of our car that permitted us to park for unlimited time at a metered parking spot in downtown Philly during Rosh Hashanah while we were at services. We got a ticket anyway.

So, I said that I was going to fight it, and that this parking placard would be the key to my defense as I stood humbled before a (hopefully Jewish) judge.

But, of course, it's not here anymore. It existed on our desk since Rosh Hashanah... but somhow, at some point, it got lost. There is a menu from a pizza parlor (I know, nobody calls them pizza "parlors" anymore. At least I didn't say "parlour.") There's also a Zinsser SoftGrip wallpaper scraper sitting on our desk, even though this house was successfully bereft of all wallpaper back in August. There's lots of pens and a stuffed turtle, a digital camera, lots of old checkbooks. There's a gray, squishy brain that you're supposed to squeeze when you get stressed out about not being able to find the parking placard, but I just blog instead. There's the instruction manual for my newish cellphone that I've never read-- lots of orange sticky notes reminding me about things I don't even understand anymore. And, the latest addition to the clutter: a Pirates of Penzance program!

(It was a great show, by the way.)

Oh, and there's a pair of wire-cutters. Don't ask me why. We don't often engage in the act of wire-cutting.

Of course, the one thing that's still here is the actual ticket itself. Which is awesome and really helpful.

So, I'm seriously considering skipping traffic court. It's going to cut right into the middle of my work day and I'm going to be found guilty, so I might as well just send in a check for the $36.00 and be done with it.

I mean, everybody likes to fight the man, but you don't commonly do that without ammunition. Going into court without that placard is like going into battle without your boots or your moustache.

(By the way, immediately after curtain calls yesterday, I shaved off my gargantuan walrus 'stache and Civil War-era sideburns. I am deliciously young again. And I can't find my fucking parking placard.)

I've read and re-read the notice from the City of Philadelphia Parking Violation Branch. It states that, if I fail to appear, I "will be liable for the full amount of all applicable fines and penalties." To me, that means the cost of the ticket, unless they tack on some sort of delinquent bastard fee for not showing up for a hearing I requested, and then I'll be sad.

I'll probably end up going empty-handed, because that's the kind of guy I am. I'm not one to throw sand in the face of the judicial system, even if I am irresponsible, haphazard, and full of pens, squeezie brains, and old sticky-notes.

An Open Letter to Important Documents That Are Somewhere In My House

Dear Important Documents That Are Somewhere In My House,

Where the fuck are you?

Our first monthly payment for the new Honda Fit that my wife is so enjoying is due on the 23rd, and I cannot find the paperwork for the sale of the car. You, Important Documents That Are Somewhere In My House, are that paperwork, and I would like to find you so I know how much money to give the mean bankie peoples.

I know you're in a blue folder, but that doesn't help me much.

I did find one blue folder, but its contents were prototypes for our wedding invitations, and that was, like, three years ago and stuff.

Those were important documents then, and they still are kind of important, but, right at this current moment, the vehicle sale documents with the monthly payment amount are a little more important.

So, I once again reiterate my interrogative statement issued at the start of this letter:

Where the fuck are you?

Are you hiding in the basement, perhaps thrown down there by in the hasty attempt to make this house presentable for my mother-in-law? Perhaps you are lingering coquettishly under the mountains of fabric and stuffed animals that are piled up like the Leaning Tower of Pisa in our office.

Maybe. I don't know.

It is distinctly possible that I deliberately placed you somewhere specific, to avoid this very dilemma, but, if that is so, I have no recollection of so doing, which is very inconvenient. I realize that I should probably be spending more time looking for these papers and less time writing an open letter to them, but I don't feel great, and writing open letters exerts a lot less energy than physically moving things and sifting through endless mounds of crap that I've already looked through seven times.

I also realize that I could just call the bank and see how much we owe, and will most likely end up doing that, but I would really like to find those Important Documents That Are Somewhere In My House, just as a matter of personal pride, really. I would check the filing cabinet, but there's really no point. Why would they be in there?

Incidentally, have you seen our new boxes of checks? I know we ordered 300 checks in late July because we ran out and realized we needed one to pay the mortgage, and that was kind of a frantic little problem.

"Oh, no problem," I said to my wife, "we'll just go to our bank and they'll issue a temporary check."

Yeah, our bank doesn't do that apparently.

So, Important Documents That Are Somewhere In My House, I'd like to know where those checks are, so I can pay the real estate taxes and the water bill. Oh, and the car payment, once I figure out how fucking much that sumbitch is.

I wish things like this wouldn't keep hiding from me. Last month, when we were thinking of going to Canada, I was almost compelled to write an open letter to our passports, but my wife located them before it came to that.

So listen, Important Documents That Are Somewhere In My House, you cannot hide from me forever. I know that. I can wait you out. I've got an endless supply of Caffeine Free Diet Coke, Boca Burgers and Newman-O's. What the fuck do you have?

I mean, besides information that I desperately need.

And my blue folder.