(continued)
The keys were not in my purse, not in my coat pockets. So I phoned Marty, who sighed a very big sigh. I begged and whispered sweet nothings into the phone, and wonderful man that he is, he agreed to bring me the extra set.
Twenty-five minutes later, Marty was at the door of the house-warmed home with a set of keys. He waited as I searched around inside the van. I found my lost keys between the front seats in the little bucket thing we used for garbage. I must have dropped them there when I was picking up the plate of cookies and the mug (for drinking Chai tea).
Should I start a self-help group? Kim, will you join?
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