As anyone with half a brain (and I do mean half) would know, it’s a good idea to have spare keys. Keys to the house, keys to your parents’ house, key to your car. Especially keys to your car, since you don’t even need to be within touching distance of the… how you say… little place in the car door where you put your key if your remote key isn’t working? That thing. You could be ten feet away from that thing and still lock your life away in the car. In some cases, with the motor on, taunting you and increasing your carbon footprint each second you stare helplessly through the windows.

This morning, my ex called to ask if I was still coming over to do Daphne’s hair for picture day. I had promised, because even Daddy will admit that he couldn’t form a ponytail with three hands and Vidal Sassoon at his side. Trouble was, I wasn’t home. I was fifteen miles from home. And it was fifteen minutes before they have to leave for school.

“Okay, I’m not home, but I can get to your place in time.” I was Wolf, from Pulp Fiction: “That’s thirty minutes away. I’ll be there in ten.”

I pulled into the driveway with five minutes to spare, during which time I looked at my daughter, pulled off the too-short leggings with the hole in the side, dug in her drawer for a colorful top to replace the pink t-shirt that would wash her out, and put her in a corduroy skirt, tights, and saddle shoes (Saddle shoes! Where did he find those?). I redid her ponytail and rushed her out to the car and said, “Hold on, your bangs might fall, you can wear my pink crystal hair clip.” Her eyes shone.

Opened the car, dropped my keys on the seat, knelt on them to reach the clip in my purse, knocked the emergency lights on while scooting back out, and closed the door. My children’s last glimpse of me as they pulled away was of me tugging on every door, frantically cursing the busted passenger lock and trunk mechanism I had fixed this summer. I could have at least crawled through the ski rack hole. If I were Elastigirl.

Quick. Who has the spare? My boyfriend! Who was teaching class at the moment. Nevermind, he teaches computer class, so I logged onto my ex’s computer using my son’s account, fired off an email asking where he kept my spare key so I could get out of my ex’s driveway and get to work at my BRAND NEW JOB. I clicked refresh like a mental patient until the house phone rang. It was him.

“Hi! Ohmygod I’m so glad you called. Where do you keep my spare car key?”

“You’re not going to like this answer.”

“Try me.”

“You took it away from me because you didn’t like where I kept it.” Oh. Right. The last time I locked my keys in the car and held out my hand for his key ring, he said, “But it’s at my house.” His house? What good does that do? If we have an emergency, we don’t have the luxury (or the transportation) to drive all the way back to his house. So, um, yes. I took it back.

“I LOVE that answer! That means it’s at my house!”

“Hookay, gotta go, I’m in class and should be teaching it.”

I was so excited that I started walking toward the corner to meet my ex coming back from the school run. I tugged open the door. “It at my house! A mile away! And you have the garage door opener!” He flipped a U-turn and we galloped off to my rescue. We screeched to a halt in the driveway, opened the garage door, and I sprinted to the kitchen door, which was locked. Who locks the kitchen door? We never lock this door! Gaaah the cleaning service was here! They always lock up when they go! I actually shook my fists at the sky. Luckily, my children don’t listen very well and had used the French doors to go outside instead of the kitchen door like I’ve asked then to do a million times. I was in. Now to find the key.

We’re finally getting to main point; I’m sorry you had to hang in there this long. So: I have a wonderful set of wall organizers. Chalkboard, dry-erase calendar, clock, corkboard, and mail slots with key hooks underneath. That’s where we store our spares. (Now you can rob me blind. I’ve given you everything.)

I rummaged in the first slot, then the second, then the one a little higher, where I keep 1568743 pencils to replace the ones my kids can never locate. No key. No key? NO KEY? Dear sweet Jesus with a donut in one hand and coffee in the other. That just opened up a whole new playing field. It could be anywhere.

Not on my desk (duh). Not in my drawers. Not in the several piles of my daughter’s treasures she lets me share while I’m working. Not in the junk drawer. I fumed, though it felt more like nausea. Then I looked across the room at the organizers. Didn’t I rearrange them a few weeks ago? Why did I do that? I put the key hooks up high this time, to make it harder for the kids to reach them. Oh, lord, there’s a shelf above mail slot above the 1568743 pencils above the key hooks.

This was the opposite of Amalah’s Eye-Level Tour of her house. I’m 5′9″, and still had to hop, stretch, and lunge to pat around the dusty shelf until I hit pay dirt. Victory was mine.

You can guess the rest: my ex took me back to my car, we exchanged profuse thanks for the picture-day rescue and the car-locking rescue, and parted ways. My heart rate was about 180, but I was secure in the knowledge that my spare car key was exactly where it should have been. I was just a bit of a dork finding it.