still. the prettiest.

[dira]

For reasons that don't need exploring at this juncture, I keep my car key on one keychain, the rubber one from the oil change place next door, and all my other keys and my building ID on the other keychain. You may remember all-my-other-keys from their starring role in Sunday's drama. The car key was decorously in my bag at the time, all alone and exactly where it belonged.

I now suspect that the constant isolation of being alone on an unattractive rubber keychain, combined with the deluge of attention lavished on the other keys during and after their brush with oblivion, has given the car key a serious case of low self esteem. The car key has become quite self-effacing, even willing people not to notice its existence, let alone recognize its importance.

Take tonight, for example: there I was in Northern Virginia, having driven strangecobwebs and textualchauvini to the Girlyman show. I'd come straight from work and wouldn't need my coat in the tiny crowded venue, so I tossed most of my stuff in the back seat and pulled out my wallet and some cash to take inside. So powerful was the car key's deflection of attention from itself that we'd eaten dinner and the opening act was into their fourth song before I realized I'd locked the car key inside the car.

That's my story, and I'm sticking to it.



In other news, please save an unspecified future Saturday for the wedding of me, Dira Sudis, to John Who Works Close on Thursdays at the Safeway; after a valiant effort to unlock my door with a coat hanger (without breaking the window, natch) he called information and then the tow company and was sweet and friendly without being weird. The tow truck driver who could only take cash and knocked five dollars off the cost of the lockout when he didn't have change will be standing up. Babies shortly to follow.