I lost Sean’s diaper bag, but thanks to some good electric cart lady karma, I got it back.
I really hate to lose things. I check my wallet three or four times after using my credit card to make sure that I have put it back in it’s proper place and my plane tickets are always gray and frayed by the time I hand them to the gate agent from making sure they are still in my purse where I put them three minutes before. But the worst part of losing something is the obsessing that must follow.
I really hated to lose this bag because after going through several different versions, this particular diaper bag was just right – not too big, not too small and not too fem for Antique Daddy to carry. It’s made of brown canvas and has little outer pockets for drinks and lots of inner pockets for Clorox wipes and Purell and all the rest of the disinfecting stuff we OCD types haul around. I found this bag in the tack shop at PetCo and now that I think about it, I’ve probably been carrying around a feedbag. Which makes my total lack of cool make a lot more sense.
It was several days before I realized Sean’s
feedbag diaper bag was MIA, but I knew exactly where it was. Wal-Mart. I mean it’s not like I had been to the spa, Neiman’s, The Kimball and then out for a three-martini lunch. If I had been, I certainly wouldn’t have had a diaper bag with me and if I did have a diaper bag with me, I would have chucked it out the car window on my way down the driveway. No, sadly, if I’m not at home, I’m probably at Wal-Mart – another contributing factor to my chronic uncool.
Over the Christmas holidays we had a lot of visitors. A lot. And old Mother Antique Mommy’s cupboard was bare. I normally keep the pantry of a Mormon housewife. I usually have enough canned and dried goods on hand to survive a nuclear winter or at least host dinner for 120 on short notice, except for table favors and I doubt even Martha can do that. So I had to make one of those grueling stocking-up trips to the store. In the process of unloading one metric ton of canned goods onto the conveyor belt and spinning the turnstyle-bag-thingee and shouting “Big money!” as though I was on Wheel of Fortune, keeping track of Sean and chastising the cashier as I like to do, I must have set the diaper bag on the floor or somewhere I wouldn’t usually set it. Oh that the person in line behind me might have beseeched the cashier on my behalf to return my bag.
Several days later, when I finally did realize the bag was missing, I went back to the store, stood in line at the Customer Service desk only to have the gal tell me that she hadn’t seen a brown diaper bag. When I asked her if she could please just look, she tossed a glance over her shoulder and said, “Nope. Don’t see it.” Deflated, yet undeterred in my obsession, I went home where I could obsess more comfortably.
Like Nancy Drew (minus Ned and a convertible) I could not rest until the mystery of the vanishing diaper bag was solved. Three days later I decided to give it one last try and I called the store to inquire about said diaper bag hoping for a different person with a different answer. Apparently I had earned some good karma on the electric-cart-lady-egg-return deal. Someone competent answered the phone. She asked me to hold on while she checked lost and found. After she dropped the phone on the desk (which rendered me deaf only for a short time), she shuffled some papers, knocked over some boxes, used a blower dryer, ran her desk through a wood chipper and then zipped up an angry cat into a suitcase – at least that’s what it sounded like on my end anyway. Then she got back on the line and reported that yes indeed, they had my diaper bag! I was so happy.
I have my diaper bag back and I owe it all to the Electric Cart Lady. God bless you Electric Cart Lady.