Our cars were stopped side-by-side at a stoplight, mine slightly ahead of hers. Suddenly, her car lunged forward, she rolled down her window, and she motioned for me to roll down mine, too.

Now, it's been a long time since an attractive, young woman has tried to get my attention. I think it was ... uh ... well, never--it had never happened before.

I hadn't noticed her at first (honest, dear)--I was too wrapped up in listening to Moises Alou's three-run homer for the Giants on the radio. But I couldn't help but notice her rather obvious advances.

I hated to break her heart, but when I rolled down the window, before I could even break the news that I was a happily married man, she blurted, "Hey, mister, do you know your keys are in your trunk?"

Poof! And when my bubble officially burst, I started to think, "How can that be? My keys are right here in the ignition!"

Then it hit me--they weren't my keys, they were Natalie's keys. My wife had driven the car earlier that day, and she has an uncanny knack for leaving her keys in the strangest places.

"Thanks, these are my wife's," I said when I reached the back of my car.

"Whatever," the young woman said, as she sped off through the now green light.

The trunk, the car door, the front door, the refrigerator. Actually, those are the most common places. The most uncommon place where we've discovered her lost keys was in the foot of grandson Thomas' pajamas. We searched everywhere--under the couch, under the cushions on the couch, in the refrigerator--and we couldn't find her keys. Then her daughter, Kim, heard a jingle ... each time Thomas would crawl across the floor of the family room. And there they were. It seems when Natalie was changing his diapers, somehow she dropped her keys into his drawers and they worked their way down to one of the feet in his sleeper. How does she do it? We don't even ask.

Of course, it's not limited to her keys--she's an equal opportunity misplacer. She'll lose her cell phone and we'll have to call her number, then follow the sound of the ringer to her impromptu hiding place. Then there's her purse, which twice she's left in restaurants, but only when we're traveling and hours away when she discovers it missing. And there's her wallet, and her checkbook, and her watch, and her glasses ... sometimes it's even her car!

But mostly it's her keys.

"Sure, you guys have it easy," she claimed. "You have pockets."

"Women have pockets, too," I replied.

"Yeah, but we can't put anything in our pockets," she explained, "because it ruins the lines of our pants."

Oh, please.

"Anyway," she added, "this was all your fault."

My fault. I wasn't even home. How could it be my fault? This ought to be good, I thought. I could hardly wait, so I asked, "Why is this my fault?"

"Because I was getting your laundry out of the trunk--that's how the keys got there," she explained.

The female mind works in such strange ways that a mere male can never understand. Using her feminine logic, it was my fault that her keys ended up in the trunk because my dress shirt and a pair of slacks were mixed in with six blouses, five dresses and a couple of skirts that were coming home from the cleaners--not to mention a couple of bags of groceries and who knows what from Bed Bath and Beyond. But it was my laundry that caused her to unlock the trunk. That makes sense, in a very female sort of way.

"Right, so it's my fault!" I acquiesced.

"I'm glad you agree," she said. "Now, help me find my glasses."

I wanted to ask, "Did you look in the trunk?" But I didn't dare.

Want to talk? Give me a call at 408.354.3110, or write to dsparrer@svcn.com.