The kids used their birthday money to buy scooters on Sunday afternoon. I had them bring their wallets, pay the checker, save the receipt and put away their change. Tim left his wallet in my car. That's so Tim. Later on Sunday, Jeff took my car to pick up a 5' piece of counter top for my desk. He found my sole credit card in the driver's cup holder and placed it in my "wallet." At least that's what he told me afterwards.

I went out Monday but paid cash everywhere. I didn't go out yesterday. This morning we had plans to drive to the shore and I needed to fill up the gas tank. I couldn't find my credit card and, by this time, I had conscientiously returned Tim's wallet to its proper place for safekeeping. So I got $20 worth and, when I got home, asked Jeff to remind me again where he had placed my credit card.

"In your wallet."

Now, 'round here, people use different terms than we did growing up for purse, wallet, pocketbook. And I knew that my wallet wasn't in the car. I'd forgotten that Tim's had been. But I had enough cash to get through a few hours at the shore, so I didn't sweat it. Much. In the back of my mind, I still worried where my credit card could be.

When we got home from the shore, I checked all my pants pockets, clean and soiled clothes. I checked under seat cushions of favorite chairs. I checked the floor of my car. I asked the baby sitter whether it was in the folded cash I'd given her Monday. I returned to the restaurant we'd eaten at Monday. Nothing, nothing, nothing. Not until Jeff got home tonight and we had a chance to compare notes:

"I put it in your wallet. The strange thing about your wallet is that there were so many empty slots. Did you have someone else's wallet in your car?"

Then we walked together to where Tim keeps his wallet and Jeff pulled out my credit card.

"I couldn't figure out why you had one of my old, expired ACM membership cards in there, either!"