Taken to the Cleaners

In the middle of the night, I wake in a heart-pounding sweat. Holy crap! I took my suede coat in for dry cleaning and FORGOT about it! In the dark, I realize it's been there for at LEAST two months. Panic grips me. The bastards probably sold it or pawned it or gave it to their middle-schooler. (Hey, I'm petite.)

Don't forget. Don't forget. Don't forget, I tell myself. In the morning, be sure you go straight over there and give them hell for not calling with a friendly reminder: "Ms. Liar, your beautiful coat's ready for a night on the town!" Don't forget. Don't forget. Don't forget.

In the afternoon, I head to the store with my daughter. "I forgot!" I shriek, running half off the road. "We've got to stop at the cleaners for my coat. Those bastards should have called me!"

Daughter rolls her eyes.

Into the cleaners I go. "I'm here to pick up my black suede coat," I announce. Then I tap my fingers on the counter, impatient to be reunited with my beloved wrap (which I haven't worn at all this year because I got a new pea coat better suited to the arctic outbreaks we're having in south central Texas because the rest of the country just HAS to share their winter woes).

"I'm not seeing it," the ridiculous woman says. "When did you bring it in?"

"Well," I stammer, "about two months ago. I forgot, what with the holidays. Who could blame me? Perhaps you should check your racks."

Off she goes, affecting bewilderment, and returns emptyhanded. Surprise, surprise. She is in cahoots with the thieving staff, or she herself has absconded with it, have no doubt! She says faux helpfully, "Let me try one other place."

I give her the stinkeye to show my disgust at her incompetence and betrayal of my trust. Another five minutes go by, and I turn to give my daughter a shrug through the window. For good measure, I scowl emphatically to be sure she's clear on the depth of my displeasure.

The colluding clerk speaks: "I'm sorry, ma'am, but I'm not showing it in the system. I've checked our affiliate sites, and it's not coming up there either."

Damn, they paid you off! Somebody got greedy! Why can't you just admit it?

"Oh really," I say, my nose wrinkling. "So, it's disappeared?" She tries to use good customer service on me, and I sneer at her in a way only the insanely disgruntled can. Then I huff out, feeling a little impotent about not being able to slam the door.

Back in the car, I vent to my daughter about the criminals I've been doing business with. She ventures that I may have dropped it off somewhere else, while I mutter obsenities and threats of murder. But I consider this as I march through the grocery store. Finally, beside myself with loss, I head home with a heavy heart. I'll miss you, Suedey.

At home in our broom closet is a buttload of giftbags, which I reuse repeatedly, as long as the giftee will let me have it back. Above the bags is a rack for hanging things. As I remove a pink bag for Miss America's birthday present, I spy something black and velvety, with ever-so-subtle scuffs on the shoulder. Suedey!

Wait. The bitch has been here the whole time? I only dreamed I dropped it off? And actually acted on that? O.M.F.G.

People, keep this on the downlow. Daughters will just accuse me of midlife mayhem and cajole me (about getting older and forgetful and crazy) until global warming becomes a Rush Limbaugh crusade. Pinky swear it! Shhhh!

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