When I was maybe ten years old, Grampa gave me a pocketknife for my birthday. A shiny fancy swiss army knife. I haven't taken care of it really as well as I should, but I've attempted to sharpen it and keep it around - I suppose in part as a momento of my favorite relative. Probably largely also because it's very practical. I can open a beer bottle, a wine bottle, a can of tomato paste, drive a screw, punch a hole in a belt, and then whittle a point on a stick. And the next time I need to do all of those things on the spur of the moment, I'll be prepared.
Anyway, so I was reaching into my right hip pocket, trying to find the tool that would open the package of hot dogs for the barbecue, and it wasn't there.
I spent a little while scouring the volleyball court to no avail. I figured there was a good chance that the pocketknife was in the pocket of some other shorts. If not, I'd come back and prowl my lawn again, retracing the steps that I had taken in preparation for the day's party.
So, as the title proclaimed before you got this deep, there's good news. I dug through the laundry, and found the pocketknife. And now I am at peace.
Happy birthday to all, and to all a good, um, cake, I guess.