Crazy Crap Item #144: The part where I get delicious chills down my spine

Anyone who has visited Chez Daly knows this is a delightful abode. They also know that it is in sad need of refurbishment.

Besides requiring all the infrastructure upgrades one would expect in a house just shy of 100 years old, our cozy nest sports a number of other "opportunities for improvement," as I like to call them. To whit: cracked plaster, dented plaster, patched plaster, wood paneling, more wood paneling, faux wood paneling, broken floor tiles, inspiring light switches, and numerous other astonishing features. Yup, it's a "fixer-upper."

As I contemplate the many changes we hope to make, I never fail to think of the previous inhabitant, Mrs. "Babe" O'Malley (mentioned briefly, once before). She and her husband raised no fewer than eight children in this home, and we hear that is was she who performed what appears to be the one and only renovation to the home, which occurred in the early '70s. Hence the gold and avocado wall paper. I respect the efforts she made, wallpaper roll in one hand, scruff of insolent child's neck in the other, when she first moved in, and wonder whether she takes our plans to update as an insult or, as I hope, a tribute.

It was with this thought in mind that I contemplate a recent occurrence. Our architect, Megan, stopped by to do some measurements of our attic and back porch. Our attic is accessible only through a portal located in the ceiling of my office closet. After inspecting the attic, she stopped at my desk, where I was working away, and said she had some updated plans for us to review. She asked we take a look and provide some feedback. She left the plans on the right-hand corner of my desk. I escorted her downstairs, where she did some more snooping. As she left, she reminded me about the plans. I promptly forgot them.

Until the next day, a saturday. I recalled the plans, and mentioned to Eamon we should take a look. He asked where they were. I said, on the corner of my desk. He headed upstairs, and shouted down, where on your desk? The right-hand corner, I answered. There's nothing here, he claimed.

I sighed, silently cursed his inability to see something right in front of his face, and went upstairs. I pointed dramatically to the corner of the desk, where I found... nothing. Strike that. There was a magazine, a small stack of CDs, and sheet music for a flapper-era song called "Don't Bring Lulu." Nothing else. I check the floor. Nothing. I check the rest of the desk. Nothing. I recall what projects I was working on when Megan was here, and check all related file folders in my work drawer. Nothing.

So, I think, I hallucinated the desk corner. Megan must've dropped the plans on /some/ corner of /some/ piece of furniture, and I've filled in the blank in my mind. So i check all the tables downstairs. And upstairs. I check the bathrooms. I check the floor of my office. Again. I check the front entryway, the radiators, and any of other flat rectangular piece of furniture. When Eamon suggests we ask Megan for another copy of the plan, I agree, and tell him to tell her I'm an idiot.

I do another search, smaller this time, on Sunday. I resign myself to the fact that I am, indeed, and idiot.

Monday morning, I oversleep. Eamon has just left for work as I arise. I go to the office. I sit down. On the corner of my desk, right next to my laptop, is a scroll -- three floor plans rolled up and bound with a rubber band. I hadn't recalled the plans were in a scroll. I hadn't seen a scroll before.

I text eamon online:
-- So, you found the plans!
-- Where were they?

Eamon replies:
-- I didn't.

And then he texts the exact thought I had:
-- I guess Mrs. O'Malley wanted to approve them before we saw them.

I can only assume she approves.