Oft and anon, I've noted that everything I need is located in my basement. Neighbors have marveled how fabulous stuff, stuff I don't even know I own, leaps forth from this wonderland of discarded goodies, seemingly at the bidding of unseen hands. Just recently, my neighbor Jim asked whether I had any of "that spongey shelf paper, the kind with holes in it." I produced it (the product is known, apparently, as "grip liner"), and his wife Ann asked, "Was it in your basement?" It was.
So, just this morning, I emailed the local listserv, Ruth's List, because I needed a notary public for some financial papers. I could go all the way down town to Charles Schwab and have them notarize it, but that would necessitate leaving my house, something I avoid at all costs. Minutes after hitting send, I received the following email from Ann:
Jim is a notary but he's out of town. He could bring his seal home on Thursday night if that's not too late for you.
Once again, what I need is just under my nose, as the boundaries of my basement expand to next door.
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