I lost my wedding band in my car earlier in the week. Two days ago, really. I spent all yesterday in tears and going through my car with a fine toothed comb. I even had a friend come help me out. My car is a disaster. There is enough sand in my car to start my own beach. We go to the beach a lot. There is only one car wash in my vicinity on island (you know, with the giant shop-vacs) and it's across the street from a whore-house. I don't go a lot. So my car is a portable sand box. It happens.
Well, I didn't find it combing through the car. I went to pick up the hubs, friend still in tow, and we pulled over to grab some snacks at a gourmet grocers. Nick, my tall husband, rubbed his head in frustration that I hadn't found my ring. His hand bumped the roof. Guess what he felt. Yup. My ring. I have a really ghetto car— we call them island rides here, for the record- and the fabric on the roof is saggy. I don't know how it ended up in there and I honestly don't care. I NEVER would have looked there. It was a serendipitous head rubbing. I have my ring back.
My band where it needs to be. Woot!