by Marijke Hildreth
othing in my house is sacred. Not a single, solitary thing. I am forced to buy new hairbrushes every week and can always be sure that every hair clip I own is somewhere embedded in a Cabbage Patch head. My ten-year-old steals my clothes because that "really baggy look" is all the rage. I don't know if I am supposed to be offended by this or congratulate myself for being so incredibly hip.
I have no cups to drink from and believe my silverware is being abducted by aliens from outer space. I don't know what intelligent life forms need with a fork but I can only assume they have grown weary of
stealing my extra socks.
"Okay! Where is my hairbrush?"
An entire chorus of "I don't know!" issues forth from the living room as if the Mormon Tabernacle Choir is answering me.
"This is ridiculous!" I continue to yell as I try to comb through knots with a "Barbie's Friend Stacy!" accessory comb. "Why can't you just leave my stuff alone!" At this point the brush twists in my hair and tangles, leaving me to try to saw it loose with a rusty old nail file.
My husband walks by. "Oh God. Are you cutting you hair? Please tell me you are not cutting your hair. Jim's wife cut her hair and now she is wearing his boxers. You're making me very, very worried."
"I'm not cutting my hair, you boob." I let go of the nail file and the small comb sways from my bang and bumps me in the eye.
He starts to laugh. "Why did you twist that in your hair? That looks stupid."
"Really? I thought I looked quite smart." This is a bad answer because now I will be forced to walk around like this all day to try to prove a point.
Forgetting me for a moment he scans the floor and asks, "Have you seen my shoes?"
"Check the tub. I think Bert and Ernie were reenacting the Titanic this morning. I need to warn you that, although they fought bravely, they finally sunk."
"WHY do you let them play with my shoes!" He shouts as he wrings them out. "Can't you just take them away?"
"I could but I won't. If I have to suffer, you shall too. There are worse things in the world than wet feet."
He wanders back out of the bathroom and I hear him shout from the kitchen, "Okay! Now where the HELL are my glasses." As I slip them behind the hamper in the bathroom I pretend not to hear him.
I am now taking all of my important things to the office. I spend enough time there. I might as well be comfortable.
My boss came in the other day and found me arranging a waffle iron on my desk.
"Are we having brunch?"
"No," I advised as I moved over a crock-pot to allocate room for it. "I bought this last night and if I take it home I am sure that Barbie will be using it for a tent within the hour. If you open it and tip it over--just so--it is the perfect size for a camping expedition in the yard. They'll be able to see that as soon as I walk in with the box. They'll know."
"'They'? Aren't you getting a little overboard? You do know what they say about paranoia don't you?"
"No, I don't. But I am sure they are saying it about me. Can you get off my bathmat now? You are crimping up the fluffiness."
Marijke "Maji" Hildreth is a freelance writer who has a blackbelt in karate, was the stand in for Sigourney Weaver in all the Alien movies as well as the technical adviser for "The X Files" due to her many abductions, and is now writing her twentieth novel under the nom de plume Tom Clancy. She will never try to fill you with false information to gain your affection.