My House Is Full of Things That Hate Me

I have a confession.

I am currently in several toxic relationships.

No, not with people.

With household objects.

Because apparently at 47, my biggest enemies aren’t bills, traffic, or other humans.

It’s a fucking Tupperware lid.

I don’t know when this started, but somewhere along the way I stopped peacefully using household items and started fighting them for dominance.

And I’m tired.

THE FITTED SHEET: MY ARCH NEMESIS

Let’s begin with the obvious psychopath.

The fitted sheet.

Whoever invented this thing was clearly a man who had never actually put one on a mattress.

Because there is absolutely no reason a piece of fabric should require the coordination, strength, patience, and emotional stability of a Navy SEAL operation.

I put one corner on.

Then another.

Then the first one pops off.

I put THAT one back.

The third corner launches itself across the bed like it’s fleeing the country.

Now I’m crawling across the mattress, half trapped underneath the sheet, sweating, swearing, and questioning whether clean sheets are actually worth it.

Eventually I get all four corners on.

I stand there.

Proud.

Victorious.

Then I notice the fucking sheet is upside down.

At that point I don’t change it.

I live with my mistakes.

TUPPERWARE: THE CABINET OF CHAOS

My Tupperware cabinet isn’t storage.

It’s a crime scene.

I open the door and plastic containers come flying out like they’ve been waiting for their opportunity to escape.

There are approximately 700 lids.

There are 11 containers.

Not one lid belongs to the container I currently need.

I have lids for containers I haven’t owned since 2014.

Somewhere in my kitchen is a lid whose container has traveled to another dimension.

And every time I try to organize it, I make the mistake of thinking:

“I’m going to finally get this shit under control.”

No.

You’re not.

Because three days later you’re standing in the kitchen holding a lid and screaming:

“WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU FIT?!”

THE TOILET PAPER

Toilet paper should be a simple concept.

You pull.

Paper comes off.

End of story.

Except apparently we’re manufacturing toilet paper using some sort of advanced adhesive technology.

I pull one square.

I get 14.

Half of them are still attached.

Now I’m sitting there trying to separate toilet paper squares like I’m restoring an ancient Egyptian manuscript.

“Come on…come on…you little bastard…”

I should not need this much concentration to wipe my ass.

THE PAPER GROCERY BAG

Nothing turns a civilized woman into a feral animal faster than a grocery bag breaking in the driveway.

You have made it 45 minutes through the grocery store.

You remembered the milk.

You remembered the bread.

You remembered the green onions.

You remembered the thing you forgot last time.

You’re almost home.

You’re carrying 11 bags because apparently making two trips is a sign of weakness.

Then—

RIIIIIP.

A can of soup hits the ground.

An onion rolls down the driveway all the way to the barns.

Your eggs are now on a journey of their own.

And you’re standing there holding a pieces of thin brown paper like you’ve just been personally mugged.

I don’t yell.

I don’t scream.

I simply stare at the bag and whisper:

“I trusted you.”

THE FUCKING DRAWER

Then there’s the drawer that suddenly refuses to close.

It was fine yesterday.

Nothing has changed.

But today?

No.

You push it.

It stops.

You pull it out.

You push it again.

Nothing.

You remove one item.

Still nothing.

You remove everything.

Still nothing.

Now you’re crouched on the floor inspecting the drawer like you’re an FBI investigator.

“What is your problem?”

You start blaming yourself.

You start questioning your entire existence.

You start taking apart cabinets at 8:17 on a Tuesday night because apparently this is your life now.

And then you find it.

A fucking pencil.

A PENCIL was preventing the drawer from closing.

You stare at it.

The pencil stares back.

You throw it away.

Problem solved.

Until tomorrow when the drawer decides it has boundaries again.

PACKAGING

Let’s talk about packaging.

Why does opening a new product now require:

scissors

a knife

pliers

a screwdriver

industrial gloves

three swear words

and the willingness to potentially lose a finger?

I bought a fucking spatula last week.

A SPATULA.

It was packaged like it contained classified government documents.

Eventually I’m standing at the kitchen counter attacking the plastic with scissors while screaming:

“I PAID FOR YOU, YOU SON OF A BITCH. LET ME HAVE YOU.”

TECHNOLOGY

Technology is supposed to make our lives easier.

That’s adorable.

My phone can recognize my face when I’m half asleep, wearing sunglasses, lying sideways in bed.

But the second I’m in a hurry?

“Face not recognized.”

Excuse me?

This is my face.

You’ve seen this face approximately 8,000 times.

You’ve watched me age.

You’ve watched me gain weight.

You’ve watched me lose weight.

You’ve watched me cry.

You’ve watched me laugh.

You’ve watched me take 47 identical pictures because I couldn’t decide which one made me look the least “aged”.

And NOW you’re confused?

“I don’t know this woman.”

OH, FUCK YOU.

THE VACUUM CORD

The vacuum cord deserves its own criminal record.

It will be perfectly cooperative for 20 minutes.

Then it will somehow wrap itself around a chair leg, the vacuum, my ankle, and possibly a nearby tree.

I pull.

It tightens.

I pull harder.

It tightens more.

At some point I’m basically being held hostage by a vacuum cleaner.

“LET ME GO, YOU ELECTRICAL ASSHOLE.”

THE BEDSHEET AGAIN

Because I feel like we haven’t adequately discussed the fitted sheet.

I genuinely believe there is a special place in hell for whoever invented it.

And I believe that place has no fitted sheets.

Just flat ones.

Folded neatly.

Waiting peacefully.

Because apparently that’s what heaven looks like.

THE THING I’VE LEARNED

I’ve realized adulthood isn’t really about becoming wiser.

It’s about becoming increasingly comfortable arguing with things that cannot argue back.

I have full conversations with appliances.

I threaten objects.

I negotiate with drawers.

I apologize to furniture after walking into it.

I have accused a coffee maker of ruining my morning.

I have told a jar of pickles that “this is not how we’re going to behave today.”

And honestly?

I stand by it.

Because I’m not crazy.

I’m simply a woman who has reached her limit!

There are only so many times you can fight a fitted sheet before something inside you snaps.

So if you ever hear me yelling from my kitchen:

“WHY WON’T YOU FUCKING OPEN?!”

Don’t come check on me.

I’m fine.

I’m just having another intimate moment with an inanimate object.

We’re working through our issues.

One household item at a time.

And if anyone needs me…

I’ll be in the kitchen drinking coffee, staring suspiciously at the Tupperware cabinet.

Because I know that motherfucker is planning something.