CONSPIRACY THEORY

Not to brag, but I broke my own record today. In just under four hours, I lost my glasses, my phone, my purse, my keys, AND my car. 

Now, you may think it's hard to lose a car. Especially when you know that you parked it directly across from the second cart corral in the Jewel lot, in the row that leads straight to the propane tanks. But when I came out again, the car was gone. 

I sighed, gave a half-hearted glance up and down the propane-tank row, and then pressed the panic button on my key fob. A horn blast led me two aisles over. And there was my SUV, looking smug.

 

"Well played, Car," I said grudgingly. "Well played."

I no longer blame myself for episodes like this. Sure, I used to think I was losing my mind (along with everything else), but now I know it’s not me. It's my stuff. I strongly believe, and have believed for some time now, that so-called inanimate objects are actually alive. They think, they feel, they observe…and they are evil. 

 

Take my three dozen pairs of Walgreen's readers, for instance. Actually, they are not so much evil as they are immature. I have them scattered around the house on the not unreasonable assumption that I would then always be able to find at least one pair when the need arose. But every single one of them goes into hiding the moment I even consider reading something.

After at least twenty minutes of pointless searching, I finally whimper, "Ok, guys. You win." And that's when I hear dozens of little plastic giggles, and one pair pops out from its hiding place. But it's always the one with the outdated prescription and scratched lenses.

 

The worse offender, though, is my purse, which may in fact be a sadist. The moment I go looking for it, it begins teleporting. I head to the kitchen table, where I'm certain I set it down a few minutes prior, and Purse is not there.  I go to my desk in the study, but Purse is not there. I check the inside of the refrigerator because I know Purse has a sick sense of humor, but no, nothing. I begin wandering from room to room, whimpering "Puu-uurse. Puu-uuurse. Come out, Purse. Please?"

 

That's usually when I hear my husband calling.

 

"Hon? Your purse is on the kitchen table."

 

"No, it isn't."

 

"I'm staring at it."

 

"I don't care. It was not there three minutes ago. So it cannot possibly be there now."

 

My husband sighs and brings it to me. You see, Purse always makes itself visible to him, just to mess with me and make him question my sanity.

"Dammit," I mutter, grabbing it from him.

My husband just pats my head. "Don't worry, hon. I'll always find Purse for you."

 

Which is good. Unless someday I misplace my husband.