I have determined that I am not among the mental elite of our species. Not that there were any allusions to the contrary. But the evidence is stacking up quite convincingly. I lack the necessary skills and abilities. In fact, I may be subpar. I can't find things. Sure, I can't find my hair, my feet, my breath – I expect that with age. It's the other stuff that eludes me. My family hides stuff from me all the time. I can't find it. I know there are little stashes of goodies all over the house. I see the wrappings left behind. I never get any. Halloween candy vanishes on November 1st. Easter candy leaves behind a few strands of plastic grass. Christmas stockings are mysteriously empty. I'm missing out. Where are they hiding their good stuff?I also can't find car keys, hairbrushes, my wallet, my tools, peace. Even when people tell me where stuff is I can't find it. Case in point, I submit the following little exchange. I'm at home. Phone rings. I answer.
"Hello."
"Hi honey," Gailyn's cheerful voice greets me. "I am going over to pay for the cell phones now. Can you grab the Verizon bill and tell me how much Jessica went over last month and how much it is?" To ascribe cheerful as an adjective to Gailyn's voice is redundant. But to be cheerful when going to pay the cell phone bill is just not natural.
"OK. Where is it?" I ask.
"It's right there on the counter, by the phone."
"I don't see it."
"It's right there on top of the pile of bills – I put it there before I left."
"I'm looking but I don't see it…I've gone through the pile here…twice now. I don't think it is here."
"Did Stephanie clean up before you got home?" Stephanie's idea of cleaning is to create stacks of stuff. She clears 98% of a room area by condensing any matter down into about 2% of the cubic square feet. It's like coming across those giant termite hills you see in the desert. You have miles and miles of wasteland, then boom, you come across this huge tower rising out of nowhere. That would be Stephanie's modus operandi if she were straightening up the desert.
I say, "I don't think so – there are a bunch of dishes around, but they aren't stacked to the ceiling. Look baby girl, I just can't find it."
"It has to be there. I just looked at it when I grabbed the checkbook. Is it over by the microwave?"
"That's where I'm looking now, but there aren't any bills at all over here – wait, did we pay our auto insurance premium? Never mind, this is for 2005. We don't even own these cars anymore - why do we still have this? Here are all the paystubs for 2002. And we have something about a Thomas Kinkade Christmas Village – dated 2008. Why do we have Arby's coupons that expired last summer? Publisher's Clearinghouse - 2007? Did we win? They probably came when we weren't home. Hmm…and I don't even know what this is. Why are we being charged for a destroyed science textbook? Do you know about all this?"
"Yes. Those are all mine. Don't mess up my order. Did you check against the wall in the dining room?" (This is our default junk overflow location)
"I'm over here on my knees right now…but…no…unless it is under the kids' report cards for last year. Do you think it would be mixed in with the ten years of editions of Family Fun Magazine?"
"All right, never mind, just forget it. I don't know how the bill would have gotten in there anyway. I'll just ask the store clerk to pull up the amount at the counter. See you when I get home."
So, you can guess what happens when she gets home. She walks in. Puts her purse on the counter and picks up a nice little envelope with a Verizon logo that just happens to be sitting right there on the corner. I can see the lips tighten and her eyebrows pull down on the sides. She waves it at me. I'm confused. Am I supposed to take the envelope from her? She says, "Here. Here is the cell phone bill. It's right here." This is not so much a statement of fact as it is an accusation of incompetence or carelessness. In response I swear that it wasn't there earlier - yada, yada, yada. And she sighs and gives me one of those uh-huh noises that lets me know she is convinced that I would lose my head if it wasn't screwed on.
I admit it. I can't find stuff. I'm excellent at the find-the-hidden-figures-in-this-picture puzzles, or choose the dinner plate which has a long strand of hair hidden in the food. But real life seems to evade me. Now, I can pretty much live with this flaw. It gets me out of having to do a lot of stuff. My soul mate just sighs and says "never mind" and she takes care of things for me. It is just easier on her that way. It does bother me some when I can't find the stuff I need. But what really bothers me is that I can't seem to hide stuff either.
If you've ever read a Dan Brown novel you know that there have been geniuses throughout history who were able to conceal the greatest secrets of mankind in plain sight. You could tour Rome, Paris or Washington D.C. and never be aware that the keys to enlightenment and apotheosis are close enough to touch. The great thinkers, scientists and artists of the last 1000 years have carefully preserved the ancient secrets of mankind against the suppression and tyranny of the church, government, and common ignorant masses. Only a Robert Langdon type has the mental wherewithal to uncover the mystery. And he does it all in just a few short hours, all the while running from the police, the bad guys and the secret societies.
I'm either an incompetent hider or my children are all little Robert Langdons. I can't secret anything away. All my stuff is quickly found and consumed. Sometimes I get there just a little too late. The only stuff left is like those little pieces of chum left in the water after the sharks feed. I bought one of those 10 packs of razors. I took one out and hid the rest in my dresser. I come back a few days later and there is one left. Just one. I bought a box of Little Debbie Devil Dogs and hid the box on the top shelf of my dresser – under a pile of sweaters. I come back and there are little cellophane wrappers all over the bedroom floor. I don't even know who to blame.
This happens constantly. I can't keep any of my stuff. Sometimes I know who takes it, i.e. my razors (daughters use for legs), my shampoo (son uses in morning), any comb (?), candy (Michael has paranormal abilities), etc. The kids are bad enough but even my wife takes my stuff. Gailyn has a 24 hour rule on chocolate I might bring home. If I don't eat it in 24 hours then it is hers by default. This applies to desserts left in the fridge as well. Back when I was working for Dow Jones and gone in the evenings I would come home late at night to find a cheese cake pie pan in the sink. There might be, I stress, might be one little piece left in the refrigerator. If I didn't eat it then, well, let's just say that by the next day there would not be a piece in the fridge. Guess who ate it? Yeah, the one with all the willpower in the world except when it comes to staying out of my yummy stuff.
I tested her though. It happened on my birthday. I got Banana Cream Pie. That is my favorite dessert. This year she asked me if I would like her to prepare a couple of those instead of a cake. I said yes. And to ensure that I would get some I asked her to make one that would be just mine. She did. I enjoyed a big slice and left 2/3 of it in the refrigerator. And you know what, she didn't eat it; didn't take a single piece. Neither did the kids. She may have had to threaten them with a slow and agonizing death if they did, but they all left it alone. After about 48 hours I ended up splitting the rest of the pie with her and we lived in decadent pleasure for a happy hour. This is about as decadent as we can manage these days. I did mention it was my 45th birthday, right? (JK, Hon.)So that's the secret. I have no stuff because I have no power. It all resides in the perky little inamorata that I married. I have stuff if she mandates I have stuff. And sometimes she even has willpower - when she wants to. And it seems she wants to about once a year.
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