ROOM WANTED

I was very proud of myself when I bought my house. Single woman. Nice house. Way to go, huh?

I furnished it with things that were comfortable and fun. I had a kid. Got a couple dogs. Hired a housekeeper. Things went well for several years. Everybody got along.

Now it seems, I’m going to have to leave.  There’s no room for me here anymore. Certainly not in the den where my voice is just an unwanted interruption to my son’s video  games and homework – (in that order).    Not in the kitchen which is maintained by the housekeeper and jealously guarded by the dogs who, by the way,  have recently had a  change of heart and now like the housekeeper MUCH better than they like me.  (Note to self: tell the housekeeper I will feed the dogs from now on. )

The closet space has all been used up by toys and basketball shoes and leashes. The backyard contains trampolines, chewy toys, footballs, bicycles, and tents. At times I try to  sleep in the area that used to be my room, but this depends on whether or not the dogs need the bed.  The living room is large, but at the present time is occupied by all the rugs from the rest of the  house that we’ve had to roll up so nobody (and you know who you are)  chews them.

My son will pull out his own fingernails rather than throw away an old PC or X-Box magazine. He has every video game ever developed and every stupid plastic party favor ever bestowed on him. He has twenty seven hundred colored pencils and a color printer.  Clothes that fit him, clothes that don’t fit him and clothes that will fit him. Boxes of old schoolwork.  Vitamins, Uggs, air rifles, board games.  Portable DVD players, Guitar Hero guitars and a 75 Sunkist orange-soda can pyramid.   I have a tube of mascara and the car key.

It’s not the disorganization so much as the fact that it’s not my house anymore.  When I hired our housekeeper, I decided to empower her. Let her know that she was to do what she thought was best. So she does. This, for some reason includes a need to write on everything I own. Like we couldn’t possibly remember that in the plastic pitcher in the refrigerator, we keep water. No. She’s decided to write the word “WATER” on it in huge letters. And then, I guess for those who can’t read, draw little black drops of water around the word “water.”

In the box in the cabinet where we keep old batteries for recycling, the word “Badereez” has appeared… Once again, accompanied by some kind of drawing that appears to be…. lightning bolts?? I don’t know. I think it’s lightning bolts. In my opinion, not really the best icon for dead ‘badereez,” but whatever.

She has also decided that my house is safer than hers (and yes, this is true), so she hides packages of money and papers everywhere. In my bread drawer there are birth certificates. Copies of green cards in the linen closet. Photographs are tucked away lovingly in what appears to be random CD cases. You thought you’d play some Lyle Lovett? Not so fast. This case contains little Jorge’s first day of school. When I try to throw out old rugs or appliances, she gasps, alarmed that something so precious might be discarded and says, “No, no. I will take.” Then she takes it… and  puts it in my garage.  The garage (along with everything I’ve ever tried to throw out) is also where we store her suitcases and her son’s skateboards. And some books that my girlfriend doesn’t have room for. And the gardeners tools. And someone’s couch. I can’t remember who.