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I have this thing about inanimate objects. I personify them and then pine and worry about them.

The cups must all be used equally. Freshly washed utensils must go under the ones that haven’t been used. “It’s only fair,” I explain to them. “The other forks and knives deserve a shot too.” I imagine that they talk back to me in voices similar to the characters in ‘Schoolhouse Rock’ – adult, concerned voices, socially-conscious politically-committed forks and knives. (The big carving knives are Republican, most of the other utensils are Democrats). “Okay Brad, but don’t forget about us the next time,” they say. In my mind at that point, romantic soft-rock music plays, and then fades out. Everything’s okay for now with the silverware – they all understand me, the forks and knives.

Yes, that’s right - soft-rock, with lush string harmony reminiscent of Brahms, is usually the soundtrack in my head around the house.

Sometimes I feel really bad for this particular can opener that doesn’t get used much since we’ve got this new-fangled thing from Brookstone. I feel bad for him (it’s a guy, the new wooden one is a girl) but I explained already that “’you’re getting older, it’s time to retire. I will never, never throw you away.”

My wife doesn’t understand all this stuff with the inanimate objects, me talking to them, giving them moral support.

Socks are a tough one. You know, one or two pairs always get separated from each other after the wash. That’s right, of course, they’re couples, so when they lose each other they freak out and panic. There’s a lot of nervous energy coming from the sock drawer.

I love my inanimate objects. They’re so human, so much like me.

Date Written: May 09, 2003
Author: Phony Millions
Average Vote: 4

05/9/2003 anonymous (5):
05/9/2003 qualcomm (4): i think you ripped this one off of erma bombeck.
05/13/2003 Will Disney (3): opaque - strange