So I went to get my lunch together this morning – anticipating the delectable stuffed manicotti leftovers that would overwhelm the office and in turn make me the envy of all present as the aromas filled the space. Just as my lunchtime daydream was coming with full anticipatory sensory, it burst. (I was about to say busted – but my fourth grade teacher Mrs. Shilkis would probably have a stroke if she were alive)

It burst because I lacked something.

I lacked the proper lid or a container that matched a lid I held in my hand.

How did that happened?

It’s like folding laundry and coming up one sock short. Where did it go? The inner workings of the dryer? Can that Maytag Repairman on television tell me? He seems omnipresent, right? He should have the answer – unless he’s really a bald-headed snake oil salesman behind a curtain.

Back to my plastics container dilemma: where did these pieces disappear to? The dishwasher? Do the dryer and the dishwasher belonged to a secret society of household appliances and must produce sacrifices to their gods? A plastic lid here, a cotton sock there. “She won’t miss this teaspoon,” or “Nobody uses monogrammed hankies anymore” is what the appliances must say to themselves.

Or is my husband, the science nerd elbow deep in a nefarious experiment involving my plastic container lids tucked away in his corner of the basement?

So what does the refrigerator say?  Did it give up to the appliance gods the last of the chocolate pudding I looking for at eleven o’clock? Knowing the fridge, she probably declared in a snarky tone, “that Bitch needs to work out, not eat this pudding! I’m doing her a favor!”

Well, that hurts – she’s built like fridge. Has she looked at herself lately too?

See what happens when you give them computers chips for brains?

I didn’t know I would miss an inanimate object like a plastic lid until now. Does that put me in the pathetic column?