My eyes flashed in panic. Noooooooo.
The only sounds to be heard in the house were a Small Dog snoring and an asshole cat who was making no sound at all. Likely because it was 6:37 P.M. and not 4:22 A.M. Fucker.
I shuffled my frumpy, mostly pajama-clad self around the house. I dug through the open suitcase on the floor.
My drawers. Nothing. Shit shit.
I stood there in the middle of my bedroom and scanned. Thinking. Wondering what the hell I could have possibly done with it between last Saturday and this Wednesday.
I had lost my vibrator.
At this juncture, my vibrator was somewhere between a bedside table in North Carolina and an apartment in Chicago, Illinois. It sure as hell wasn’t in any of its usual locations and not in the suitcase entrusted with shuttling it and its pink silicone rechargeable splendor back and forth.
And our housekeeper had just come by. Had Sandra…moved my vibrator?
Was it on a wall of laughs somewhere in an airport baggage handlers cove where they plucked peculiar items from luggage because what the fuck are you going to do about it?
And worst of all — had I somehow left it on the bedside table of our AirBNB for our gracious hosts to…discover? Had they called in a hazmat team that looked like an oven mitt and a white 13-gallon kitchen trash bag, plucked it from where it rested, double bagged it, and buried it beneath a hunk of leaves and an empty carton of milk?
I have no shame in telling you I’m a grown-ass woman who owns two vibrators and this one happened to be the pink one. I put it in my carry-on luggage. I’ve had to point it out, explain it. Feel the judgy eyes of Mr. and Mrs. TSA.
I have few fucks for these folks and their eyes. My luggage my vibrator.
But right now, the thing was just…GONE.
I took a deep breath and sat down in the kitchen with my fuzzy grey slippers, grey plaid pajama pants, and had some Gatorade.
I know. That’s the vision you expected when you saw the headline about the vibrator.
But sitting down calmed me. It wasn’t that I was looking to “have a Me Moment” anytime soon. It had just dawned on me that I had no goddamned idea where my vibrator was and learning its whereabouts was DEFCON 3, about to hit DEFCON 4.
And….WAIT. We didn’t check a bag on the way home. BRILLIANT. Carry-on means that I can rule the grubby hands of a curious baggage handler out.
Now, it was down to a bedside table somewhere in North Carolina and the apartment. Somewhere.
Clark Kent was away at an appointment and while definitely on his way home, I wasn’t particularly keen on adding a text that said, “Hey — have you seen my vibrator?” to the list of weird shit he puts up with from me every day. There’s only so much you can ask Your Person to put up with till he (justifiably) starts the “DID YOU REALLY SEND ME A TEXT ABOUT YOUR VIBRATOR WHILE YOU KNEW I WAS ON THE TRAIN?” conversation.
I was stuck.
No vibrator. The one person I could ask, I’d spared him of that private text in what was most certainly a public place. And I didn’t even want to use it.
I just wanted to find it. I felt like Agatha Christie with writer’s block. This mystery would have no end.
So I went to the living room, curled up with a Small Dog and the asshole cat, and watched some more Peaky Blinders. Sometimes when I free-up my brain from thinking about THE THING, the thing shakes loose.
But an hour later, nothing. Zip. Zilch. Thanks for playing — here’s your year’s supply of Turtle Wax which is not rechargeable and should definitely not be used for intimate purposes. Maybe it’s lube for cars. I dunno.
So I head to the bathroom, pee, and feel like washing my face so I do. Then I want to dab a little eye cream underneath these I’m 45 And Can’t Find My Vibrator eyes…
And I can’t find that, either.
At this point, I imagine that my eye cream has left me for a younger subject, its sleek white visage getting a back massage from my pink silicone workhorse of intimacy.
So I grab the waterproof travel pouch Clark Kent and I use for toiletries when we travel, figuring there has to be some sort of moisturizing substance in its depths…
And staring back at me is my pink vibrator.
I pluck it from amidst some travel bottles of shampoo, conditioner, and some hair product and mutter, “Oh thank god.”
I discard the image of my cherished housekeeper gingerly transporting its pinkness to an unknown destination.
I discard the image of a small town hazmat team coming in to deal with A FOREIGN OBJECT left behind by a tourist.
I again discard the image of some mischievous baggage handler wanting to fuck with my sex life by swiping my talented toy.
And I wonder for a moment if I’m going completely batshit crazy for putting all this concern into the whereabouts of my vibrator.
As I tuck it away in the drawer where IT ALWAYS GOES, I just think, “No.”
And I hear the front door deadbolt CLACK as Clark Kent arrives home. I sigh.
Finally, everything is right where it’s supposed to be.