The one where I make a new friend.

So, this is where I make an embarrassing confession: For as long as I can remember, I have had serious anthropomorphism issues.

Hey, stop laughing.

This is a REAL PROBLEM and it is NOT FUNNY. I'm an anthropomorphoholic. As in, ever since childhood, I have compulsively assigned uniquely human characteristics, motivations, and behaviors to definitively non-human entities. And lest you think I’m talking about some odd-but-potentially-understandable thing, like believing that my dog is capable of remorse, I should mention right now that it’s a whole, whooole lot weirder than that.

Example: I have, in recent history, totally convinced myself that my clothes have feelings.

This is a sickness, and though I don’t know precisely when or how it started, I will say that I have a strong suspicion that watching The Brave Little Toaster one too many times had something to do with it. Evidence pointing to this as a likely explanation includes:

a) I definitely like toasters, a LOT, and

b) I have very clear memories of hysterically weeping multiple times during that movie, and particularly at the part where all the appliances get caught out in an electrical storm, and the blanket gets carried away by the wind and is (we fear) lost forever.

(And yes, of course, the blanket is eventually reunited with his friends... but before that happens it is freaking heart-wrenching, and any children of the 1980s who grew up watching this movie deserve automatic forgiveness for any security blanket-related development issues whatsoever. I mean, the blanket is named "Blanky". BLANKY! Geez, movie, are you trying to mess me up?)

The film still that launched a thousand abandonment complexes.

And now, twenty years later, here I am: an almost-thirty-year-old woman who chats with kitchen appliances, treats the sofa with respect, and can't bear to get rid of old t-shirts because it might make the shirts feel bad.

I've been fighting this thing for years now, usually by avoiding actions that might provoke the beast. Which is to say that I never get rid of things. Not even when they're broken or ugly or otherwise obsolete. Does anyone remember these IKEA commercials from a few years back?



Funny, right?
WRONG! Because that, right there, is what I've struggled against for my entire life. Do you have any idea how hard it was for me to even search for that on YouTube without breaking down in tears?

Poor little lamp.

Fortunately for me, a generally impoverished adulthood has given me a perfect excuse to avoid the painful process of replacing... well, anything. That oscillating fan that doesn't oscillate and is held together with twist ties? Hey, I have a financial incentive to keep it around! It's not that I've secretly named it "Fanny" and think its little fan face is charming, sweet, and full of trust. I'm just frugal. It's a good thing.

The problem, of course, is that I'm married now -- and as it turns out, husbands are a) unlikely to see any good reason not to spend $15 on a new fan, and b) even less likely to understand when they try to carry the old fan out to the curb only to have you snatch it from their hands, screaming "Fanny! NOOOOOO!", and then flee with it into the bathroom in order to stroke its shiny surfaces and apologize for being such a fickle, fan-replacing bitch.

And similarly, when the government invents a program that would allow you to replace your current car -- which, though it runs well enough, admittedly gets about 16 miles to the gallon, and does not have air conditioning or interior lights, and makes a very loud noise all the time, and activates the "Check Engine" light whenever you tap the brakes, and oh yeah, is missing a side-rear-view mirror because somebody stole it -- husbands, as it turns out, will not support the idea of passing on that opportunity because it might hurt the feelings of your Jeep Cherokee.

Imagine that.

But at last, today, I believe I've found the answer to my problem. (And no, it's not to just stop anthropomorphizing my belongings. As if such a thing were even possible.) Namely, that when it comes time to replace an item that you've lived with and loved, an item whose feelings you care about, an item that has been meaningful to you in myriad ways...


It helps when the replacement item is so adorable that you wish you could knit it a little sweater and give it lots of hugs, and then give it a really fun name like Eggo Beanrocket.

Which I did.

Coming soon: The exciting road adventures of Eggo Beanrocket!