Well you’ll get a really short tour of my kitchen.
I only have essentials, a blender – used strictly for margaritas – a couple of frying pans and a big trash can for the remnants of take-out.
When I was recently unpacking at the little house I rented, I accidentally knocked over the overflowing trash can.
“Dang it,” I said loudly.
Since I am no longer living in an apartment I can now yell if I want to.
I tried to scoop up the mess with my hands. But stood up, red-faced and aggravated. “I need a broom.”
“Who are you kidding?” the house suddenly said to me. “You don’t even own a broom.”
“Why are you talking?” I looked around, unnerved by that snippy voice out of nowhere.
“Why do you need to be reminded that you don’t own a broom?”
“Well I didn’t try to lie about it,” I said nervously. “I simply made the announcement that I need a broom.” I paused, scanning the kitchen for a mouth in a wall or a pair of eyes in the ceiling.
“This is freaky,” I said. “I’ve never experienced a talking house.”
“I’ve never felt the need to talk,” the house said. “Until now, of course.”
“Why now? Why me?”
“One of your friends gave you fire extinguishers as a housewarming gift,” the voice said. “That got my attention. I’m afraid for my safety.”
“Oh stop worrying,” I said with an eye roll. “My kitchen fires have always been handled with no damage.”
“That’s supposed to give me confidence in you?” the house screeched.
“Stop shouting at me,” I said. “You are making me a nervous wreck.”
“Funny,” the house said. “You also have that exact effect on me.”
“Why do you talk?” I asked as I leaned over to look in the lowest row of kitchen cabinets. “Where is your mouth? I can’t find it.”
“I’m not telling you,” the house growled at me. “That’s not your business.”
“It’s not my business? I’m moving in here. We should enjoy each other. But I just gotta say … you’re kinda creepy.”
“You’re not a little princess yourself,” the house said.
“Thanks,” I sighed.
“I wanted a happy homemaker type of woman,” the house said. “I wanted someone who generously uses Lysol when she cleans. Someone who bakes beautiful cakes. Someone who … well, someone who at least owns a broom, for heaven’s sake.”
“Martha Stewart doesn’t need to rent a little house,” I said. “She’s got kabillions of dollars. But I don’t. So you’re stuck with me.”
Yeah I see that,” the house made a sniffling sound.
“You’re crying because I don’t have domestic skills? Why don’t you give me a chance? I have other types of skills. I promise I do.”
“Like what?” the house asked.
“I have a lot of friends,” I said slowly. “And we love to laugh. Wouldn’t you love to be the house that’s filled with laughter?”
“Well, …” the house hesitated.
“One of my dearest friends gave me that stereo over there,” I said with a smile. “You and I will fill every room with music. OK? Aretha. Pink. All the best stuff. And guess what else? We will dance! We will try to dance every day. But on Sundays I will make sure that we have plenty of music all day long.”
I guess we can try it, … ” the house said timidly.
“Change is good,” I said with a smile. “Meet me halfway. OK? I’ll even buy a broom to show that I can compromise.”
Sherri Coner is an award-winning journalist and humor writer who speaks to women’s groups. To learn about her books for women and to join her on Facebook, visit www.sherriconer.com.