Apparently, I’m the Household Search Engine
Where’s the remote? What’s the Wi-Fi password? When is the trash coming? Do we need anything from the store? I don’t know, but apparently I do.
There are certain questions I hear so often that I think my body has developed an automatic response to them.
“Where is the—”
And before the sentence is even finished, I'm irritated.
😂
Because I already know what's about to happen.
Someone is looking for something.
And by looking, I mean they've probably stood in the general area where they think the item should be, moved absolutely nothing, glanced around for approximately four seconds, and determined:
It's gone.
Naturally, the next logical step is to contact me.
The Household Search Engine.
Apparently, I have been unknowingly operating this service for years.
My hours are:
Always.
My response time is:
Immediately.
And my compensation package appears to be:
Absolutely nothing.
Fantastic.
You Didn't Look. You Glanced.
There's a difference.
Looking requires effort.
You might have to open something.
Move something.
Check underneath something.
Possibly even bend over.
Meanwhile the person looking for it performed what I can only describe as a visual drive-by. 😂
They entered the room.
Their eyeballs briefly passed over several surfaces.
The missing item did not immediately stand up and announce itself.
Therefore:
“I looked everywhere.”
Did you?
Did you look look?
Because I know what happens next.
I tell them:
“Find it.”
They insist they already looked.
I tell them:
“If you put it where it goes, it wouldn't get lost.”
They continue looking.
I attempt to remain uninvolved.
And then...
I give in.
Every.
Damn.
Time.
Welcome to the Investigation
Once I'm involved, this is no longer casually looking for something.
We have entered a full-scale investigation.
My brain immediately starts building a case.
Where does it normally go?
Where did I see it last?
Who used it last?
Where would that person have taken it?
What's the second-most-logical place it could be?
And finally:
What completely ridiculous place could somebody have put it because apparently we're living lawlessly now?
This is a strategy.
Women know this strategy.
We just don't talk about it much because honestly?
We need to keep a few secrets for everyone else to figure out themselves.
😂
And almost every time, within five minutes...
I find it.
Which leaves me with one question:
WHY COULDN'T YOU DO THAT?!
I don't have special equipment.
There isn't a tracking device implanted in my brain.
I didn't summon the remote from another dimension.
I LOOKED FOR IT.
And It Is Literally Everything
I wish I could tell you we're talking about occasional difficult-to-find objects.
We're not.
I've been asked where the remote is.
Glasses.
Drinks.
Toilet paper.
Paper towels.
Soap.
Forks.
FORKS.
Dog food bowls.
Laundry soap.
The broom.
Fish food.
Things that have lived in approximately the same location for what feels like the entire history of this household.
But locating physical objects is apparently only one department of the Household Search Engine.
We also offer information services.
What's the Wi-Fi password?
What's the Disney login?
Netflix?
Hulu?
What bills are due this month?
When does the trash run?
When do we need an oil change?
And my personal favorite:
“What do we need from the store?”
Oh.
WE?
😂
Do you live here?
Do you eat food?
Use toilet paper?
Drink things?
Wash your body?
Have you perhaps noticed that you finished something?
Because apparently the grocery list is also being stored in the same brain responsible for locating your glasses.
Which, by the way, are probably on your head.
None of These Questions Sound Like Work
And that's why I think it's so easy to dismiss them.
What's the Wi-Fi password?
Tiny question.
When does the trash run?
Tiny question.
Do we need dog food?
Tiny question.
Where's the broom?
Tiny question.
What bills are due?
Tiny question.
But every question requires somebody to hold the answer.
Somebody has to remember trash day.
Somebody has to know what's running low.
Somebody has to remember when the bills are due.
Somebody has to know when the car needs maintenance.
Somebody remembers where the pet supplies are.
Somebody knows what subscriptions we have.
Somebody remembers the passwords.
Somebody knows what we need from the store.
Somebody keeps the household database updated.
Hi again.
It's me. I'm somebody.
Apparently my brain isn't just a brain anymore.
It's hosting the family server.
And judging by the number of support requests I'm receiving, we're experiencing unusually high traffic.
😂
But Here's the Part I Didn't Notice Until Recently
The question itself usually isn't what exhausts me.
It's what happens the second somebody asks it.
Because no matter what I'm doing, my brain immediately switches over.
I'm writing?
Pause.
Cleaning?
Pause.
Working on something?
Pause.
Having an actual thought of my own?
Absolutely not. We have a missing remote emergency.
😂
Someone says:
“Where's the laundry soap?”
And immediately my brain goes:
Cabinet? No, I saw it by the washer. Wait, somebody moved it. Did I see it in the hallway? Let me check.
I've already left whatever I was thinking about.
Their problem has entered my brain.
And now I need to solve it.
Because you're expected to be interruptible.
Whew.
That one landed a little differently.
Household Mental Load: Being Interruptible Is Its Own Kind of Work
I think this is one of the sneakiest parts of household mental load—the constant expectation that your brain is available whenever somebody else needs it.
Nobody announces it.
Nobody walks into the room and says:
“Hello. I'd like to temporarily remove you from your own thoughts so you can manage mine.”
That would at least be honest.
😂
Instead it's:
“Hey, where's—”
And that's enough.
Because now I'm mentally involved.
Even if I tell you to look for it yourself, part of my brain is already trying to remember where I saw it.
And eventually I'm probably getting up.
Then I'm searching.
Then I'm finding it.
Then I'm handing it to you.
And what happens next?
Nothing.
Mission Accomplished. Apparently My Services Are No Longer Required.
That's it.
I find the thing.
I hand over the thing.
The crisis has been resolved.
No:
“Thank you.”
No:
“Where was it?”
No curiosity whatsoever about how I managed to recover this precious artifact from the depths of our completely normal house.
Just...
Mission accomplished.
Meanwhile I'm standing there thinking:
Gee. No problem. Happy to be of service. Wonderful working with you.
😂
And then I turn around to go back to whatever I was doing.
Except...
Wait. What the Hell Was I Doing?
Because on the way back, I notice something.
I'll pick that up really quick.
Then one of the dogs needs to go outside.
Okay, let the dogs out.
While they're outside, I notice something in the kitchen.
Might as well clean that.
Oh, I should probably start cooking something.
Wait, we're low on that.
Better remember to put it on the grocery list.
Dogs need back in.
Somebody left something on the counter.
Put that away.
Start another thing.
And forty-five minutes later my brain casually strolls back into the room like:
Hey... weren't we doing something before all this?
...
OH YEAH.
MY OWN SHIT.
😂
And this is where the missing remote stops being funny for a second.
Because it was never really about the remote.
The Missing Remote Isn't Actually the Problem
It's the interruption.
It's the context switching.
It's constantly leaving your own thought to enter somebody else's.
It's knowing that at any moment you might be asked to locate something, remember something, schedule something, explain something, check something, buy something, fix something, or tell somebody something they could probably figure out themselves.
And individually?
None of those things seem like much.
But when they happen all day long, your brain never really gets to stay in one place.
You aren't just doing your own tasks.
You're operating a help desk in the background.
And apparently there is no ticketing system.
Everybody just walks directly into IT.
😂
Somehow, My Thing Becomes the Thing That Can Wait
I don't think anyone is intentionally saying:
“What you're doing isn't important.”
That's not really what this is.
But if I'm expected to stop what I'm doing whenever somebody needs information or help...
my thing becomes the easiest thing to postpone.
Their question gets answered now.
My thought gets picked back up...
eventually.
Their missing thing gets found.
My unfinished thing joins the seventeen other unfinished things I've accumulated while helping everybody else finish theirs.
And then later I'm looking around wondering:
Why do I feel like I've been busy all day but somehow didn't finish what I wanted to do?
Oh.
Right.
I spent half the day accepting walk-ins at the Household Help Desk.
And Yes, I Know I've Helped Create This Monster
Because here's the annoying part.
I could stop finding things.
I could say:
“I don't know.”
I could refuse to get up.
I could let people figure it out.
But then my brain does that thing.
I know where I saw it.
Don't say it.
It'll take me two seconds.
Stay seated.
They're looking in the wrong place.
Not your problem.
Oh my God, JUST MOVE THE THING AND LOOK UNDER IT.
...
And now I'm standing up.
😂
Because sometimes it genuinely feels easier to solve the problem than to sit there watching somebody not solve it.
Which is probably exactly how I ended up becoming the Household Search Engine in the first place.
I know things.
I notice things.
I remember things.
I'm good at finding things.
So people ask me.
Then I answer.
Then they ask me again.
And eventually everyone learns:
Why search when Google lives here?
Well.
Shit.
😂
Maybe Everyone Doesn't Need Access to My Brain
I'm not going to stop helping people.
That's not me.
And honestly, I don't mind knowing things.
I like having our life organized.
I like knowing what's going on.
I like being able to solve problems.
What I don't like is feeling like I have to be the only place where all of that information lives.
Because if everybody needs to know the Wi-Fi password...
maybe everybody should have somewhere to find the Wi-Fi password.
If everybody needs to know when trash day is...
maybe that information shouldn't require asking me.
If somebody needs to know where we keep the extra toilet paper...
I have several questions about how we reached this point, but fine.
😂
Maybe the answer isn't for me to become less capable.
Maybe it's making the information less dependent on me.
Because my brain already has enough tabs open.
It does not need to be storing the location of the fish food for another grown human being.
I Think I'm Ready to Retire from Customer Service
Not completely.
Let's not get crazy.
There will still be questions.
There will still be lost things.
There will still be somebody standing three feet away from the object they're looking for insisting:
“IT'S NOT HERE.”
And I will probably still walk into the room, move one thing, pick it up and stare at them in silence.
Because some traditions deserve to live on.
😂
But maybe I don't need to be the only household database.
Maybe everybody can learn where things live.
Maybe everybody can remember what they use.
Maybe everybody can participate in knowing what this house needs.
And maybe—just maybe—the next time someone asks me:
“Where's the remote?”
I can lovingly respond:
“I don't know. Have you tried actually looking?”
And remain seated.
Okay.
That last part might be ambitious.
We're working on it.
🌸☕️
Beautifully Overwhelmed is for the person who somehow knows where everybody's stuff is, what's running low, what bill is due, when the trash comes, what the Wi-Fi password is, and what we need from the store...
but occasionally can't remember what she walked into the room for.
Turns out, keeping track of everyone else's life takes up a surprising amount of storage.
Maybe everybody doesn't need unlimited access to your brain. 🌸
And seriously.
The forks are in the same drawer they've always been in.
Please stop asking me.
😂
Comments