Adult Humor

How I Lost Mr. Hitachi

… or the Hell of Moving in with My Parents at 39

AGWDM missing hitachi

In my review of the Shibari Halo, I said I would tell the story about how I lost my Hitachi Magic Wand, AKA Mr. Hitachi.

When I was with my ex-live-in, he had won some money from a raffle at one of his kids’ schools. The first thing he wanted to do was go on a big-ass shopping spree as soon as the check cleared. One of our stops was at a sex toy store. It was wild. We bought all kinds of stuff. He motioned me over to a display case, pointed at a Hitachi Magic Wand box, and asked, “Want this?”

Oh, hell, yeah!

Of all the toys we bought, we enjoyed playing with Mr. Hitachi the most. But over the course of that year, we played with it less and less. Actually, we had sex less and less often. I was having lots of problems with him, particularly his habit of cheating or attempting to cheat on me. (I’m not a jealous or possessive person; he was lousy at lying and covering his tracks.) I just couldn’t bring myself to have sex with someone who obviously wanted to be with others. We had other problems and issues. Not wanting to have sex with him wasn’t even the biggest problem.

The week I moved, I had gotten sick. I just thought it was the stress of packing and dealing with Jim’s* pathetic last-ditch, too-late pleas to stay. The day the movers came, I couldn’t get off the couch.

The biggest stress of all was moving in with my parents. I didn’t have a choice. I couldn’t get into my apartment for another 2½ months. If moving in with them wasn’t enough stress, they asked my brother and sister to come into town to “support” me.

Their idea of support was more like an intervention gone wrong. My mom and dad directed all of us, including my 12 and 15-year-old kids, to sit in the living room. Each of them took turns telling me how foolish I was to move in with Jim and motherfucked him 17 different ways and sideways. Even I didn’t dislike him as much as they did. They all told me how I should do things differently with my life – quit smoking (already was in my action plan), find a better job (I loved my job at the time), find a man who makes at least $150K a year (as if men at that income level treat women better?).

I didn’t need to hear any of that and neither did my kids. Aside from feeling too sick to move, I was actually feeling really relieved and liberated about having Jim out of my life. I already knew how I wanted things to go from that point forward, something none of them asked or thought to discuss with me. When they were done with their verbal lynching, they all hugged me. At least my kids saw the horror in that situation. They gave me extra-tight and supportive hugs they knew we’d need to get through the next 2½ months.

Then my dad said, “Good, we got that out of your system. Let’s go out for lunch.”

The rest of the weekend was filled with planned mandatory family together time from morning ‘til bedtime. By the next afternoon, I couldn’t keep up with their whirlwind agenda. I insisted that I was going to stay home and rest. My mom wasn’t happy, but I was too sick to give a shit.

As soon as they left, I told my dad, who stayed behind, that I was going to urgent care.

“Oh, okay,” he said.

He never got off the couch. He never took his eyes off the newspaper. He just mumbled something under his breath about me being rude and ungrateful for not acknowledging everything that everyone was doing for their amusement me.

A few hours later I came back and had to ask him to drive me to the hospital. I had an infection that was way far out of control to treat with a bottle of antibiotics.

I spent six days in in the hospital. During that time, I thought about the stacks of boxes that I never had time to unpack. My mother is OCD and anal retentive to the extreme. I hoped and prayed that she’d just shut the bedroom door and let me deal with my stuff when I got home and felt better.

But no. When I got back, my mother told me that she unpacked all of my stuff and showed me where everything was — cabinet-by-cabinet, drawer-by-drawer.

The last drawer was this drawer.

“And this is where I put all of those things,” she said.

Those things were my lingerie – not my everyday bras and panties, but the lacy, sheer and leather stuff that adult women wear.

It was the biggest JesusFuckingChrist moment of my life. She gave me that same look she often gave when I was 18-19 years old. It was the look when she could no longer control where I was going, when I was going out, with whom I was going out, and what time I had to be back home.

I thanked her for all of her thoughtfulness hard work and asked her to close the door so I could get some sleep. I got the message that the kids’-bedroom-doors-stay-open-all-times policy still applied. I fell asleep anyway. Hospitals are no place to sleep, not with multiple TVs blaring 24/7 and and a roommate who was constantly moaning and retching from alcohol detox. I was only well enough to walk out of the hospital door to the car.

I woke up four hours later. My mom and dad had gone out for dinner. The first thing I thought of when I woke up was where Mr. Hitachi could be.

I ripped through all of the teddies, stockings and garter belts that Mom had neatly tucked and stashed away in this drawer. Mr. Hitachi wasn’t there. I checked all of the other drawers in the dressers in my room. I scoured through the cabinets in the bathroom. I even garnered what little strength I had to haul down the plastic storage bins from my closet shelves. All of the stuff I threw in them was precisely folded, re-wrapped, and color coded. Even my file box with my bank statements, bills, and other personal stuff that was nobody’s business was rearranged with new file folders and labeled tabs. Mr. Hitachi was nowhere to be found.

I knew I packed Mr. Hitachi. I tucked it at the bottom of the this box in case some nosy pecker decided to rifle through my personal belongings. Thank God I put the other stuff in storage.

I never asked my mom if she came across Mr. Hitachi when she unpacked for me violated my privacy. Some things are just better left lost … and forgotten.

*Name changed to protect the not-so-innocent.