Not Me in our house is referred to as a boy, simply because I have 5 sons and only 3 daughters, so Not Me's antics are *usually* although not always male in nature. Not Me is in touch with his feminine side, however, and thinks nothing of stooping to get into my makeup or rifle my bathroom drawers when it suits him. Not me is responsible for lost socks, bikes left out in the rain, and other misfortunes.
"Who ate the last cupcake?" I ask. "Not Me!" the children chorus.
"Who broke this chair/cupboard/dishwasher/plate/zipper/fence/picture frame?" my husband will ask. "Not Me! Not Me! Not Me!" the kids respond one by one as he questions them.
If I ever catch Not Me, there's going to be hell to pay for all the things he has stolen, broken, eaten, drank, and destroyed.
My one consolation is that someday my sweet innocent children will grow up, get married, and have little ones of their own. And when I'm visiting, I'll invite Not Me to stow along for the trip and then conveniently forget to bring him home. Not Me will be passed down to the next generation, and they, too, can curse the interloper.