There’s a pitcher that used to sit in my living room, holding an arrangement of tiger lilies. It was an odd coupling, to be sure. The beautiful bouquets contrasted horribly with their vase—arguably the ugliest pitcher ever made. Looking back, I’m not sure why I used it at the time.
Well, still used it.
That brow-crinkling piece of pottery—a mosaic of different earth-toned fruits and flowers—was a gift. Endearing at the time but painful as time passed, I remember fighting the desire to throw the pitcher up against the wall in hopes it would shatter and cease to exist. However, breaking the pitcher wouldn’t have solved my problems (though it would have relieved my living room of the eyesore).
See, there was this guy. (You knew we’d get there sometime, right?) He gave me the pitcher—the ugly, chipped, thrift store pitcher—and though he exited from my life, the pitcher hung around.
That’s the problem with break-ups – the person is gone but their stuff is still with you. The least they could have done is taken their crap with them when they left, like all those blasted memories… But you have them, their stuff and those memories, and are left with the arduous task of figuring out what to do with all of it. For some, that “stuff” is a house, or a dog, or books and movies, or an old sweatshirt you keep hidden but secretly wear at night because it still smells like them. For me, that “stuff” was an ugly pitcher.
It was so grade school when he gave it to me. We were “friends” at the time. He was browsing the shelves of a thrift shop one day when he came upon the pitcher and immediately thought of me. Cute, right? Ugly pitcher, Gloria. Ugly pitcher, Gloria. It was hard for me to get the connection at first. He explained it by saying it was the ugliest pitcher he had ever seen, and that he thought I would laugh if he gave it to me. It should have a home, he said. It worked. I laughed. I loved it. Then he left to go spend the weekend with his long-distance girlfriend.
This is how our relationship—our “friendship”—was for a long time, really. He had a girlfriend and was unavailable, but for having a girlfriend and being “unavailable,” he was awfully available to me. So when we finally started dating for real it seemed right.
Wrong. Take note: relationships involving an exchange of hideous pottery are not any more likely to succeed than relationships in which pottery has not played a role. Endearing gestures a relationship do not make.
I have moved twice since the pitcher came into my life, and I can’t seem to remember what happened to it. I’m not a very sentimental mover – the less I have to pack, move, and unpack the better. The pitcher probably ended up in a box marked for Goodwill.
I think that’s how it is with relationships.. They come and they go. When they come, we do crazy things like buy ugly pottery. When they go, we want to throw the pottery against the wall. We want to keep whatever pieces we still have with us. We want to get it out of our life. We want to figure out how to keep it in our life. Time passes, and then one day you can’t remember what happened to it. It’s gone. It disappeared, and you hadn’t even noticed.
I have been ugly-pottery free for quite some time now. I think perhaps it might be time to go and find some more.
Saturday, April 25, 2009
A bathroom for the birdies.
For all the wonders that spring brings with it - warm weather, sunshine, J.J. Hardy's brilliant blue eyes, flowers, green grass, and the smell of fresh rain on dusty pavement (just to name a few) - there is one spring phenomenon I could truly do without.
My front porch turns into a birdie bathroom.
It's ridiculous. This didn't happen until my father started feeding the birds in the front yard instead of the backyard. Before this, I would awake each morning to the not-as-soothing-as-one-might-think sounds of mourning doves and sparrows chirping as they fight over corn and seed. One morning I woke up and realized the birds were gone. In pursuit of better protection from predatory birds (more than once I have witnessed the demise of a mourning dove at the hands - well, talons - of a hungry hawk) and more plentiful food, they had migrated south-east to the front-yard birm.
I thoroughly enjoyed the break from my avian alarm clock. Of course, for every action there is a reaction and no good thing comes without a price. Upon returning home from work one summer afternoon, I noticed the white porch banister was in need of some serious re-painting. Of course, that was from far away. A closer inspection revealed the chipped paint was not, in fact, chipped paint at all, but bird poop. Lots and lots of bird poop.
By itself, a single bird dropping doesn't give off much of a smell. Combined, bird droppings have the power to bring even the most olfactorily-resistant man to his knees.
(I don't know if "olfactorily-resistant" is a phrase, or if "olfactorily" is even a word, but I am not deleting it. I like it.)
It's not only unpleasant to the nose; it's an eye-sore. And this is the front porch--this is the first thing people see when they come to the house. Is that the kind of impression we want to give people?
I scrubbed and scrubbed that banister, but try as I might I wasn't able to completely rid the porch of all the crap.
"Move the bird feeder, or clean the shit yourself," I told my father in exasperation. He didn't seem to care. He uses the garage door, thus limiting his exposure to the front porch.
The bird feeder remains.
As a side note, on more than one occasion I have found myself caught up in a mass of frantically flying feathers as my sudden presence on the porch has startled the birds from their peaceful perches. And while I feel badly for the occasional mourning dove that flies straight into the garage siding, I also laugh at it. I suppose that is the one bright side to this whole situation. A little bit of humorous bird suffering. It's the least they can do, seeing as they continue to use my porch for their toilet.
My front porch turns into a birdie bathroom.
It's ridiculous. This didn't happen until my father started feeding the birds in the front yard instead of the backyard. Before this, I would awake each morning to the not-as-soothing-as-one-might-think sounds of mourning doves and sparrows chirping as they fight over corn and seed. One morning I woke up and realized the birds were gone. In pursuit of better protection from predatory birds (more than once I have witnessed the demise of a mourning dove at the hands - well, talons - of a hungry hawk) and more plentiful food, they had migrated south-east to the front-yard birm.
I thoroughly enjoyed the break from my avian alarm clock. Of course, for every action there is a reaction and no good thing comes without a price. Upon returning home from work one summer afternoon, I noticed the white porch banister was in need of some serious re-painting. Of course, that was from far away. A closer inspection revealed the chipped paint was not, in fact, chipped paint at all, but bird poop. Lots and lots of bird poop.
By itself, a single bird dropping doesn't give off much of a smell. Combined, bird droppings have the power to bring even the most olfactorily-resistant man to his knees.
(I don't know if "olfactorily-resistant" is a phrase, or if "olfactorily" is even a word, but I am not deleting it. I like it.)
It's not only unpleasant to the nose; it's an eye-sore. And this is the front porch--this is the first thing people see when they come to the house. Is that the kind of impression we want to give people?
I scrubbed and scrubbed that banister, but try as I might I wasn't able to completely rid the porch of all the crap.
"Move the bird feeder, or clean the shit yourself," I told my father in exasperation. He didn't seem to care. He uses the garage door, thus limiting his exposure to the front porch.
The bird feeder remains.
As a side note, on more than one occasion I have found myself caught up in a mass of frantically flying feathers as my sudden presence on the porch has startled the birds from their peaceful perches. And while I feel badly for the occasional mourning dove that flies straight into the garage siding, I also laugh at it. I suppose that is the one bright side to this whole situation. A little bit of humorous bird suffering. It's the least they can do, seeing as they continue to use my porch for their toilet.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Mmmmmm sunshine.
For those who know me, this will come as no surprise. I love sunshine and warm weather. It's not just a preference for pleasantness; sunshine and warmth actually affect the very innermost parts of my soul. Sunshine is at the very heart of my being. Sunshine really does make me happy.
This is why I go tanning in the winter. I need the rays.
Wisconsin isn't a bad place to live once spring begins. Everything turns green rather quickly once it's warm enough. I swear that the tree outside my office window sprouted leaves during the weekly staff meeting one Tuesday last spring. It happens that fast. I love it.
There's something about sitting outside in the evening, not even close to sunset, reading a good book and feeling the warmth of the sun on my skin. There's something about laying on the grass listening to soothing hum of a crowd at a baseball game on the radio. There's something about taking a 2-hour walk on a Saturday morning and stopping by your favorite park by the river just to sit and watch the water flow.
There's something about having sunlight for 15 hours in a day.
Love it.
This is why I go tanning in the winter. I need the rays.
Wisconsin isn't a bad place to live once spring begins. Everything turns green rather quickly once it's warm enough. I swear that the tree outside my office window sprouted leaves during the weekly staff meeting one Tuesday last spring. It happens that fast. I love it.
There's something about sitting outside in the evening, not even close to sunset, reading a good book and feeling the warmth of the sun on my skin. There's something about laying on the grass listening to soothing hum of a crowd at a baseball game on the radio. There's something about taking a 2-hour walk on a Saturday morning and stopping by your favorite park by the river just to sit and watch the water flow.
There's something about having sunlight for 15 hours in a day.
Love it.
Best six months of the year.
Can you feel it? April, May, June, July, August, September... They're here. Well, the first one is here. Are you excited?
Please repeat after me, with the indicated level of excitement:
(loud and very excited) BASEBALL IS BACK!!!! I'm so excited!!!!
Thank you.
Please repeat after me, with the indicated level of excitement:
(loud and very excited) BASEBALL IS BACK!!!! I'm so excited!!!!
Thank you.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Excitemehesitrepidation
Yesterday was a big day for America. Yesterday millions watched as our 44th president was sworn in. It was really quite amazing. In my lifetime I have never seen this much excitement over an elected leader. Watching the fanfare, hearing the music, and listening to the speeches, I was inspired. I was moved. I was so darn proud. I was also a tiny bit frightened.
Did you see the mall? How many people were there? Quite a few. And across the country, how many people watched the coverage on TV or listened to the radio? Millions more. How much anticipation has been building for that very moment - and all these moments that are coming after? An unimagineable amount. I voted for Obama. I believe he has a fresh passion - perhaps a less corrupt passion - for this country. But I'm not blinded by infatuation. I hope he strives to make this country - and this world - a better place, but I know it won't always be easy. Things won't always go down the way I want them to.
Do all the people watching yesterday know that?
It comes with a lot of pressure, being the people's messiah. Whether he wanted to be or not, the scary thing is that with all the buzz, all the hype, all the anticipation... if this leader falls, will our faith in people ever recover?
It's not wise to put all your eggs in one basket (Grandma wisdom is always applicable). When we place all our hopes and dreams in one person we are setting ourselves up for disappointment. Even if Obama never does anything remotely questionable he still won't be perfect. He is just a man. A good man, we hope. A good man, I believe. But a man nonetheless.
I just hope we understand that.
Did you see the mall? How many people were there? Quite a few. And across the country, how many people watched the coverage on TV or listened to the radio? Millions more. How much anticipation has been building for that very moment - and all these moments that are coming after? An unimagineable amount. I voted for Obama. I believe he has a fresh passion - perhaps a less corrupt passion - for this country. But I'm not blinded by infatuation. I hope he strives to make this country - and this world - a better place, but I know it won't always be easy. Things won't always go down the way I want them to.
Do all the people watching yesterday know that?
It comes with a lot of pressure, being the people's messiah. Whether he wanted to be or not, the scary thing is that with all the buzz, all the hype, all the anticipation... if this leader falls, will our faith in people ever recover?
It's not wise to put all your eggs in one basket (Grandma wisdom is always applicable). When we place all our hopes and dreams in one person we are setting ourselves up for disappointment. Even if Obama never does anything remotely questionable he still won't be perfect. He is just a man. A good man, we hope. A good man, I believe. But a man nonetheless.
I just hope we understand that.
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Ready for spring and it's not even winter... and thoughts about family.
Note the date: Thursday, December 18, 2008. Actually, the only important part of that was "December 18." It's still fall. Granted, it looks like winter. It feels like winter. The 10 inches of snow we're supposed to get tonight and tomorrow will make it seem an awful lot like winter. But technically, technically, winter doesn't officially begin for another three days. It's not even winter yet and already we've accumulated well over a foot of snow (not counting tomorrow's dump). It's not even winter yet and I'm more than ready for spring.
I realize my last few entries have mostly revolved around my displeasure with the increasingly cold weather, so I'll try to think of something else to say...
My brother turned 17 last weekend. Ack! I keep a picture of him from when he was 3 on my bedroom mirror. He's wearing a straw hat, a pillowcase cape, and sweatpants up past his bellybutton. It's the costume for his superhero alter-ego, the Massed Offender. It's supposed to be "Masked Avenger," but when you're 3 you say what you can. He's a junior in high school now, well past the years of Winnie-the-Pooh and make-believe. His favorite way to pass the time (when he's not with his girlfriend, I'm guessing) is to play drums in his band Are We Dead Yet? I asked him to explain that name to me once but I still didn't understand. Maybe it's a teen angst thing. Anyway, it makes him happy.
His hair is once again a 'fro, his thick blond curls too fabulous to chop off. There was a long period of time when he kept his hair rigidly short. Maybe it was the private Christian school, maybe it was maternal influence. Either way, 2nd-7th grade saw a ferociously uptight Nicky. The poor kid. It's hard to be yourself - at that age, to find yourself - when the odds are stacked against you. I should know, I've been there. We went to the same school, we have the same mother. And that isn't a slam against Mom. It's just the truth. She knows it. Her two kids will struggle all their lives with perfectionism, inferiority, and general social awkwardness. I've learned how to deal, but it's taken me a long time and I still don't have a handle on it completely. Nick-o, well, I'm so impressed with the person he's becoming. He's a good kid. A good 17-year-old kid.
He'll be looking at colleges now, deciding what to do with his future. It's nerve-racking to think that next year his high school graduation will fall on the 10-year anniversary of my own. Ack! (Another ack!) How time flies. His future is his to make. Possibilities? Endless. I remember that time well. Everything was unknown, but there was so much hope. What would I study? What would I do? Where would I work? Who would I marry, and when we I meet him? Each year that passes the future gets shorter (now if that isn't a happy thought I don't know what is...). I guess that's why we make the most of it while we can.
I hope my brother doesn't decide to do something with his life because he feels obligated, or because he feels it's his only option. I hope he knows he can do anything. Well, maybe not anything, but almost. I hope his increasingly cynical view of the world diminishes as he gets older, not because there aren't things to be cynical about in our world, but because going through life jaded is no way to live. I hope he learns to be truly happy. (I'm not saying he isn't happy now, but he's in high school, you know? How happy can a kid really be with all the crap that comes with it?)
Anyway, I guess I've gone on about the Nickster long enough. Time to call it quits tonight and catch up on Grey's... think it'll be a new one tonight? One can hope.
I realize my last few entries have mostly revolved around my displeasure with the increasingly cold weather, so I'll try to think of something else to say...
My brother turned 17 last weekend. Ack! I keep a picture of him from when he was 3 on my bedroom mirror. He's wearing a straw hat, a pillowcase cape, and sweatpants up past his bellybutton. It's the costume for his superhero alter-ego, the Massed Offender. It's supposed to be "Masked Avenger," but when you're 3 you say what you can. He's a junior in high school now, well past the years of Winnie-the-Pooh and make-believe. His favorite way to pass the time (when he's not with his girlfriend, I'm guessing) is to play drums in his band Are We Dead Yet? I asked him to explain that name to me once but I still didn't understand. Maybe it's a teen angst thing. Anyway, it makes him happy.
His hair is once again a 'fro, his thick blond curls too fabulous to chop off. There was a long period of time when he kept his hair rigidly short. Maybe it was the private Christian school, maybe it was maternal influence. Either way, 2nd-7th grade saw a ferociously uptight Nicky. The poor kid. It's hard to be yourself - at that age, to find yourself - when the odds are stacked against you. I should know, I've been there. We went to the same school, we have the same mother. And that isn't a slam against Mom. It's just the truth. She knows it. Her two kids will struggle all their lives with perfectionism, inferiority, and general social awkwardness. I've learned how to deal, but it's taken me a long time and I still don't have a handle on it completely. Nick-o, well, I'm so impressed with the person he's becoming. He's a good kid. A good 17-year-old kid.
He'll be looking at colleges now, deciding what to do with his future. It's nerve-racking to think that next year his high school graduation will fall on the 10-year anniversary of my own. Ack! (Another ack!) How time flies. His future is his to make. Possibilities? Endless. I remember that time well. Everything was unknown, but there was so much hope. What would I study? What would I do? Where would I work? Who would I marry, and when we I meet him? Each year that passes the future gets shorter (now if that isn't a happy thought I don't know what is...). I guess that's why we make the most of it while we can.
I hope my brother doesn't decide to do something with his life because he feels obligated, or because he feels it's his only option. I hope he knows he can do anything. Well, maybe not anything, but almost. I hope his increasingly cynical view of the world diminishes as he gets older, not because there aren't things to be cynical about in our world, but because going through life jaded is no way to live. I hope he learns to be truly happy. (I'm not saying he isn't happy now, but he's in high school, you know? How happy can a kid really be with all the crap that comes with it?)
Anyway, I guess I've gone on about the Nickster long enough. Time to call it quits tonight and catch up on Grey's... think it'll be a new one tonight? One can hope.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
It's getting rather chilly in northeastern Wisconsin. I wouldn't mind so much if the chill wasn't accompanied (or rather, caused by) the wind. I happen to live in a wind tunnel. I guess compared to other areas of town it's a relatively new development (if by "new" we're talking in the past thirty years). It's close to the freeway and several businesses, and apparently trees didn't make it onto the blueprints when this area of town was being planned. I mean, there are trees, just not that many. It is remarkably more windy the fewer trees there are. Thus, I live in a wind tunnel.
It makes for some unfortunate hair days.
However, it doesn't rain as much once it gets this cold/windy/unnecessarily miserable. That is a major plus. Rain makes for awful hair days.
So, bringing this all back to where I started, it's freaking cold out. A quick check of my hometown newspaper reveals a forecast of 60-degree sunshine for tomorrow, and the next day, and the next... Flippin' California. Of course, it's not always 60 degrees and sunny in NorCal in November. No, I remember the days when my bedroom was used as the "overflow refridgerator" because it was so stinking cold. (It's true. Pity my frozen, teenage self.) There were a couple winters where it actually snowed. (Not in my room. Outside. Outside the house.)
I haven't decided which I prefer - a winter where it might snow once or twice (and may or may not stick), or a winter where you might have one day when it doesn't.
I keep digressing. It's cold. As I try to be more and more eco-friendly, green, or whatever catch phrase you want to use there, I try to use things like the heater less and less. I have sweaters and shirts with long sleeves - I can layer! And I have tons of blankets - I can burrow! Each morning I wake up grateful and slightly amazed that I was not crushed in my sleep by the sheer weight of all my blankets.
I am fairly certain that freezing temperatures are unnecessary until after the official start of winter, and even then it's iffy. Why not wait until January?
It makes for some unfortunate hair days.
However, it doesn't rain as much once it gets this cold/windy/unnecessarily miserable. That is a major plus. Rain makes for awful hair days.
So, bringing this all back to where I started, it's freaking cold out. A quick check of my hometown newspaper reveals a forecast of 60-degree sunshine for tomorrow, and the next day, and the next... Flippin' California. Of course, it's not always 60 degrees and sunny in NorCal in November. No, I remember the days when my bedroom was used as the "overflow refridgerator" because it was so stinking cold. (It's true. Pity my frozen, teenage self.) There were a couple winters where it actually snowed. (Not in my room. Outside. Outside the house.)
I haven't decided which I prefer - a winter where it might snow once or twice (and may or may not stick), or a winter where you might have one day when it doesn't.
I keep digressing. It's cold. As I try to be more and more eco-friendly, green, or whatever catch phrase you want to use there, I try to use things like the heater less and less. I have sweaters and shirts with long sleeves - I can layer! And I have tons of blankets - I can burrow! Each morning I wake up grateful and slightly amazed that I was not crushed in my sleep by the sheer weight of all my blankets.
I am fairly certain that freezing temperatures are unnecessary until after the official start of winter, and even then it's iffy. Why not wait until January?
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