I Can't Have Nice Things

Remember when your mom would say that in utter disgust when you and one of your siblings accidentally knocked over a chair or dropped a dish in your childhood clumsiness? And the WAY she said it too, with a sigh and a tone of just the most defeated frustration you've ever heard? Yeah. Also recall, if you will, how you snorted under your breath and swore on your Trapper Keeper, Depeche Mode albums, and posters of Knight Rider---all the priceless treasures that you held near and dear---that you would never allow yourself to speak such silly, silly words over such trifling things as furniture, china, art, antiques, jewelry, and crystal?

Well, I'm very sorry to have to inform you---here, now, sit down, that's better---it grieves me to have to tell you now that your mom...was right. Whatever she said, I don't care; it's all true. All of it. She couldn't have nice things. Not while anyone under the age of 17 lived in the house, anyway.

And now, dear readers, I found that I have truly begun my great transformation into my mother because I uttered those very same words this evening upon the discovery of this in my bedroom:


Yes. I know. Oh in case you can't see it, here's a close up of that yellow vase, which landed in the middle of my overturned and splayed make-up case:


Notice how it's broken. I assure you, it was not that way this morning when I left it, resting, peacefully, without knowledge of the atrocity in its near future. Also worth noting is how that little vase was a handmade piece of pottery with a sculpted green dragonfly on it. There is not another like it.

I would, in addition, like to point out the ivory, hand-painted, floral jewelry box that somehow managed to be flung to the opposite side of the bedroom, its contents spilled out all on the carpet:

Those are all my good earrings in there---well, now all over the floor: Gold, pearls, the lovely diamond earrings that my grandmother gave me about a week before she passed away.

I remained.

Now, I've always heard that a criminal almost always returns to the scene of his/her crime.

Voila!


And it's none other than Squinty McFootball-head Magoo (Titus). Why am I not surprised?

Sigh. What can I say? I can't have nice things.