I can’t have nice things.
That’s because within months, sometimes weeks, they are no longer nice things. You see, I have a tendency to spill, rip, stain, break and generally ruin stuff.
On those rare occasions when I do have nice things, I try to be so careful that I usually end up doing exactly what I tried hard to avoid. Like being told not to think about the pink elephant in the room. Once it’s in your brain, that’s ALL you can think about.
Try carrying a cup o’ joe filled to the rim and you’ll be walking as if you’ve had too many cosmos. Suddenly the ground feels shaky, like walking on a waterbed. The slower you step, you can bet spillage is going to occur. That’s what happens to me when I’m attempting to be careful.
Take last week. We had a tennis team birthday luncheon for 4 of our teammates. Kathy hosted the party of 11 in her gorgeous home straight out of House Beautiful. It’s elegant, tasteful and sophisticated. In other words, it’s not my house.
You can be sure there are no reproductions on Kathy’s walls. Hers are all originals. No area rugs from Pier 1, like at my abode. Her rugs under immaculate living room furniture are excuisite. And probably highly stainable.
So you can see my dilemma. I was nervous the moment I walked in, afraid I’d ruin something. No doubt Kathy would forgive me but still, I tried hard not to spill. Hello, pink elephant.
Within moments of helping myself to the cheese platter, I was looking at a chunk of brie lying on Kathy’s area rug. One bite of the delicate cracker and a chunk of sticky cheese plopped to the carpet, cheese side down (naturally). I quickly swooped down and snatched it up like a dive-bombing bird.
So who knows what I was thinking when I poured myself a glass of Pinot. That’s the trouble; I wasn’t. Thinking, that is. Thankfully, I didn’t ruin anything of Kathy’s but I did manage to spill on my white top. I seriously should own stock in Spray and Wash.
Fortunately, in my home I can blame my lack of having nice things on my 7 pets. Still, they weren’t the ones to crack the tile on my kitchen floor. That’d be me. It couldn’t be a tile hidden in the corner near the pantry. No, it’s the very first one you see when entering the kitchen.
My bathroom cabinet door is hanging off its hinge because I have a tendency to lean on it when looking under the counter, so I’ve stripped the screw. Over and over again. Now I leave the door hanging.
I somehow chipped the granite on my kitchen counter, probably dropping something from the dishwasher. One of the casualties of slippery fingers is that few of my water glasses match.
Speaking of glasses, I keep my prescription lenses for driving safely ensconced in my glove box for fear I’ll break them. Therefore, they don’t get used. Instead, I buy the cheapy readers from the Dollar Store because when I lose, scratch, or sit on them, which I do about once a month, I’m not out $200. The way I look at it, I’m saving $199 a month.
Now don’t get me wrong; I’d love to have nice things but I gave up that fantasy long ago. Then I saw Kathy’s home and couldn’t help but be envious of her dining table without chewed corners from the dog she doesn’t own; no thick layer of fur on her immaculate bed from multiple cats she doesn’t have. (Kathy’s lone cat, Penny, prefers a chair.)
At my house, I simply replace the things I seem to ruin on a regular basis because I have no originals of anything; nothing worth holding my breath around. In other words, my favorite saying at home is: C’est la vie.