Headline: Area Woman Destroyed Anniversary, Now Destroys Gift

 The MoMA Design Store Square Ribbon Vase, by American designer Peter Hewit - 

Photo from home-decor.hsn.com

“Honey, I’ve got some bad news…No, no.  I just…um…accidentally broke THE Vase.”  I said. I pressed one palm against my bucking heart, while the other one sweat all over the phone.

We have many vases, but there's just one that would merit such a nervous confession.

I squeezed my eyes shut, waiting for my husband's response. When I accidentally dropped and broke the plate that rotates in the microwave, he was Not Happy, and that thing wasn't emotionally charged at all.

THE Vase has been a sore spot between me and My Patient Husband (MPH) for ten years. It was his  present to me for our 5th Anniversary. Back then, MPH would attempt to choose gifts for me without my “help,” (read: explicit instructions.) I like anniversary gifts that are expensive and flashy, or lacking that, thoughtful enough to show the he pays a suitable amount of attention to me. Yes, I'm as shallow as a kiddie pool.

THE Vase he got for me was not flashy.  It was thoughtful, and a bit expensive, but those facts were woefully hidden in a crappy-looking box.

My face tends to telegraph my moods, which paired with my minuscule capacity for tact, leads to an inability to hide what I really think. What my face doesn't say, my foot will provide on it's way to my mouth. Whatever my face was doing as I pulled off the wrapping paper, it was not good.  I couldn’t hide the disappointment. Then, quickly, MPH couldn't hide his either. It all went in the hand basket then.

"But wait! What the **** was wrong with it," You ask?

One problem. Okay, four.  

First, it was still in its box with a really sucky photo of it on the cardboard. It looked to me like he'd picked it up on clearance at a grocery store, inexpensively. Not Anniversary material.

The second problem was that I pulled out of that box a minimalist glass vase consisting of two nine inch squares of thick tempered glass with a thick metal ribbon sandwiched between them in the shape of a round vessel. (See picture above, imagine it without the tulip) It was heavier than our unabridged dictionary and it looked very…masculine.  Not pretty, not flashy. It was understated, elegant in its precise geometric simplicity, and somehow monolithic, despite being only nine inches high. Even when I carefully set it down, it made a loud thunk.  It was a man's vase. (My apologies to the designer, Peter Hewit, I really tried to like it!)

Third, since I assumed he bought it at whatever store was closest (we lived in Chicago at the time and he rarely ventured into the city) I had no idea he had (thoughtfully) taken the train all the way downtown to browse the gift shop of the Museum of Contemporary Art (I loved this gift shop! The museum wasn't too shabby either.)

The Fourth problem was that THE Vase was still in the box, meaning it did not contain flowers! Now, you may be saying to yourself "that's a Glass Half-Full situation." To your face, I would agree with you.  But inside I'd be shouting: "B.S.! That Glass is Half-Empty!"

Buying the flowers was the whole point in the first place! (Would he give me an empty ring box next? Take me to a closed restaurant?) I assumed because THE Vase was itself the gift, it'd be awhile before he'd work up more money to put something in it. This postponed indefinitely any ability to boast of my romantic husband with 'frequent flower miles.' Har-dee-har.

THE Vase was actually quite beautiful once it had flowers in it. But, if I had just received it in a shopping bag with the museum’s name on it, that alone might have restrained my face before it let rip its first impression.

How was I supposed to know he put all that effort and expense into the gift when the clues were all missing?

That was my defense, which I held onto, and reiterated, all these years, whenever the vase was either brought out to use, or mentioned in therapy.

A better question would have been: "How could I NOT see how obnoxious and bratty I was being?"
Or, “How could I still doubt he really loves me?”
Followed by: “How much proof will ever be enough?"

Yes, yes, a price tag is not a reasonable measure of one's worth. It's immature and hurtful.
But as my friend David said once while reflecting on some of his personal faults, “We are...what we are.”  Then he shrugged his shoulders, letting them speak the question:  “What can you do?"

Some part of me will always crave big gestures as proof of his love, and another part will be ashamed that I still want them.  And a third part of me will always enjoy fart jokes. (My shoulders repeat the question: “what can you do?”)

What can you do when you struggle with a selfish, ungrateful heart which you have no idea how to fix, you just know it's hurting? Isn't the affection of a husband supposed to take away that gnawing fear that you're unlovable and not worth much?

What can you do when your wife judges the depths of your love by the amount of money you're willing to spend on her, against your better judgment? Did I mention my husband is patient?
(I still say “a waste of money” is in the eye of the beholder.) 

My Patient Husband's response to hearing that I'd destroyed THE Vase was that he understood it was not intentional, and he wasn’t upset. If I remember right, he seemed amused at how anxious I had been.

It had not broken, really. The glue holding it together melted in the dishwasher. I was trying to be a good wife by cleaning the indestructable green scum I had let form on the inside by leaving the latest anniversary flowers sit in it until they were withered, brown and moldy.  THE Vase fell into pieces in my hands.
You know...microwave plates, flower vases...perhaps I shouldn't do dishes anymore, since I am now The Destroyer.

You bet your sweet keister I'm relieved it broke, but staring at its parts on the counter, I was surprised how little victory I felt. I outlived it, I ought to be dancing on it's grave. But like a dark amulet, when it broke, my bad feelings evaporated. The fight is over, long past. I no longer need to pretend I'm gracious by bringing it out, dusting it off and hiding it under a bunch of pretty flowers. Thank God the things of this world are temporal.

Now I breathe easier, smile faster and hug longer, which seems to inspire MPH to do the same. If only we'd had a dishwasher ten years ago.

New blog, more general.

Hello all!
I'm starting a new blog that speaks more generally about my life now that it's way past the makeover.
Follow the yellow brick link:
http://buttersideuppity.blogspot.com/2010/10/burning-quest-to-be-average.html

Hope you like the new blog, I will post at least once a week with either a new drawing, some new writing, or both, like you'll see in the first post.
Love!
Jen Kelly

A burning quest to be sufficient.

      Drawing and Writing Copyright Jen Kelly 2010                                                                                                                          Disclaimer: My drawing and writing are products of my warped, incomplete and self-centered memory. 
Distortion and inaccuracies are normal.

My Grandma was the last in a string of shoe-tying instructors. At seven years old, I was humiliated that I couldn't tie my own sneakers, a feat most of my peers had mastered over a year before. When watching others demonstrate the shoe-tying process I'd never noticed the part where they'd push the lace through the loop with a fingertip. You've got to admit it's a bit of a sleight of hand maneuver, right? (Clears thoat) Right?

In addition to all the other things that eluded me: beauty, money, and athletic talent, I didn't want to appear to also lack intelligence. Evidently that particular neurosis started early, that and trying to hide my shortcomings.

It was maddening to know that I was smart and capable, but oddly unable to produce evidence of this when pressed (story of my life!) Most everyone eventually learns to tie a bow, but for some reason the standard teaching practices were not enlightening me, and I was past due.  I was going to be teased again when school started. And nothing hurt me more than teasing I couldn't dispute.

Grandma and I sat perched on the vinyl window seat with the summer sun frying our backs as she tied her shoe over and over for me. While watching this, I SAW it for the first time: the loophole, the fingertip, the missing link. And from that moment on, I could replicate the process just fine.

That made me blissfully the same as everyone else my age. Maybe there wasn't anything wrong with me. The relief was so explosive that the memory of that moment is the one foremost in mind about Grandma.

In case you're wondering what this has to do with anything, well, I get the same experience hearing other people's stories. It's a massive relief to see that a dysfunction--that I had thought was wholly my own--is actually common. In other words, I'm the same as everyone else. But instead of matching in basic life skill capabilities, I match in being imperfect.

It’s funny how being screwed up is easier when I'm not the only one. Others' acknowledgment of their own faults makes me feel validated, loved, and okay.

I hope you feel loved when you come and read, because I love to hear myself talk, and I've got more faults to acknowledge than San Francisco could shake a stick at.
What a combo!

Jen Kelly