Because of the tchotchkes.
(This is the point where I will brutally honest and admit that I was never, ever cool. I was dorky and weird. When you are 13? Dorky and weird are not cool. When you are 52, you can get away with it.)
But as I was explaining to my friend Karianne, there is nothing I can do.
I am the keeper of the tchotchkes and the stories that they tell.
|Doesn't everyone have a Queen Plate?|
My children laugh at me for having a "old lady" room. But it's not really MY old lady room...it's the room of many old ladies.
My tchotchkes? Are the tchotchkes of those who came before.
So what do you do when faced with tchotchke elimination? Do you get rid of Grandma Flossie's Royal Doulton's 'Autumn Breezes' and 'Top 'o the Hill'?
Do you get rid of Lyons crocks--after all, you were born there, in a hospital that has been turned into a unisex hair salon--and the crock company closed its doors in 1902, so who cares?
Well, I guess I do.
And when your elderly mom says "I want you to come pick up a few things" and you drive 714 miles to pick up a lamp and some ironstone...do you throw it out at the side of the road?
I would love to be someone with the "cool" living room--like Jessica --but apparently, I am the keeper of the flame. Or, in my case, the keeper of the old ladies' stuff.
And I take that job seriously.