contact has been made

If I never told mom that her flower pot broke, it would never ever be traced to me. She would never in a billion years know, and if she happened to ponder the existence of this pot, it would just be in a 5-second “hmm. wonder whatever happened to that?” kind of way. You see, I could easily get away with it.

However, my guilty conscience won’t let me. I stole this flower pot some 10 years or more ago, and every time mom saw it in my house, she would put up a big fuss, and say “IF ANYTHING EVER HAPPENS TO THAT FLOWER POT, I WILL KILL YOU. DO YOU HEAR ME? KILL. YOU.” I would assure her that I took care of things and I never broke them etc, and luckily because she is the ADHD poster child, the subject would move on shortly.

Why did I ever take this flower pot int he first place? Well, number one, because it’s really pretty. It has hand-painted yellow flowers all over it with little blue berries. It looks very French Provinçal. Number two, I was obsessed with plants. I thought that since this particular pot was made to hold plants, well doggone it I would use it for plants. I was reacting to all the things in the house that were made to look at and not to use. I’m talking about all the objets d’art lying around, like vases that couldn’t hold water, teapots that weighed 50 lbs and would never be used for tea if Godzilla had a tea party, the ubiquitous chairs that “weren’t for sitting (I found that out when I sat in one and it collapsed into a pile of dust)” and other thing sitting on shelves blocked by more random stuff so that you couldn’t even see them. I wanted to save this pot from that fate. I was prepared to ENJOY the damn thing for as long as necessary.

I have enjoyed it for 10+ years now… apparently Lola didn’t enjoy it as much as I did, though, because one day I came home from work to find it in 27 pieces (I counted) on the floor.

I am about to be KILLED. She is going to murder me and spare no lecture. No rod, no flail, no switch will be good enough to flay me alive when she discovers this dead pot. It’s a good thing that Congress just passed that bill saying it was OK to torture potential terrorists, because I will be getting a one-way ticket to Guantanamo Bay if Moth has anything to say.

This particular flower pot has sentimental value; moth’s best friend Noelle from college gave it to her. Somewhat later, Noelle developed paranoid schizophrenia, and Moth couldn’t call her anymore, because Noelle would think she was working for the government and trying to get information from her. The flower pot is all Moth has left to remember Noelle by. Alas. And I am responsible for it’s demise.

I picked up all the 27 pieces and, using my archaeological techniques, Crazy-Glued it all back together. Some pieces are missing, and it pretty much looks like ass. However, my plan is to tell Moth how much I enjoyed it while it was in my possession, beg for forgiveness, and swear I will never borrow anything of hers again.

Why do I fear “getting in trouble”? I’m almost 34 fucking years old! Moth has a plastic hip, a plastic wrist, and can barely walk– is she really going to KILL me? I don’t think so. So why don’t I just throw the damn pot out and hope she never mentions it again? I dont’ know. It’s that stupid conscience thing again.

I know this will count against me big time. Everything I’ve ever done counts against me Big Time. My sister’s transgressions were easily forgotten. the teen pregnancies, the alcohol, the drug-fueled school skipping, all the lying and deceit, the stealing the car before she was old enough to have a licence, the having parties in the house and tearing holes in the sheet rock… all that is just “oh, your crazy sister.” However, I once lit the menorah on the windowsill in the kitchen, and the wax from the candles dripped onto the wood, causing the paint to flake. Moth had to re-paint the entire windowsill, an event that took at most an hour. That’s how I’m remembered, as The Daughter Who Tried To Ruin The House. Now I will forever be the Daughter Who Broke Noelle’s Flower Pot. At least maybe she’ll shut up about the damn menorah for once!

I’m hoping that we’re older and have matured to the point where we don’t cry over spilled milk (or broken future heirlooms), but I’m not going to put any money on it. Families are families, which means that the second you are in each others’ company, you revert to all being the way you were at age 10 again. Ah, the dynamics. I can’t wait for the holidays this year. C a n n o t w a i t.