Thursday, February 11, 2010
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Unfortunate Positioning
I suppose it seems like I've been sitting on my glass for 6 straight days doing absolutely nothing... but it's not true. I got knocked off the bedside table on Tuesday-- which is quite a scare.
Thank God for carpet.
I always like being the one who makes it to the bedside table, but it's a little risky. You'd think it's because of all the excess books hanging-out up there, but no, the real Fear Factor lies in that alarm clock.
On Monday night, I was lucky to participate in the dinner hour and since the dishwasher was full (sorry Edna, James and Sippie) I got a quick hand-wash--post pots 'n pans. I can't help but be jealous of those guys. They never get the dishwasher. Sure they complain about the heat, but I think it would be worth it... to always have that one-on-one attention.
Anyway, I aired out on the make-shift drying rack for a while. (See what I mean, the people don't even have the decency to own a drying rack. That's how infrequent the hand-washes are. Instead I get placed on top of a trivet, bottoms-up against the skillet. Precarious.)
But, since I was sitting out already, I got to be the glass of choice for the late-night-water-sip. It seemed like everything was going to be great, because when the book was over, I was placed in the center of the table. Very safe. But, a small person came into the room when it was pitch-dark and suddenly people were very thirsty... so thirsty that I was taken back to the kitchen for a re-fill.
Then I was placed in front the alarm clock. Not good. I could see where this was going before it happened. Arms do funny things in the morning, and this particular arm waged war on the alarm clock before I could make my presence known.
So, down I went. It was a soft landing, but the poor carpet-- he was soaked through to the floorboards. People should be more careful, you know? I still have a bit of a side-cramp, but at least nothing's broken.
Thank God for carpet.
I always like being the one who makes it to the bedside table, but it's a little risky. You'd think it's because of all the excess books hanging-out up there, but no, the real Fear Factor lies in that alarm clock.
On Monday night, I was lucky to participate in the dinner hour and since the dishwasher was full (sorry Edna, James and Sippie) I got a quick hand-wash--post pots 'n pans. I can't help but be jealous of those guys. They never get the dishwasher. Sure they complain about the heat, but I think it would be worth it... to always have that one-on-one attention.
Anyway, I aired out on the make-shift drying rack for a while. (See what I mean, the people don't even have the decency to own a drying rack. That's how infrequent the hand-washes are. Instead I get placed on top of a trivet, bottoms-up against the skillet. Precarious.)
But, since I was sitting out already, I got to be the glass of choice for the late-night-water-sip. It seemed like everything was going to be great, because when the book was over, I was placed in the center of the table. Very safe. But, a small person came into the room when it was pitch-dark and suddenly people were very thirsty... so thirsty that I was taken back to the kitchen for a re-fill.
Then I was placed in front the alarm clock. Not good. I could see where this was going before it happened. Arms do funny things in the morning, and this particular arm waged war on the alarm clock before I could make my presence known.
So, down I went. It was a soft landing, but the poor carpet-- he was soaked through to the floorboards. People should be more careful, you know? I still have a bit of a side-cramp, but at least nothing's broken.
Friday, January 22, 2010
What's In It For Me?
Hi. I'm Glass.
I have been silent long enough and it's time to set the record straight. There's more (so much more) to me than you think. I'm getting tired of being overlooked by what is or isn't contained within me...
What about me? And who I am? For real.
I have been used, shattered, broken and forgotten... cast away thoughtlessly off some far away pier, only to return to some lucky child's sand pail fifty years later. It's been a long and rough life, and I have tales... believe you me... I have tales.
But, has anybody ever asked? I think not.
What they have asked, however, is: "Is the glass half full or half empty?"
My friends who accompany me in this Still Life think I'm lucky. After all, I'm a point of reference for all of human-kind. But what does that saying, that philosophozma, have to do with me? Nothing.
That's right, absolutely nothing.
I mentioned briefly above that I've been used, and quite frankly, I don't know what's worse; to be used in the lippy, tonguey, slobbery sense-- or to be used as a perpetual metaphor.
Sure, it's gross having people splat their H1N1 all over me all the time, but at least there is the hope of hand washing afterward. Ahhh--- hand washing. Is there anything better? Fool dishwashers. I curse the day they were invented. It's like a freaky fun house in there.
But anyway, I think I'd rather be guzzled with streap than constantly used as a metaphor. They're missing the point. They think they're paying me respect... that there's some dignity in referring to me all the time--but it's actually all about them.
Where's the part about me?
No one stops to consider the actual, factual me. Well, I'm here to tell you that those days are over. It's time you all knew the truth about me. It only took me twenty-seven days to type this post-- which pales in comparison to the number of years I've spent in my voiceless prison.
So, here I stand making my thoughts known for the first time... literally, in your face.
I have been silent long enough and it's time to set the record straight. There's more (so much more) to me than you think. I'm getting tired of being overlooked by what is or isn't contained within me...
What about me? And who I am? For real.
I have been used, shattered, broken and forgotten... cast away thoughtlessly off some far away pier, only to return to some lucky child's sand pail fifty years later. It's been a long and rough life, and I have tales... believe you me... I have tales.
But, has anybody ever asked? I think not.
What they have asked, however, is: "Is the glass half full or half empty?"
My friends who accompany me in this Still Life think I'm lucky. After all, I'm a point of reference for all of human-kind. But what does that saying, that philosophozma, have to do with me? Nothing.
That's right, absolutely nothing.
I mentioned briefly above that I've been used, and quite frankly, I don't know what's worse; to be used in the lippy, tonguey, slobbery sense-- or to be used as a perpetual metaphor.
Sure, it's gross having people splat their H1N1 all over me all the time, but at least there is the hope of hand washing afterward. Ahhh--- hand washing. Is there anything better? Fool dishwashers. I curse the day they were invented. It's like a freaky fun house in there.
But anyway, I think I'd rather be guzzled with streap than constantly used as a metaphor. They're missing the point. They think they're paying me respect... that there's some dignity in referring to me all the time--but it's actually all about them.
Where's the part about me?
No one stops to consider the actual, factual me. Well, I'm here to tell you that those days are over. It's time you all knew the truth about me. It only took me twenty-seven days to type this post-- which pales in comparison to the number of years I've spent in my voiceless prison.
So, here I stand making my thoughts known for the first time... literally, in your face.
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