The Price of Silver

I’ve decided to have nice things.  And by “have nice things” I do mean “haunt the thrift store down the street, rummage through the castoff, once-nice things of others, and then buy them for a quarter.”

It is in this pursuit that I recently purchased seven spoons, four knives, and a book. 

In truth, the book was really less a symbol of sophistication and more just a reflection on the fact that, as a rule, I like books.  And this one had a nice green cover.  As I believe deeply in judging books by their covers, and am fond of green, the fifty cents seemed well worth the impulsive purchase. 

The cutlery, on the other hand, has been a long time coming.

Several years ago, before I put my meager possessions in storage, packed a suitcase, and left the country of my birth for foreign shores, my silverware was already in bad shape.  I was in grad school.  I was poor.  And sometimes I ate with my fingers to avoid the possibility of accidentally consuming rust.  And sometimes I just consumed the rust. 

But I’ve traveled the world now.  I’ve watched the sun rise over ancient ruins, hiked glaciers, argued in foreign languages, and made a general nuisance of myself in any hemisphere you can name.  Clearly, I’ve become worldly and urbane, if not measurably richer, and the thought of eating my frozen waffles with a side of tetanus just doesn’t have the appeal it once did.  So when I returned to the States some time ago and began sifting through my storage unit to see what I’d forgotten I owned, I decided it was time to jettison some flotsam. 

First thing in the dumpster: well, if I’m honest, it was a broken lamp.  Second thing in the dumpster: actually, I think it was a crappy chair.  But definitely somewhere in the first five to seven things in the dumpster: the silverware (which is I think a rather generous term for those particular implements). 

Some partings are difficult, heavy with memory and sentiment.  This one wasn’t.

But the fact remained that now I could still just eat with my fingers, not because I had only rusty spoons, but because I had no spoons at all.  Obviously a step up, but still.  Fingers.

A decision had to be made and this was it: if I was going to have silverware, it was going to be silver ware.  Remember, I’m urbane now and it was time for me to prove it, spoon by spoon. 

A problem arose, however.  Mysteriously, my newfound refinement did not seem to bring with it any level of unearned affluence.  This made me sad.  In a cosmopolitan way, naturally, but sad is still sad and I didn’t enjoy it.  

But a solution was not far behind and an epiphany came to me.  Instead of being Gucci-fancy, I would be Anthropologie-fancy.  Instead of being sleek and elegant (which, let’s be honest, were going to be a stretch anyway), I would be charmingly eclectic and delight others with my laid-back gentility.

So I went to thrift stores and started rifling through tubs of spoons, forks, and knives, searching for the lonely silver islands in an ocean of stainless steel and plastic handles with purpose and resolve.  Bent handles and crooked tines went flying.  Only the best!  My standards were high and I would not be diverted, as evidenced by the facts that I had to body block more than one old woman who started to encroach upon my silverware bucket and that I only bought one book.  To date I have accumulated seven spoons and four knives and they are hard-won.  My spoons may not match my knives or, indeed, each other, but they are silver and I will declare until the day I die (or am rich enough to have a matching set of something and can pretend that it was always so) that this was the plan from the start. 

Despite this clear victory, however, a second problem arose.  My lovely eclectic silverware, while elementally silver, was visually black.  The solution to this was an old one and I took my cues from Carson on Downton Abbey, as I do in most things.  I assumed it would be like this.

I mean I didn’t have an awesome green apron, but I knew it would be but a matter of moments before I was looking at my own reflection in the back of a spoon and enjoying the highly polished fruits of my minimal labors.

But by the time I’d finished two spoons, the remaining five spoons and four knives had somehow become this:

And I was at a loss as to how to explain it.  Before you could say “tarnish is the modern-day result of original sin,” I went from Happy-in-a-Job-Well-Done-Carson to a Someone’s-Going-to-Pay-for-This-Carson.

And then to a different sort of Carson altogether.

But I quickly moved on and finally settled on a still pretty unhappy, but more appropriate Carson.

No matter how you look at it, it wasn’t pretty.  Eventually the spoons and knives were, but I could smell silver polish for two days after and my fingerprints were all either rubbed off or filled in completely with tarnish.  (Which reminds me – I should go on that crime spree I’ve been planning soon – before my fingerprints grow back.  I won’t even have to wear gloves.  Of course, my fingers don’t bend quite as well as they used to.  Maybe I should wait and wear the gloves after all.)

Though I’m glad to say I’ve returned to being a Carson governed once again by civility and equanimity, I confess I am beginning to wonder whether I really need any forks.

Orange You Glad I Didn't Say Banana? (Yes.)

There’s an orange grove near my home in Florida.  Well, if I’m completely honest, there’s an orange grove near everywhere in Florida, and one of them is near me.  After all, the Florida’s Natural plant is only just up the road.  They even have a visitor center.  I assume they give you free orange juice when you go there, otherwise what’s the point?  I must assume this because every time I’ve wanted to stop and find out, a chain link fence on wheels has barred my entry and I’ve left with neither information nor juice, just bitterness in my soul.  I need hardly explain how disappointing to me this is, not because I love orange juice so much – it ties with pineapple as only my eighth favorite fruit juice, coming in just behind aloe, which counts as a fruit in Asia, or seventh behind pomegranate if you’re not in Asia – but really just because I love free things and visitor centers.  Which I think is valid.

In any case, there’s an orange grove near my home in Florida, and it’s orange picking time.  It’s been orange picking time for a while now and it’s not uncommon to see old school busses that have been poorly painted white or bluish waiting in the parking lot at the CVS for the day’s workers to show up and then get carted over to a grove that needs picked. 

And it’s easy to spot the route that trucks take once the workers have filled them up with oranges.  Locals have been known to stop by the side of the road and pick up the oranges that roll off the tops of the trucks at stoplights or coming around corners.  Granted, they have been sitting in the gutter for a little while, but that’s just one more good reason not to eat the peel.  Don’t eat the peel.

So, this grove near my home.  I confess I expected it to smell like oranges, evoke memories of lazy summer afternoons and picnics, and give me a general feeling of well-being as I sauntered contentedly in the dappled shade of leaves. 

In retrospect, I see that this was a misplaced hope.  If you pick up an orange in Wal-Mart, or whatever your grocery store of choice may be, seldom does it smell super-orangey.  Maybe if the skin is thin.  The skins of our oranges are not thin.  What it smells like in the grove is sand.  And rotting oranges.  Which is not the same as a picnic at all.  All around, under heavy-laden branches sit the sad fruits that just couldn’t hang on any longer.  The oranges that, despite their best efforts to cling to the branch the provided them with nutrients, protection, and companionship, have let go and fallen with a gentle thud into the sand below where a little time and a lot of ants begin the process that will return them back to the earth from whence they came.  Ashes to ashes and oranges to dust.  But in the meantime the grove smells like sand and rotting oranges.

And sometimes rotting carcasses.  Because aside from not smelling the way I think they should, orange groves are also more dangerous places than I expected.  It seems that around these parts at least, there are wild hogs that prowl the groves, looking for someone to devour.  Or oranges.  Possibly just oranges.  Either way, I’ve seen tracks, and driving past the grove on the way to church the other day, spotted the massive prone form of a hog that had eaten one orange too many and given up his porcine ghost.  On the way out of town he was just a lonely hillock of pork between two orange trees, but by the time I was on my way back home, he’d been joined by quite a few friends intent on helping him lighten his load as he passed from this world to the next.  

They were feathered friends. 

Vultures.  They were vultures.

So now when I take my constitutional through the grove it is with a wary step.  I already had to keep a weather eye open for the people working the grove who I’m guessing would not appreciate my presence.  Up to now I’ve chosen to misunderstand the No Trespassing sign.

Which hasn’t been difficult.  But I doubt the guy in charge of the orange trucks (or the local authorities) will be overly inclined to believe my innocent-face when I claim ignorance.

But now, on top of that, I have to be on the lookout for wild creatures that could (and most likely want to) gore me to death and leave me for the vultures.  Yesterday I saw the picked-over remains of a deer in the grove.  Naturally, I assume a hog got it.  I have no direct evidence for this, but I will defend this belief vociferously if pressed.  

You may well wonder why I don’t just turn left instead of right as I pass my mailbox.  The truth is grim.  The threat of prosecution at the hands of vindictive orange farmers and dismemberment upon the tusks of wild animals strike less fear in my heart than the hordes of old people who live all around me.  If I don’t turn left I’m in the wretched bowels of a retirement community where the antediluvian denizens look at me with suspicion in their eyes, resentment in their hearts, and naught but skin and liver spots between them and the clouds.  They all have golf carts and they’re not afraid to use them.

It’s like Cocoon around here.  There’s even a pool down the block and I constantly see them splashing around as if to give the impression of youth.  It bodes ill. 

Given the choice between the unconscionably old and the feral swine, I’ll take the feral swine.  And if I have to get arrested for it, so be it.

Bad, Bad Company 'Till the Day I Die

As I strolled through the bookstore the other day, minding my own business, like I always do, I came suddenly upon a shelf display that sent my mother’s voice pinging around the vast hollow spaces inside my skull.  “Choose your friends carefully,” her rather echo-y voice admonished, “because I’m going to have to tell you that I told you so when they get you into trouble.  You can’t say I didn’t warn you and it will be your own fault.  Those kids are disrespectful and they’re going to be a bad influence even if you don’t think that’s true and when you end up in jail you just better not try to blame me or your father and we’re not going to bail you out either.  You can just sit there.”

While her voice continued on in that vein for a while, I let my mind drift a bit, recalling the story of young Fred and reflecting on his sad fate.

He was a nice boy, Fred.  Bit of a troubled soul, but still – that’s pretty par for the course these days.  And his mom was a nice sort, devout.  He had plenty of, uh, friends.  He liked animals.

But then, like so many kids do, he fell in with the wrong crowd.  At a bookstore, as it happens.  On a shelf.

Well, he started running around with pop stars and psychiatrists, poltergeists and tiny yellow Cyclopes.  Pretty soon these new friends had him cutting class and smoking in the boy’s room, sassing his mother and staying out late.  And, just like that, before you could say “Bob’s your uncle,” he was a Psychotic killer spirit with a crazy laugh, murdering children both in their dreams and out of them and goodness knows what else. 

I’m not sure we can chalk that one up to coincidence. 

Fortunately, on the very next shelf were these fine defenders of law and order.

And, in the middle, a blonde with a bowl cut.

Though it was clear to me by now that a pretty tough crowd ran in this bookstore, it was equally clear that one or another of these paragons of virtue would be able to handle any situation that might arise concerning the safety of innocent shoppers nearby.  And naturally, by “one or another of these paragons of virtue” I do mean “Chuck Norris.”  Chuck Norris makes onions cry.  And Freddy Krueger.

The moral of this story: Be mindful of the company you keep, but, should the worst happen and fictional serial killers of any sort have your back against the wall, call Chuck Norris. 

Bonus moral: Your mother is always right.  Even when she chooses to let you rot in hypothetical future-prison for crimes you are not likely to commit.  It’s for your own good.

A Journey of Self-Discovery: Zimbio Pirates I Have Been

Never in the history of mankind has the accumulated knowledge of the cosmos been closer to our fingertips.  Every day, we know more about our universe, our planet, our fellow humans, and when I have a question about these things, a few keystrokes find me the answer.  How many miles are between here and Harry Potter land at Universal Studios?  Sixty-eight!  What color is a black hole?  No color at all!  Where have I seen Andrea from The Walking Dead before?  Oh right, The X-Files!  We are knowledgeable.  We are brilliant.  We are captains of all we survey and we know it because the internet has told us so.

But we are also searchers.  We are the bold descendants of Captain Cook and the forbears of Captain Kirk, and we crave the greatness that comes with new understanding.  So with all this information about our world so readily accessible, where do we turn to explore?  What frontiers remain while we’re still waiting for our five-year mission aboard the United Space Ship Enterprise, which, annoyingly, has not yet been built?  Invariably, we turn inward, to the alien waters of our own mysterious psyches and pray that it doesn’t turn out to be a Heart of Darkness kind of trip.

Now, I've heard that there are people who spend years in therapy with trained professionals who try doggedly to bring them closer to a full understanding of who they are and who they can be, while others willingly offer up thousands of hard-earned dollars on the golden altar of Know Thyself at seminars, in bookstores, or in online psychic chat rooms at five dollars a minute.  And I gather yoga’s becoming very popular again.

I have Zimbio and I can uncover the elusive truth of my immortal soul in 15 easy questions. 

How did the trauma of not being given a larger allowance when I was seven damage my current moral code?  I don’t know, but my favorite of these colors is blue.

Will walking the rows of a Kenyan coffee plantation finally eradicate my complete disinterest in coffee as a beverage and the social stigma I bear as a result?  Your guess is as good as mine, but when it’s time to get a job done I choose to get my money up front and I’m not putting my neck on the line for anyone.

Can my inability to tolerate PF Flyers as an adequate alternative to Converse All-Stars be traced back to the time I accidentally watched the beloved-older-brother-getting-stabbed-and-then-run-over-by-a-train scene from Sometimes They Come Back when I was ten?  Well.  Probably.  And of the following foods I prefer pizza as a late night snack.

In analyzing these and other revealing decisions, the Zimbio quiz wizards (Quizards?  I think it should probably be quizards.) have distilled the vast wisdom of both philosophy and psychology into the likening of any unique human individual to a pre-described set of fictional characters, celebrities, and pop songs.  I am Robin Scherbatsky because I am fiercely independent and ever so slightly aloof!  I am Veronica Corningstone because I am smart, hard-working, and look good in front of the camera!  If I were a David Bowie I would be Berlin Bowie because I’ve learned to cherish reality and admire clean minimalism!  And my personal Beyoncé anthem is “Run the World” because I get things done, and I get them done right!  I have regal grace, gosh darn it, and I am enlightened enough to admit it!

Who can argue with keen and uncompromising results like those?  No one, that’s who.

And because I can put my faith in the unfaltering Zimbio method, I have come to realize that in my heart I am a pirate several times over.

Now, we all know that, despite the specious claims of generations of historians (and Robert Louis Stevenson) inexplicably intent on giving rascally seafaring renegades a bad name, pirates are actually lovely human beings.  Errol Flynn and Dustin Hoffman taught us this long ago much more thoroughly than any history book or news report ever could.  Oh, pirates may be a bit rough around the edges perhaps, but ultimately they’re really just misunderstood.  We’re talking hearts of gold here.  Even when Greedo shoots first.  So when I began to notice a distinct list toward piracy as I explored the dark recesses of my soul, I took special note and gathered my findings.

And, for the sticklers among you – those who become pirates in the future count as pirates in the present.  Don't argue with me on this unless you desire a thorough skewering on the business end of me cutlass.

           

Naturally, a galaxy far, far away was the first place I looked for self-knowledge, as many have done before me.  I knew already, of course, that I’m sharp, resourceful, and independent, but I had no idea that I was also so charismatic.  Frankly, I’m not sure others know it, yet, either.  I should probably start slipping it into conversation.  It was hard to be told that I have such shadily opportunistic and scoundrelly tendencies, but this is what personal growth is about – learning the difficult truths about ourselves and coming to terms with them.  Which I have apparently already done, since I like that just fine.  Sure, I would have liked to have discovered my inner Obi-Wan, thereby justifying my nearly constant desire to wave my hand in front of people’s faces and tell them that these are not the somethings they’re looking for, but this way I can justify being a bit rude and rolling my eyes instead.

And my space pirate opportunism was confirmed when, out of all the inhabitants of Storybrooke, I was deemed the spitting mental image of fairy tale pirate Captain Hook.  A shrewd freebooter of the highest caliber, I may unfortunately have to play both ends against the middle while I figure out which side is winning – that’s just practical – but I’m happy to take comfort in my sexy rebelliousness and I think you should, too.  And though I’m not entirely sure how good lone wolves are at driving fast cars (Thumbs might be a problem there.  Should it be a fast ship?  Is there a fast shipping lane?), I evidently drive with passion and that’s what I’ll tell the fuzz when I get pulled over.

Unless, of course, I’ve decided to proudly manipulate or trick my way to my destination like Captain Jack, who, among all Johnny Depp’s characters, most closely resembles my own.  But, since my destinations are usually adventurous and uncharted and I’m sharing my rum, do we really need to complain about me tricking you?  No, wait.  I’m a lone wolf so you’re not there.  Never mind, it wasn’t you.  I probably tricked someone at customs.  And I think we can all agree that they most definitely deserved it.  I mean, seriously, 100 ml?  Give me a break.  I’ll share my rum with my taxi driver on the way to exploring my hotel if the bottle hasn’t broken in the bag that I had to check.  Jerks.

Though if that bottle has broken, you should expect swift retribution, capo ferro style.  I might be a lone wolf now, but I used to have a family (who will probably be sad to find out that they have been murdered), and the loss has clearly unhinged me.  My fierce loyalty to I guess their memory and my steadfast determination to exact revenge upon the, uh, six-fingered blackguard who broke my rum bottle will make you rue the day you ever . . . did something that made me want to get even with you.  It’s probably rum related.  So.  Just remember this, you lousy punks – never go in against a Sicilian when – oh, hang on, that’s not – .  Actually, remember this – I am not left handed!  

I think it’s clear to see the amount of introspective mileage I’m going to be getting out of these pirates.  Now I understand why my small allowance was so traumatic.  It wasn’t gold doubloons.  And my problem with coffee?  It isn’t rum.  I think the PF Flyer thing is still Stephen King’s fault, though.

Now all that’s left for me to decide is whether I’m hoping more for a The Pirates! quiz or a Black Sails quiz next.  In the meantime I’m off to Buzzfeed to try their Once Upon a Time quiz.  I have a very swashbuckly feeling about it.  Fair winds!