Smashed

I broke one of my great-grandmother's awesome striped drinking glasses Friday night. That makes two of the total stash that have fallen victim to the hardness of my floors. I didn't break the other one myself, but it's still just as broken. My own clumsiness is going to turn me into one of those people who always subconsciously looks for glasses just like these when she goes to flea markets and yard sales, and will end up paying an exorbitant amount for similar glassware as long as it evokes the same kind of fuzzy feelings.

Saturday morning the cats decided they needed to perch on the kitchen windowsill like mountain goats, and knocked off the little cordial carafe my sister gave me one year for Christmas. It smashed into a billion pieces on the counter. You may recall that my cats also broke the Galileo thermometer she gave me for Christmas one year. She's going to start thinking that I'm using "my cats broke it" as an excuse for why I don't have any of her gifts anymore. Effing cats.

I'm reminded of what Virginia Woolf said about every woman needing a padded room of her own. That was Virginia Woolf, right?