It's About That Time, Part Deux

Because I am working on something that might be big, because I am currently too nervous to type, and because I am working on something that might be a big fat bust, I am going to post an entry from my archives here for your reading pleasure. 

I have always really liked this post, but it's not funny.  I mean, maybe parts of it are funny like "yes, that was mildly amusing" but there is really nothing in there that is "haha!  So funny I have now fallen out of my chair!" funny.  And I know what you people want, you want funny!  All the time, with the funny.  Well, I'm sorry, today you will just have to look for humor in my post a little harder.  Or, you could laugh at my writing abilities.  That normally works for me.

I will update on this situation, the thing I am working on, the thing that has me currently in a state of wanting to curl up in a ball and pray and knock on wood and toss salt over my shoulder and not change socks and any perform any other superstitious act I can think up.  But if it turns into a big fat bust, people, I will be sad.  And I might not go into too much detail.  So say a little prayer for me, will ya?  Or, at the very least, toss some salt or something.

------------------------------------------------------------

My favorite necklace right now features the face of an old watch belonging to my late grandmother. She had tons of watches. Lots of big and bead-y necklaces, bracelets, and earrings, too. Tons of gold. By normal standards it's mostly total crap, until recently, when ALL of it has suddenly jumped back into style (Reference! Reference!).  You can thank me later for the links.

I can just picture my grandmother sitting in her art studio, going over her will, pondering what lucky soul would be the recipient of her massive costume jewelry collection. After much thought and prayer, she, in her infinite fashionista wisdom, must have decided that I would be the only person to really appreciate it, and penciled me in right below the line reading "Miscellaneous Items".

I remember the week after she died, helping my mom clean out her little apartment, and hearing the news that I was the Lucky Soul. Here's the jewelry closet, Elise, have at it! I tried parading around with a tiara and at least twelve necklaces in an attempt to convince myself of how awesome my newly inherited riches really were, but I think everyone else was relieved to not have to deal with it, and feigned jealousy to appease me.

I ended up throwing more than half of it away, spending vast amounts of time trying to untangle little pieces of tissue and old bobby pins entwined in long gold chains that looked better suited for tiny lion taming, or as reins for a miniature pony. I found buttons and pins proclaiming that my grandmother had, in fact, successfully finished Weight Watchers in 1973. And then again in 1978. And again in 1984. Pretty damn impressive, if you ask me. I found jewelry that she had made herself, globs of metal clumped together with tiny rhinestones sprinkled randomly throughout. Some of these globs were attached successfully to pins, and some of them were just kind of free-spiriting it through the jewelry cases. There were bags of fake sapphires, false rubies, faux diamonds, and even some tiny yawning hippos. Buttons from untold numbers of Chanel-knockoff suits, ribbons attached to Canadian leaf pins, roosters eating rhinestone worms, and enough bangles to make the 1988 Madonna jealous. I finally packed about four cases full for myself, threw the rest into large Hefty bags, and saluted the end of an era.

Anyway, I like my watch-necklace. I hadn't touched the boxes in several years, but in the past months I have really enjoyed going through the jewelry my grandmother decided to leave to me. I like finding pieces that I can combine to make something new. I think she was right about me.

I made my wedding jewelry out of two of her old necklaces. I wear at least once pendant, chain, or bracelet of hers every single day. I don't know why. I don't do it on purpose. It just happens. Long before she died, before I had any idea of the sheer mass of gold-plating I would someday own, I wore a little pendant of hers. The pendant was nothing but a little glass ball with a mustard seed inside, but for many reasons, it was always a favorite of mine. I always assumed that those reasons had little to nothing to do with my grandmother, but I am starting to think otherwise.

My mother and my grandmother didn't really get along. Nothing dramatic, just your average mother-daughter tension. They didn't understand each other, they were too different and yet too much the same, so on and so forth. A pattern that was repeated nearly exactly in my relationship with my own mother, and in the relationships of a thousand other daughters with a thousand other mothers. So I grew up hearing my mother's frustrations with her mother. She was too sporadic. Too inconsistent. Too free-spirited. Not grounded at all. She had no sense of reality. No concept of time. She was in her own little world. Pretty much the worst insult my mother could throw at me while in our clashing years was to directly compare me to her mother. Even in their last days together, my mom would try to get on the same page, and my grandmother would start a completely new book.

My grandmother and I were never close. I'm not sure why. It wasn't because I disliked her, or because I never saw her. Every normal family holiday she would be there, and as her health faded, she moved to my hometown and was around anytime we wanted to stop by and visit. I talked to her, but it was never about anything real, always just what I had been up to lately, or how to turn on the computer. She painted and drew, made clothing and jewelry, wrote poems, and kept on saying she was going to publish a children's book, one of these days. I really am sorry I didn't get to know her. Thinking back on it, there was probably a whole lot to know.

Anyway, this new necklace of mine, the one featuring a watch face, well, the watch doesn't even work. It's stuck on 10:12, and even though I finally figured out how to make it show the correct time, the winder is permanently broken. I suppose I could take it to a jeweler and get it fixed. My husband thinks this would be the natural step to take, and I don't know for sure, but I am willing to guess that my mother would feel the same way. A watch that doesn't tell time is a rather pointless item, I suppose. But I'm not getting it fixed. I moved the hands back to 10:12. I think it speaks volumes about my grandmother, and about me. And I don't think it's pointless.

I think my grandmother was right about me.

My favorite necklace right now features the face of an old watch belonging to my late grandmother. She had tons of watches. Lots of big and bead-y necklaces, bracelets, and earrings, too. Tons of gold. By normal standards it's mostly total crap, until recently, when ALL of it has suddenly jumped back into style (Reference! Reference!).  You can thank me later for the links.

I can just picture my grandmother sitting in her art studio, going over her will, pondering what lucky soul would be the recipient of her massive costume jewelry collection. After much thought and prayer, she, in her infinite fashionista wisdom, must have decided that I would be the only person to really appreciate it, and penciled me in right below the line reading "Miscellaneous Items".

I remember the week after she died, helping my mom clean out her little apartment, and hearing the news that I was the Lucky Soul. Here's the jewelry closet, Elise, have at it! I tried parading around with a tiara and at least twelve necklaces in an attempt to convince myself of how awesome my newly inherited riches really were, but I think everyone else was relieved to not have to deal with it, and feigned jealousy to appease me.

I ended up throwing more than half of it away, spending vast amounts of time trying to untangle little pieces of tissue and old bobby pins entwined in long gold chains that looked better suited for tiny lion taming, or as reins for a miniature pony. I found buttons and pins proclaiming that my grandmother had, in fact, successfully finished Weight Watchers in 1973. And then again in 1978. And again in 1984. Pretty damn impressive, if you ask me. I found jewelry that she had made herself, globs of metal clumped together with tiny rhinestones sprinkled randomly throughout. Some of these globs were attached successfully to pins, and some of them were just kind of free-spiriting it through the jewelry cases. There were bags of fake sapphires, false rubies, faux diamonds, and even some tiny yawning hippos. Buttons from untold numbers of Chanel-knockoff suits, ribbons attached to Canadian leaf pins, roosters eating rhinestone worms, and enough bangles to make the 1988 Madonna jealous. I finally packed about four cases full for myself, threw the rest into large Hefty bags, and saluted the end of an era.

Anyway, I like my watch-necklace. I hadn't touched the boxes in several years, but in the past months I have really enjoyed going through the jewelry my grandmother decided to leave to me. I like finding pieces that I can combine to make something new. I think she was right about me.

I made my wedding jewelry out of two of her old necklaces. I wear at least once pendant, chain, or bracelet of hers every single day. I don't know why. I don't do it on purpose. It just happens. Long before she died, before I had any idea of the sheer mass of gold-plating I would someday own, I wore a little pendant of hers. The pendant was nothing but a little glass ball with a mustard seed inside, but for many reasons, it was always a favorite of mine. I always assumed that those reasons had little to nothing to do with my grandmother, but I am starting to think otherwise.

My mother and my grandmother didn't really get along. Nothing dramatic, just your average mother-daughter tension. They didn't understand each other, they were too different and yet too much the same, so on and so forth. A pattern that was repeated nearly exactly in my relationship with my own mother, and in the relationships of a thousand other daughters with a thousand other mothers. So I grew up hearing my mother's frustrations with her mother. She was too sporadic. Too inconsistent. Too free-spirited. Not grounded at all. She had no sense of reality. No concept of time. She was in her own little world. Pretty much the worst insult my mother could throw at me while in our clashing years was to directly compare me to her mother. Even in their last days together, my mom would try to get on the same page, and my grandmother would start a completely new book.

My grandmother and I were never close. I'm not sure why. It wasn't because I disliked her, or because I never saw her. Every normal family holiday she would be there, and as her health faded, she moved to my hometown and was around anytime we wanted to stop by and visit. I talked to her, but it was never about anything real, always just what I had been up to lately, or how to turn on the computer. She painted and drew, made clothing and jewelry, wrote poems, and kept on saying she was going to publish a children's book, one of these days. I really am sorry I didn't get to know her. Thinking back on it, there was probably a whole lot to know.

Anyway, this new necklace of mine, the one featuring a watch face, well, the watch doesn't even work. It's stuck on 10:12, and even though I finally figured out how to make it show the correct time, the winder is permanently broken. I suppose I could take it to a jeweler and get it fixed. My husband thinks this would be the natural step to take, and I don't know for sure, but I am willing to guess that my mother would feel the same way. A watch that doesn't tell time is a rather pointless item, I suppose. But I'm not getting it fixed. I moved the hands back to 10:12. I think it speaks volumes about my grandmother, and about me. And I don't think it's pointless.

I think my grandmother was right about me.