The other day, my husband, Frank, showed me a crack in the enamel on our hideous chartreuse decorative vase. He said it looked as though someone had chipped the item and then made a clumsy attempt to repair the damage using superglue.
The implication was that the sneaky someone who had carried out this inept scheme was none other than yours truly—an accusation I found distressing, not because it suggests I am dishonest or bad at arts and crafts, but because it suggests a fundamental misunderstanding of my character.
I am, at core, a blabbermouth. As such, I would never, upon breaking something, resort to subterfuge and secrecy. I would sing like a canary—relying, as always, on chatter as my first and only recourse for everything, good and bad, that befalls me.
This is why I would be a terrible criminal. This is why the other kids in my elementary school would never let me in on the juiciest secrets after they discovered my true nature when I couldn’t resist spreading the news in third grade that Jonathan S. liked Jordana W.
And look-it, now I’ve spread that news further.
You’d think my alleged life partner, who’s supposed to know me better than anyone, would have no doubts about whether I’m capable of being discreet. He should know by now that of course I am not.
That said, I do have a motive for destroying the chartreuse vase: I don’t like it. The thing is misshapen (it reminds me of the Sorting Hat at Hogwarts) and, as you might have guessed, it’s also chartreuse, which is French for “the color of what comes up when there’s nothing left in your stomach but undigested bile.”
Frank bought the vase at a CB2 store back when we lived in Chicago. We had recently moved to a new apartment and needed décor. Ol’ Sharty, as I have just now decided to call the vase from here on out, came with a smaller sibling in gray, but it got broken during a subsequent move.
Sharty, however, has survived to stain the interiors of our home following relocations to Brooklyn, Harlem, and Cambridge, Mass. Since I have not liked the object for some time now, I suppose it’s not inconceivable that I would commit an act of vandalism—to get Sharty, as it were.
But then, why would I glue it back together?
Having eliminated me as a suspect, Frank surmised next that the cleaning people might have chipped the vase by accident somehow and then hastily tried to cover their tracks. But that scenario strikes me as considerably less likely than the simple explanation of normal wear and tear, which everything undergoes, especially things that are old and cheap (believe me, I can relate).
Not that Frank would ever confront the cleaning people about anything, mind you. For that matter, neither would I. About anything. Ever. We have far too much liberal guilt for that—liberal guilt that stops, luckily for us, just short of making us scrub our own toilet.
At any rate, the mystery regarding the crack of Sharty remains unsolved, and I guess it’ll have to stay that way. Frank turned the affected area toward the wall. I’m learning to accept the things I cannot change.
Indirect Objects 