Something Old, Something New

Lately, I’m getting a lesson in not getting attached to things. Maybe I’m gradually becoming more clumsy in my old age, or maybe it’s just a season, but my ownage to breakage ratio is getting worse all the time. After months of research and wedding gift cards burning holes in our marital pockets, we purchased a French press. Ah, the coffee lovers’ dream. We ordered it online and waited nearly a month for it to arrive, but after having it for only 10 days, I knocked it off our tiny counter and broke it into a large pile of coffee grounds and glass. We debated briefly on whether or not to buy a new house with more counter space, but then decided that the $13 glass replacement would be more cost efficient.

In the last few weeks, I’ve dropped bowls (RIP pretty blue bowl), cracked coffee mugs, and swept up some of my favorite dishes, reduced to crumbs after being dropped or tipped over in living life. But when I start to get attached, I remember this:

One day a few years ago, I had the privilege of visiting one of the most creative houses I’ve ever been to. Every room was painted a different bright color, wallpaper was made from pages of magazines and books, and every piece of furniture had personality. When asked if we could eat in the living room, the owner simply stated, “We don’t really have rules around here. If we break something, we just turn it into something else.”

Now I know how many of us are cringing at this moment, thinking of that very pretty couch we don’t want spilled on or that antique serving dish we love so much. But just when I start to feel my heart ache over something lost, I remember her words and immediately try to picture the little pieces as something completely new. I’ve started a collection of reusable broken things to be used at my creative whim, and my pretty blue bowl above is now serving as a soap dish in our bathroom. Sure the edges are a little sharp, but we have plenty of fabric to stop any accidental bleeding. Totally worth it in my book.

What’s your favorite thing you’ve accidentally broken?



We rarely compose posts together, mostly because we haven’t learned to work well together in writing, which is ironic since this is a marriage blog. But today we’re both contributors to a vaguely entertaining post to help you make it through your separation from all of humanity.

As a girl, I enjoy clean, dry fun. This is unfortunate because snow games don’t generally fall under those two categories. But growing up, my favorite memories of snow involved my dad, my sister, and a big red sled. My grandparents lived over a large hill which was perfect for sledding, and if we couldn’t drive up it, we’d park at the bottom and trudge our way to the top, red noses and oversized boots in tow. Our backyard snow adventures left my mom’s dryer running constantly for days on end, working only to dry us out long enough for us to get soaked again. And as mild and wonderful as our first Dallas winter has been, I must admit that my heart finds itself a bit jealous at the thought of so much snow back home, with days off work and board games and hot chili abounding. While you’re all waiting on the white death, remember to see the beauty in it all. And send us some pics!

I was a little less romantic and a tad more adventurous in my gallanting as a young lad.

My buddies and I would troll our neighborhood snagging icicles, molding snowdrifts, and precisely packing dozens upon dozens upon dozens of snowballs. We’d man our boy-made forts and wait for the signal.

Who were we waging war against? I have absolutely no idea. I think sometimes it was each other, other times an unsuspecting neighborhood family, or, if we were feeling especially dicey our parents as they got home for work.

See for us snow days meant engineering prowess, architectural ingenuity, and utter domination of any and all who would dare enter our fortresses of dominion. Like I said, less romantic than Jen, more adventurous. We’re meeting in the middle now though as I’m now subjected to things like “let’s make a rug out of old skirt material” or “can we read Norah Jones lyrics aloud to each other all day?!?”

Somebody toss an icecicle dagger for me today (at an imaginary intruder of course…not a real person)

What’s your favorite snow memory?

Photo Attribution