As every newlywed husbands knows, or at least quickly finds out (especially if he has a peculiar, shall we say, taste in decor), there are certain material things that he brings into the marriage that don't fit into the interior decorating plan devised by the two newlyweds. What said unsuspecting gentleman will also soon discover is that such items have a tendency to break, disappear, or otherwise fall into unfortunate circumstances that bring about their demise.
There was one such item of mine, a little, cheap, ceramic figure I'd brought back from Japan about 10 years ago of a number of cheery Japanese racoons on a boat. Imagine a 100 yen ceramic version of the below:
Now, imagine my surprise, when I come home one day to my tearful wife explaining how the boat had inauspiciously plummeted from its home on the back ledge of the stove to the tile floor, where needless to say, it found itself in a completely unpresentable state, so I ceremoniously consigned it to the garbage bin. This occurred some weeks, or maybe months ago.
Well, today, another unfortunate event has occurred. If any of you were at our wedding, you will perhaps recall this lovely arrangement.
The large centerpiece was one that I had purchased on a lark when we were looking for vases for the reception. Let's just say that post wedding, it hasn't seen much of the light of day, and I've complained not a whit since honestly I'm not sure what we'd do with the thing. It was quite probably the largest champagne flute ever devised, and useful for drinking one whole bottle of the bubbly, at minimum. Alas, gravity has struck again and my giant drinking vessel is no more.
Now, for certain, I would ascribe no ill motives to my wife, since gravity does indeed often strike with importunate regularity. That said, there does appear a curious correlation between things original to me that she does not find fit for public display in the apartment and ones that end up in an unpresentable state, while I'm not around to prevent their departure from this mortal plane
So...to my intrepid reader, what's next? My probably not original pressing of Thriller, by Michael Jackson? My Jolly Roger, which gleefully watches over our laundry room? I confess I know not why it falls to these specific articles to meet an early demise, but there is certainly a haunting of some sort about this place, and it has no taste for the silly eclecticisms of a bachelor.