When I was in college, I kept a weathered manilla folder on the bottom of my bookshelf between the yearbooks and the photo albums. It was simply labeled Nice Things.
Inside the folder were, well, nice things. Papers I had slaved over, handed back with A’s and complimentary notes from professors. Cards sent by my grandmother (you can always count on her to find the sparkliest, sappiest, most awesome granddaughter card on any given Hallmark holiday). Love letters from boyfriends and drunken photos of girlfriends. The junior year report card on which, for one time in my life, I got a perfect 4.0.
The Nice Things Folder was something I pulled out every so often when the world seemed blue, just to remind myself that there was indeed a reason to live.
And I say that not in a literal suicidal way, but in that overdramatic 19 year-old way; with the same voice that says “kill me now” when you gain one pound, or the diner stopped serving breakfast three minutes before you sat down with your mind set on a Belgian waffle with ice cream.
This week, courtesy of the blogworld, I accumulated enough for ten Nice Thing folders. Maybe more. It’s hard to quantify the pages of virtual good wishes, clever links, hilarious You Tube videos, and a handful of ecards (Ecards! You sent me ecards! Aw, you guuuuuuuys…)
Although a few of your humorous suggestions….hoo boy. Well, it’s the thought that counts, right?
(And for the record, I’m not talking about the Weird Al videos. In fact, I spent many hours on You Tube watching pretty much everything he had ever recorded and am not ashamed to admit it. Who knew that Eat It would hold up in ’06?)
However while I may question the sense of humor from a handful of you, your sense of compassion and kindness is beyond reproach.
I apologize for being so vague about the crapfest that overcame me last week. It’s not move related, although I certainly see why the back-to-back posts last week might give that impression. I assure you that in the upcoming months I will indeed have plenty to whine about regarding our move to the City of Botxed Angels, and will have little hesitation to do so openly.
No, this issue is something with the potential for maximum inner turmoil and suckitude. However right now, it’s entirely in the universe’s hands, not mine. And so I’ve decided to take a bit of a fatalistic view about it and go forward, chin up, until Zeus or Pan or Superman or whoever, decides the outcome.
And so yesterday morning I woke up with a new lightness in my chest. Also, about four new chocolate croissants in my gut. Isn’t there some adage about chocolate-filled pastries healing all wounds?
I wish I could thank you each personally for the much-needed laughs you gave me this week. Consider this it. Yes, I’m talking to you. No, not her, you. Yes you. That thing you wrote? That was awesome! Really, the best out of the whole lot. And if you ever need some cheering up, you know who to come to.
In fact, let me share one of the things that cheered me up this weekend.
To a master improviser like Nate, every one of Thalia’s book is its own set of Mad Libs, an opportunity for the reader to change the words however he’d like. And the great thing is–your 15 month-old kid? No idea at all. Clueless kid.
The other night, Nate took a shot at reading at one of the toy-books. You know what that is–one of those plush toys some well-meaning relative buys your child, that’s also a book. They’re usually valuable enough as a toy that you hang onto it, but not quite so worthy as a piece of children’s literature that it deserves a place on the bookshelf.
Not that we could return it anyway, even if we wanted to, seeing as how the very generous giver of said toy-books also enjoys handwriting personal messages to Thalia in black sharpie marker on the pages.
With no further ado, I give you…
Well, it made me laugh.
I understand completely if you never want to come here again.