“Hello all, one hundred years ago today we, as a community, decided it would be fun if we stowed away some pieces of memorabilia from said time for future generations to inspect and allow for a greater understanding of their time. So without further adieu let us open the time capsule. First we have a face mask. This of course was used during the halitosis plague, until it got so bad that people’s malodorous breath would corrode the cotton and they had to opt for steel instead. Next we have a shard of glass. This of course was the integral pice of a game called shard game. Neighborhood kids would go around ringing doorbells and stabbing their elders with the glass. Truly a simpler time. Oh, what’s this? It appears to be a letter. It’s rather lengthy, would anyone like to hear it? Alright then let us see what was so important to, em, a Ms. Connie Barbera.
The Morrison Family was a well respected and well liked family within our community of Huntington Hallows. Surrounding families were stunned when they found out that their neighbors were capable of such a deceitful act, how out of character. The Morrisons were pretty much just like everyone else. A couple of kids, nice dog, well manicured grounds, barbecues, sporting practices, all the average family stuff is what the Morrisons inhabited. They certainly did not draw any attention from police officers or insurance fraud investigators. As a matter of fact the only reason they were caught is because of how unsuspecting they were. I of course am the only one who knows the truth, Jackie Morrison’s best- ex-best friend.
Determined to stay out of the spotlight, to avoid any sort of confrontation, the Morrisons kept to themselves. Sure they had their friends, but as a unit they hated being uncomfortable. Jackie, the mother, had been restless since Christmas. It took me weeks to get any sort of conversation out of her. Throughout all of January she was dodgy. Many times I asked if anything was wrong and of course she would deny, that’s just the kind of person she is, but the more it persisted I began to think that I was her problem. I was mad at her for a short while because I thought she was mad at me. That theory soon faded because I realized she continued to approach me for conversations, however brief they were (she had a brilliant sense of her surroundings and probably sensed that I was mad because I thought she was mad and she quickly rectified the matter). The conversations just weren’t the same, she wasn’t the same. Her distracted behavior continued through February and I was no closer to figuring out what was wrong. I don’t mean to come across as nosy, do I seem nosy? It comes from a place of genuine concern, I assure you, I needed to know what was troubling my friend. My son and Jackie’s son played on the same baseball team and I offered to have him sleep over one day and Jackie accepted. On the way home from practice I asked him how his mother was. He is a very sweet boy and I am sure his mother gave him the ol’ don’t tell anyone when it came to the subject of whatever was bothering her, but I’m an adult. I was sure I would be able to outwit the boy into telling me what was wrong with his mother. I hadn’t spent any time with him since the holidays so I started there. “How was your Christmas Benny? Did you get everything you asked for?” “Mostly” he replied. “That’s nice, what was your favorite toy?” I didn’t really care obviously, but I had to make it look like I was invested in his toy collection to gain his trust. “Probably the remote control spaceship.” And I was glad I asked because that actually sounded really cool and my son’s birthday was around the corner. He droned on about the toy for at least 10 minutes and we were almost home so I had to make a move for the goods. “And what about your mom did she have a nice holiday?” “She did.” Dead end. We were pulling into the house and I figured that was that, maybe I would just never know. “She only hated one present.” I was shocked. One, that Jackie Morrison could hate anything, two that I managed an answer out of this one track child. As I said we were right outside my home so I had to stall. “Who wants McDonald’s?” They cheered in a way that I have never once heard for one of my home cooked meals, but I’m going to interpret that as a compliment for McDonalds rather than a slight towards me. Either way it gave me what I needed. Once he had all of that poison inside of him he told me everything I needed to know. “Mom got a present from her sister that she didn’t like.” “Oh no” I said with all of the inflections that an 8 year old would respond to. “What was wrong with it?” “I don’t know it’s just a sign.” “A sign? Do you mean like a street sign?” Knowing full well he did not mean like a street sign. “No, it’s in our kitchen.” “Oh, that’s sad, well I hope she feels better.” And I gave the boys their apple pies.
The kitchen, that was my mission for drop off tomorrow, get to the kitchen. That night I could barely sleep and not just because of the Nerf war that was surely to lead to a broken lamp. What could the sign be? How bad could it be? What has it permanently changed my best friends behavior and why can’t she even tell me about it? I hadn’t been in the Morrison kitchen since last year and now that I think about it, it must be because of this wretched present. She will probably try and stop me from going inside tomorrow so I am going to have to have my wits about me.
Tomorrow finally came and wouldn’t you know it, Jackie was there to meet us on the front lawn. I suppose she was hoping for a swift delivery but I masterfully feigned a restroom emergency, but unfortunately for me, she was prepared. She claimed they were installing some new tile and it wouldn’t be ready until tomorrow. I followed up with how much I would love to see their progress and she assured me it would look much better once it was finished and that I would be the first to know. There was always the upstairs and basement bathrooms, but once you get a no and no offer, you tend to not want to press the issue, especially since it wasn’t a real emrgency. I guess it wasn’t a masterclass after all. I took her word and went home expecting to be invited back tomorrow to see the renovations, if there even were any. However that night she sent me pictures of what appeared to be new tiling. Either she was telling the truth or one of them was very good at photoshopping. My determination continued to peak. I had to see this sign and if the tile was real it looked great and I wouldn’t mind getting a closer look because my downstairs bathroom really could use an update.
I decided to show up, unannounced, with a cake to celebrate their new floor. I brought my son and they had no choice but to let us in. I darted straight for the kitchen to put the cake down and swirled my eyes all around until I finally saw it. Placed above the refrigerator, somewhere no one ever looks, it read “Don’t Wine if I Do.”
I’d like to briefly pause and explain my conflicting views on these signs. As a mother who used to be a lot of fun back in the day, I never stopped enjoying drinking I just had other responsibilities to attend to. Wine allows me to have a fruity snack, whilst feeling a bit naughty and nobody gets hurt. On a regular day the most I will have is two glasses and I’ve read that this can even be good for your health. So I love wine, but that doesn’t make me unique. These signs and other token household items like it have created a wine-mom culture that I am not fond of one bit. I don’t need to advertise my liking and if I did I would do it in a more tasteful way than a garbage pun in tacky font, on a cheap piece of wood. I have friends that have these signs and I love them no less. They are who they are and I suppose they are just more susceptible to these sorts of groups and they get some enjoyment out of the fact that someone made a sign that understands them, whatever. However, Jackie Morrison is not one of these people. She has an elegant, reserved taste and would never voluntarily hang something so kitsch. She followed in right behind me and I spilled. In told her what her son divulged to me and she… denied it.
I assured her I knew and that I empathized, but she would not hear of it. The palpable awkwardness was my cue to leave, it was so strong that I didn’t even have to wrangle up my son he just seemed to know it was time to go.
The next day the Morrison’s house burned to the ground. Nothing was left. Thankfully everyone was safe, the pets included, and an alarming number of their valuables. They moved out of town within a week.
I haven’t seen Jackie since, my son hasn’t seen her’s, they don’t answer our calls, and I expect we will never see them again. I don’t give a damn about insurance companies, what I do care about are my friends. I am not writing this letter to oust my dear Jackie and sentence her to a few months in a cozy jail. This letter is for everyone that dares give a gift such as this. If you choose to have horrid taste, keep it to yourself. This is why registries were invented. If you’re not sure what to get someone or have your doubts about the gift, you can always just give cash. Or at the very least, please do not pressure anyone to wear or hang your abominations. If they don’t like it don’t feel badly, you made the effort and it didn’t click, it happens. But some people can’t handle it and it drives them to burn their house down with their awful presents in it, simply in an effort to not hurt anyone’s feelings. Of course this is Jackie’s fault, because there is always a chance her sister ends up buying her another one of these sickening furnishings. What will she do then? Burn down another house? Who knows, by the time this is found home decor could be completely out of fashion making my words irrelevant, but please know even though she is guilty in the eyes of the law, my friend Jackie is only guilty of being too polite.
Connie Barbera
“Well. I. As a citizen of the United Allstates of America I am appalled. Guards goo find the Morrison’s next of kin and what do we think, 200 years in prison? Yeah that should be fair. And seize all of his assets please and after he gets out 50 years as a firefighter 70 years building houses, by hand.”
“Next we have a Nike shoe box, hah, corporate slaves.”
