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14 October 2013

Green Glass Grapes, Missoula, Montana



As an adult abhorrer of dusting, I am amazed when I consider the things I had to dust as a child. These glass grapes reminded me of a decor period in my childhood when we had some, ummmm, realish-looking grapes displayed in a bowl. I would be distracted from dusting by the pinchiness of each individual grape, which invariably earned me a motherly reminder to not play with the grapes but get back to dusting. 
There is not enough therapy available to overcome such a deeply rooted aversion as I've accrued. One coping mechanism I’ve developed is to only buy things I adore enough to dust. Thankfully, my husband - whom I absolutely adore! - is an advanced self-cleaning model. I'm definitely keeping him.

In my tidy mother’s defense, she was a pretty good sport about this, as she was about many things. When evening lamplight revealed our finger-scribed messages in a late-week layer of dust on the low shelf of the dark wood coffee table, it usually only earned a comment akin to, “Interesting how people in this house will make the effort to write in the dust when, in the same amount of time, they could wipe it off… “. Humour, passive-agressive or otherwise, often wins the day.

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