Teri’s living room (or “front room”) is filled with trophies. They stand safely on top of shelves. They are dusted. And, to the best of my knowledge, none of them have attempted suicide. Whenever I acquire one of these new, 3-foot tall pieces of plastic, I secretly suspect that they would have preferred going home with BFF Teri.
Recently, when Teri was visiting, I learned that she also writes details of the tournament at the bottom of her trophies.
“Really?” I asked. “What do you write on them?”
“Oh, you know, the date of the tournament, how many competitors there were — ” She was cut off by a loud thud. “Ohhh, one of your trophies fell off the mantle.” She bent over to pick up the broken pieces from the carpet.
“Yah, they do that a lot,” I sighed. “I think they’re depressed.”
I have a problem with my trophies. They dive off of mantle pieces, throw themselves from bookcases and jump in front of my hyperactive and very large dog. At the risk of sounding melodramatic, I suspect they’ve been trying to kill themselves.
For a while, I honestly tried to take care of my trophies. The truth is, I’m not a collector or even a saver. I’ve never been the kind of mom who saves her kids’ fingerpaintings from kindergarten. I don’t scrapbook and I’m pretty sure I don’t even own a photo album. (But my husband has a few.)
The trophies I try to save rarely last more than a few months. Some of them don’t even make it home before they smash themselves open. I do manage to save the faceplates from most of them. Those faceplates currently live in a cigar box in my basement.
Around Thanksgiving, I thought I found the perfect place for them: lining them up on a window ledge near where we set up our Christmas tree. My dog knocked the lot of them over when we got a visit from the FedEx man delivering presents. I lost an even dozen in a fervor of fur and broken plastic.
Picking up one of the golden “karate guys” from the top of one of the trophies, it finally occurred to me what to do with the broken pieces. So, the week after Christmas, I pulled out my hot glue gun and made 9 karate-themed Christmas ornaments. (Two were too damaged during the initial accident to be made into ornaments. One was broken while my husband was sawing off the screws from the base.)
In the end, eight ornaments ended up on my tree. The ninth is with Teri’s ornaments, where it could see her trophies and dream about how things might have been.