Sometimes, I come up with the title for a post well before I write the damn thing. Other times it comes from part of the post. There was a time when they were just the titles of songs in my iTunes library, which was as easy as pressing play. Truthfully, it was pretty easy, but often times the titles were very confusing if you tried to relate them to the post. But tonight's title just isn't coming to me. Everything seems off.
Everything about this time of year is off. The holidays are done (thankfully), but people are always bitching about the extra pounds. My head is usually thumping from weather related migraines. The students are "rammy," which I think should be a real word. This year's even worse because a colleague died suddenly yesterday morning.
But it's always a depressing time for our family, no matter who you talk to.
Thirty-eight years ago, my brother died. It was an accident, it happened, and it kind of fucks you up in ways that you don't realize as a toddler (I was three) or as a kid or as a teenager. You only realize that as an adult; I finally realized it last year. I've blogged about it numerous times, so I won't go into it again. But it still sucks balls.
So, what's with the broken bank, you might be asking. It was a bank that belonged to Clark, and for some reason, my mom gave it to me when the Girls were little. I kept it in their room even though it didn't go with the theme that I had. I moved it from apartment to apartment, from cribs to twin beds to bunk beds. And guess what? I hated the damn bank. Hated it.
But one summer day, when the Girls were about five, maybe six, they wanted an ice cream cone from the corner shop, and I had no money in the house. The piggy bank, however, had money . . . and god was it hot. I slipped a butter knife and wiggled out a quarter and then a second one. The butter knife went back in to finagle the final two, but I must have thrust too hard, and I shattered the damn thing.
It took a while to sink in that I broke a bank I hated and crying about it, only because it was my brother's bank. And I still didn't know why I had the damn bank in the first place. The Girls got their ice cream after the crying subsided, and I left the bank on the top of my dresser. And then it migrated to the underwear drawer where it rested for years and years and years. Occasionally, the broken glass snagged a pair of undies. More than once I cut my hand looking for something in the back of the drawer. Last year, Dave found me crying when I was changing the drawers around, and I told him that some stupid reason, I couldn't throw the fucking thing away. Dave, in his infinite wisdom said, "You don't have to throw it away. But at least wrap it up in something, so you stop cutting yourself . . . because that sucks."
And he's right . . . it does suck.