My object is a garlic press- in particular, a garlic press that wasn't mine, but was my friend's press. She gave me the job of squishing the garlic with the garlic press for a pork tenderloin dinner and I felt honored to have a job and do something useful, and then I used it improperly, I think, and broke it. I'm not sure I used it improperly, it might have just broken, maybe it had had it's life as a garlic press and it wouldn't have mattered who was using it, it would have broken at that moment. I like to think that. But I sense I did something wrong maybe, or used it improperly, because it just all felt wrong from the beginning the way I was trying to use it and then I forced it. Anyway, it went in the garbage, I believe.

I try to fill my entire life with ordinary objects with extraordinary stories and memories, though not always mine. I am an avid thrift store shopper and dumpster diver. I love anything that's old and looks like it has energy attached to it. I have all of my Grandpa's and Mother's clothes that fit me, from the 1940's-1980's. 90% of the things I own came from a thriftstore, were found on the side of the road, or were hand- me-downs. I like picking up everything around me and knowing it is special because it is different, old, weird, etc. I like to wrap myself with stories and time...

My object(s) is those tiny "To:/From:" stickers that go on Xmas gifts usually next to a ribbon or bow, so you know who the gifts under the tree go to and who they are from. The details aren't very exciting, sadly: they're usually about the size of 3-4 stamps, with some tiny decal or drawing like a smiling snow man or a snowflake or a santa head or a xmas tree or maybe even a gift (which is kinda "meta," no?). The fancier ones are not stickers but tags and have glitter (glitter = fancy? ha! yes, that's how I think of it) and maybe a hole punched in them so they can be tied to the Xmas gift. But those aren't the ones I'm thinking of...

It is a tiny strip of plastic, somewhere between a twisty tie and a plastic grocery bag.  It has two beads tied into it, tiny, simple, fading, white disks, both emblazoned with a letter, M and P.

Its ends are frayed, and it bears the wear and tear of the four years it spent on my wrist, and the weight that it has carried then and now.

I have a little stuffed Kermit the Frog sitting on my stereo speaker.  He's an exact replica of the Kermit who sits on my parents' banister every year at Christmastime, capping off the garland and lights my mom always winds down the staircase.  Except my Kermit's not wearing a festive plaid vest with gold buttons; he's in his more usual state of undress.  He's only 8 inches tall or so, and he's poseable.  Usually I have him waving at me from his perch with his ankles crossed.