Monday, September 19, 2011

Why Be Normal?

Back in the Mesozoic age, when I was in high school, the seniors would write their official quotes on 8 1/2" x 11" paper and decorate them to adorn the English room.  It didn't take very long to come up with mine, "Why Be Normal?"  I personally don't have a problem with normal, but it's just, well, average.  I don't like being labelled one thing and expected to act accordingly.  Likewise, I don't like acting completely opposite of a label, because frankly, that's trite and expected too.

I have always marched to the beat of my own drummer.   Not because it was expected.  Or unexpected.  I go my own way simply because I want to do my own thing.  I enjoy being eccentric.  I was country when country wasn't cool (really bad example here, because I have never liked country so this is not to be taken literally).

That is why I say I am a "don't-call-me-a-soccer-mom mom".  I refuse to be stuck with that label and automatic description of minivan-driving, mom-jean wearing, easy-listening radio mom.  By definition I am a soccer mom, but that doesn't mean I'm going to live up to somebody's idea of what I am and how I behave.  On the contrary.  I wear my red lipstick, Chucks and skinny jeans to every practice.  I read Vogue & InStyle on the sideline.  I listen to metal bands from the '80s.  And perhaps even sing.  Offkey.  Loudly. The important thing is while I may not look the part at first glance, the end result is the same.  Pey gets to practice and I do what I have to to get me through practice.  Is she any worse for the wear because her mother doesn't have gluten free snacks on the sideline and doesn't wear a twinset?  I think not.  I honestly hope that I'm teaching more about being true to herself than what is expected by other people.

The other day as I was finishing up the painting of the Hoosier (part of the Great Redecorating Marathon of 2011-2014, a conservative guess), I happened to look closely at the canister set I purchased at an antique store in Swansboro back in July.  Only last week when I was putting it out on the newly painted piece of furniture did I realize it was a lot like me.  I had purchased myself for $50.

Most canisters I've seen have sugar and flour as the staples.  I've seen rice, coffee and tea also tossed in.  What I've never seen is farina.  Yes, I know that means flour, but it doesn't say flour.  The smallest of the two are for ginger and nutmeg.  Two spices that are common, but not so common as to need a canister (unless you're Mario Batali and will be freshly grating them over some Tuscan dish).

I thought it was the color scheme that drew me to the set.  Upon further thought, I realized I was drawn in because they are a lot like me (and no, not because they are short, uber white, old and cracked).  The end result is the same--they hold kitchen stuffs--but they have found their own means to that end.  And I think that makes them even better.  Not expected.  Not unexpected.  But rather, mapping out their own course.

And don't they blend nicely with the rest of that section?

The lion came from the house I grew up in.  Rumor has it that it is Italian. This time I choose to accept rumor as fact. 

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