(continued from Part 1)
Mr. Gore eventually forgave me for accidentally conning him into buying me…er, Gideon…that tiny little farmhouse bench.
But it wasn’t too long before my next miniature episode.
When we married, we received nearly everything we registered for. Our blood relatives are extensive, and are seemingly all employed and very much on their feet, and we both grew up in churches that doted on us…and so there is no use hiding the fact that we got lots of presents. Good presents. Awesome presents.
Makes me want to get married again. To Mr. Gore, of course…
But back to the presents.
I’m a picky gal, and so one thing that never landed on our registry in the first place was everyday drinking glasses.
You see, I had noticed a photograph of a frosted hobnail goblet in a cookbook one day, and had decided that I must have those glasses and only those glasses or die a very thirsty death.
But I couldn’t find them.
And I just couldn’t bring myself to register for a drinking vessel that I did not adore with the passion I held in my heart for that anonymous cookbook model; therefore we just made do with a motley assortment of glass tumblers we had acquired over the years in our pre-marital thirst quenching days.
Until a fateful day a couple of years into our marriage, not too long after we added that farmhouse bench to our arsenal of random possessions.
Still living with my parents, still without a home of our own, or a couch, or a washing machine, or a bed, I was perusing Anthropologie’s website for “fresh cuts” (their newest weekly sale items) when I noticed an absolutely beautiful frosted goblet with a delicate hobnail design on the bottom, topped by a vintage swirl design on the top.
The drinking glass of my dreams!!
And it was on sale for $3.97.
After choking on shopping drool, I picked up the phone in a flash (again) and called my sweet husband at work.
The guy who was just doing his best to make us a living.
“Hi…” I sang when he answered the phone, followed by a dramatic “guess. what?!” before he could even say “hello!”
“What?” he asked.
The words just blurted out of my mouth in a steady stream of gushing feminine nonsense: “I-found-the-perfect-glasses-for-us-at-Anthropologie-and-they’re perfect-and-they-have-this-sweet-squatty-look-about-them-and-they’re-perfect-and-they-are-on-sale-for-$4-and-they-won’t-be-around-for-long-because-I-know-Anthropologie-and-if-we-don’t-hurry-they’re-going-to-sell-out-of-them-and-they’re-perfect-and-I-love-them!”
“Whoa…” he said, probably already tired of this conversation, before asking me to try repeating that.
Which I did, adding some points about how much we needed these glasses because we’d have a home of our own soon and we’d need to be sure and have lots of things for folks to drink out of.
“How much are they again?” he asked.
“$3.97” I repeated, getting sweaty and anxious. We needed to hurry, before they sold out!
“That’s pretty cheap,” he said. “How many do you want?” he asked.
“8,” I said decisively. “No…10.”
“Actually…12!” I blurted out.
“12?!” he exclaimed.
“Well, what if we break some? We’ll never be able to replace them once they sell out. And what if we have 10 kids? Or what if we have a big dinner party?…” I reasoned.
“Well…if you really like them…go ahead and order them.” he finally answered. “And this is it. This is our extra budget money for the month. No eating out, no shopping, no extras.”
“Got it!” I exclaimed, beyond eager to finalize this purchase. “I promise!”
The minute he hung up the phone, I clicked ‘confirm’ on my purchase. I had it ready to go before I even called him, just in case, and had updated the quantity during our conversation. 12 beautiful goblets were on their way to my house.
Sigh. It was a beautiful moment.
I clicked the back button on our browser so I could gaze once more at my new possession.
I read the description under the item number.
“…perfect for juice or a morning beverage…”
“Huh!” I thought, “that’s interesting.”
I scrolled down.
“Huh!” I thought again. “4”…that seems kind of small.”
I slowly rose from the computer and walked to the kitchen like a woman at her own funeral.
I opened my Mom’s junk drawer.
I grabbed a tape measurer.
I pulled it out to 4″.
“Huh!” I thought once more. “4 inches is…that can’t be right. That’s tiny!”
I went back to the computer and checked the dimensions.
Yep. 4 inches.
I had just ordered 12 4-inch juice goblets for a family of 3 who had no home, no couch, no washing machine, no bed….only a tiny little expensive bench from Pottery Barn Kids.
I had no idea at that time in my life that internet orders could be cancelled before they are processed and shipped, and so I kept my bad news a secret until we could view my mistake in person before sending them back.
But it’s funny what happens when you see the most beautiful goblet ever in person and realize that it belongs to you, regardless of the fact that it is almost smaller than a postcard. You hold it in your hand and it feels so nice and heavy and hobnail-y, and you sigh and you look at your husband with a pleading look in your eyes and…
he loves you. And he tells to just go ahead and can keep them.
All 12 of them.
It was a painfully bitter-funny story at the time, but now it is just funny. And I am happy to report that those 12 juice goblets line one of our own kitchen cabinets today, and I use them all the time.
And right across the sink, in a matching cabinet, sit 12 brand new hobnail tumblers – normal-sized ones – that I finally received last month as a birthday gift from Mr. Gore.
All that to say…