confession: something tripped in my brain after i had baby number two and turned thirty and my husband was actually making an income instead of an outgo. i discovered that i loved finding. (some people might insert the word “shopping” for “finding” — but it really is more an act of gathering. finding all sorts of delights large and small that i just want to gather closer to me somehow.) but actually collecting everything that i wish i could collect is not only financially irresponsible, but also a contradiction of everything i believe about simplicity. so. i have an idea. ever since i was little (don’t laugh) i wanted to write for the j. peterman company.  they’re not hiring me anytime soon, so i’m going to write my own catalogue. (yes, i find the extra “ue” sort of necessary.) so, here, occasionally when i find something that is worth writing about, i’m going to post it. and name it. and imagine a life for it. and let you enjoy the little treasures i stumble on, make them live with words so that i don’t have to buy them with money.

TINY ALIEN TEACUPS

you’ve just returned from the moon. something you didn’t think possible, but, look!, you’re holding the slice of the image in your hand. the moon. with your face, your husband’s face. some honeymoon. (not many people have that kind of cash.) and you’re sighing and remembering how stunning — how surprising and unreal — the earth looked from that far away. it was like your childhood globe, plastic, molded, a toy at your feet: you could take your hand and spin it, faster and faster and faster until tenochtitlan was flying into the gobi desert.

you wish it was the sort of place where you could have bought a souvenir, but as soon as you think it you realize how ridiculous. a keychain of the moon? a mousepad? a mug? it wouldn’t make sense to reduce the heavens to kitsch. and so you keep unpacking your bag and looking out the window at the apartment next door and looking and sighing and unpacking, when you pull a package you don’t remember from your bag. it’s brown paper. not taped or tied, just folded into an envelope. you’re curious and wary. you unwrap it. eleven tiny avocado green teacups. you line them up on your bed and notice a folded note stuck through the handle. you twist it open, not sure if you’re reading a fortune cookie or terrorism. and it says, “with love, the moon.”