It’s finally time for me to write about this Deer Bobble Head Tree Wrangling Thing. I’ve had this thing for years. I don’t even know where I got it, although I like to imagine I picked it up at a truck stop that also doubled as a casino somewhere in Montana, because that would have been the perfect place to buy this.
Or maybe at a gas station that somehow still had a spin-rack of Nice Price country music cassettes near the check-out. I like to imagine I bought this bobble head, a warbly cassette of George Jones’ Greatest Hits, and pack of gum. No—chewing tobacco. Alright, split it in the middle and give me the Big League Chew.
I’d settle for finding this in a Cracker Barrel gift shop after an early start breakfast on a road trip to the mountains. But instead, I’m pretty sure I bought this at the mall. Which makes me sad in unknowable ways.
Anyway, the perplexing thing isn’t where I bought it. It’s why I bought it. I think I had a fantasy of mounting it to the dashboard of my pick-up truck—if I drove a truck and not a four-door hatchback. I guess I had a fantasy about it keeping me company on the open road. Instead, I sat it over my kitchen sink, when I lived alone in an apartment in my twenties, which was also kind of like an open road.
But really, none of this explains why I still have it. I swear I’ve thrown this thing out twice and sold it once at a yard sale, and yet it keeps coming back to me. It has survived with me through three moves, even though I’m pretty sure I’d placed it in the donate-to-Goodwill-pile several times.
Sometimes I’m alarmed by all this crap. I’ve amassed so much crap. Stuff I’ve spent money on! Stuff that is now worse than worthless because now it’s also dead weight. I wonder why I bought so many CDs in the nineties. I wonder why I bought all these books I’ve never read. I wonder why I bought this random deer bobble head. And that’s not the only crap I have. I have so many horrible shirts and horrible pants, things I can’t believe I used to wear. I have piles of notebooks filled with horrible writing. I have entire albums of horrible pictures taken of me.
Doesn’t matter. Because I’m awesome now and my life is awesome now and everything I own is totally awesome now—and it will always be this way forever. Until like a snake skin, every few years, I shed myself again.
When I was a kid, my mother said we could paint my bedroom any color I wanted. I decided on neon green and black, alternating walls. Of course, my mother didn’t really mean “any color I wanted.” We went with light pastel green, which wasn’t even a compromise.
I don’t know. I still think that neon green/black combo could have been timeless. And maybe some of those CDs I own are still worth listening to. And I guess when you buy a deer bobble head tree wrangling thing, it’s for a long drive. The long haul.