Somehow I have become enamored of diamonds. Big, shiny, show-stopping pieces. Something Elizabeth Taylor or Zsa Zsa Gabor would have worn back in the day. Yes! The Hope diamond; cursed or not, I’d like to own it, just for a little while.

I know, it’s crazy. Like, “Why not Zebras, Lanie? You’re just about as likely to end up with one of those.” I have about as much use for them, too. Where would I keep them? Where would I wear them? Can you imagine me, washing the dishes or vacuuming the rug with my enormous diamond earrings sparkling in the springtime air? I bet I wouldn’t mind the household chores nearly as much.
I always say that I have two sides; the monk and the crow. On the one hand, I’d love to have my home look like a Buddhist nunnery, all bare wooden floors and light, unencumbered by things. On the other hand, oooooooooooo– I love to surround myself with shiny, pretty things. Of course, once I had kids they promptly broke anything not made of concrete, so I am surrounded by things that are functional and shabby…. which might explain the diamond lust. Unlike the majority of my belongings, diamonds are both stunning AND indestructible. Though to be fair, my kids haven’t had a crack at them, yet. Does anyone really know what permanent markers and a microwave can do to diamonds?
The Rise & Fall of a Momocracy

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