I see plates. No seriously, whenever I close my eyes, my poor corneas bring to my mind's eye the now burned-in vision of plates. Everyday plates. Stoneware. Fine China. They're not dancing like the festive plates in Beauty and the Beast (but wouldn't that be nice. I'd make a mint!), but rather are displayed in their "natural state," basically in rows and rows with unflattering department store back lighting. That or they're perfectly set up on a table. Point it, when I close my eyes (in the shower washing my hair, the moment after I hit the pillow, or just prolonged blinks of the couch), I see china. Some good (antique white, clean patterns), some not so good (did you know Paula Deen has a Nantucket-inspired crab line?). Ok, so her pattern is cute, but I don't know that I could live with myself if I picked Paula's plates.
As B said, "Let's be honest, if a plate is covered with weird birds and dead trees, I'm still going to eat off it. I just may not be happy about it."
Gotta love a man with standards. And perspective.
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