Did any of your family ever just *decide* that you were going to collect something? Like stamps? Or baseball cards? They determine that either it was something you were interested in, or that it was a good interest for you to have. And that is what they got you for every gift, holiday, birthday, forever and ever, world without end, joy and trumpets.
My paternal Grandmother did that to us. She sort of arbitrarily decided that each of us was going to collect a particular animal (mine was bunnies, how off the mark was THAT, I ask you?) while Dad’s was a ram.
Actually, thinking about it – I cannot recall what she subjected my brother to. Hmm. Maybe she didn’t make him suffer the ceramic horde? She always DID like him better.
In any event, Mom’s was chickens. Specifically, ceramic chickens. Every year, Mom got a plethora* of chickens, in every shade imaginable. The only bits that linked them together were a.) hideouness and b.) … No, I lie. The only linking thing was how absolutely UGLY they were. And how apt to stare at you when you walked into a room at 3 AM, which is to say waaay after curfew. Just looking at you. Judging. Letting you know how you’ve broken your sweet Mom’s heart for being out after hours and doing god knows what until all hours.
I think I may need to start collecting chickens, too.
* – yep, I know what a “plethora” is. I have the benefit of superior intellect and education.
And if you know what I am riffing on, you are almost assuredly one of My Tribe.