Curio: (n) any unusual article, object of art, etc., valued as a curiosity.

There’s a certain dollar amount you reach in your bank account when you have enough finance to go out and buy curios.

Up to that point, you are too concerned about electric bills, car payments and the rising cost of Vienna sausages.

Yet when you come to that magic number, whatever it is, you glance around your home and muse, “What’s missing here? Maybe you get an idea, maybe you don’t.

You take off for some establishment that sells curios.

Obviously, I’ve never had an account enough in the black to go to really expensive shops. So I will find myself strolling around an antique shop in some little town that’s probably sophisticated enough to offer you a cup of coffee while you peruse.

What am I looking for?

Something outstanding. Something meaningful. Maybe colorful—for a drab room.

Does it have a story?

Will people notice it? Will people be disgusted?

There are two questions that can be asked of you when someone first sees your curio:

1. “Where did you get that?”

That’s good—especially if they pursue and ask for directions.

2. “What made you choose this one over another?”

That’s timid talk. Timid talk is the language we use when we’re trying not to hurt other people, which ends up hurting them more when our real feelings come out because we lied.

This second question means the person doesn’t like your choice but doesn’t want to say so.

It’s all so complicated. Human beings write in drama because they don’t really want to pursue a story.

Here’s what I think.

I believe a curio should be like our human journey.

It should come with enough character and color to establish its purpose in the room, but not so much weirdness that you think it probably should be in the attic.