from my fantastic friend, crse:
“I grew up in the 70s. There was no such thing as t-ball in the 70s. We threw hard little sacks of pain and liked it. Oh yes we did. We loved it.”
Thanks To Ebay, Now I Can Go Home Again
Image courtesy of FreeDigitalPhotos.net.
With the holidays officially beginning (for me, at least) in a few days with Halloween, I decided to do some research and see what would be involved in re-creating the holidays from my childhood. If I ever did decide to do that, it might look a little something like this:
1 polyester Princess Leia Halloween costume, including paper mask with cut-out eye holes and an elastic band stapled across the back (which immediately becomes layered in condensation as soon as you take a breath, and pulls out little pieces of your hair every time you turn your head): $10.00 on eBay
1 set of large, ceramic Christmas tree light bulb strands, with at least one dead bulb which no one thought to mark last Christmas when we took the tree down: $25.00 on eBay
The rush of adrenaline that comes from knowing that at any moment you, your Christmas tree, and possibly your whole house could burst into flames due to the extreme flammability of all holiday products manufactured in the 1970’s: priceless.
You Know You’re In Your Thirties When…
I have noticed a lot of changes in my life since I entered my thirties, but the most mystifying one to me is the inordinate amount of concern I have over the sharpness of our kitchen knives. I often find myself wistfully recalling the Ginsu knife commercials of the 1970’s where they sliced up aluminum cans and thinking, “Why can’t my knives be that sharp?”
So about two weeks ago I finally took our knives in to be professionally sharpened. Everything was going along just fine until the man helping me asked me what I wanted him to do about the edges on one particular group of knives, in a tone that suggested that, a) I should know exactly what he was talking about, b) clearly the mere fact that these knives even had this type of edge should have been keeping me up at night, and c) I should apologize for even owning that kind of knife, much less bringing it into a professional cutlery establishment.
I decided to do what anyone would do when faced with a room full of sharp knives, dangerous machinery, and a very large man with bulging, tattoo-laden biceps who tests knife blades by slicing off his own arm hair. I told him to do whatever he wanted.
So he did, and now that our knives cut well again I am ready to be seized by a new compulsion. I’ll keep you posted as things develop.
