This is the artiest photo I have ever taken:
Isn’t that hilarious?
It’s two produce bags and a pair of Mr. Dingo Jones’s socks hanging off my little underpants-drying doodad in my front courtyard.
And yet ask me to take a picture of a human being! Yeesh! Blur city.
I love that drying doodad. My freshman year in college, one of the Japanese exchange students who lived on my floor had one, so the minute I got home for Christmas break I marched over to the Container Store to get me one. IF I bought it before my birthday, that means I bought it when I was 17, which means that I have had that thing for 25 years.
For a quarter of a century I have hauled it around the country and hung undies from it that have ranged from butt-floss to granny.
(The granny pants made a brief appearance after I had abdominal surgery. I needed them so I didn’t feel like my guts would fall out.)
87uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu: that’s from Jinx.
I had a little moment when I realized that my daily silverware, which I clearly remember buying, is 32 years old. Then, I took household inventory and realized that I was living in a retro art installation.
Right? Are there people who buy new silverware regularly? Or new dishes? I can’t imagine being that way.
Perhaps people who throw dishes buy new ones regularly. Or people who are more than unusually clumsy, or have teenage boys in their households. Although I think we might be eating off melamine when we get to that age.
Ours has not broken any dishes yet – only cars and our George Foreman grill.
Northridge earthquake broke every plate in the house. And cups. And saucers. So I had to go out and buy new ones.
Wait, that was eighteen years ago. Still living in a retro exhibit.
We’re a bunch of fusty old cranks up in here.