I'm particularly fascinated by items that were once standard household equipment and now are utter mysteries to so many people. It's a queer feeling when I remember some of these things being used in my childhood, but I guess it's my fault for sticking around this long.
Finds Phone Numbers
Back in the good old days of my childhood, each house had one telephone. It was attached to the wall in the kitchen, and could only move as far as its twisted plastic coil of a handset cord would reach. The phones were black. They were big and boxy with a rotary dial. Some affluent families called out a telephone technician and had another phone jack put in the master bedroom, where they installed a "princess" phone on a nightstand, but the same telephone mobility issues applied. Somehow we soldiered on, despite our primitive technology.
In those days, most families had telephone index units like the one pictured above next to the phone to hold numbers and addresses (used for writing actual paper letters). If you wanted to call John Yarborough, you slid the tab down to Y and pressed the button. The lid popped up and there was John's info, right next to Yellow Bird Pharmacy and Ricky Yates. He was a boy I had a crush on. I would never, ever call him - nice girls didn't call boys - but I wanted to pretend I might so I wrote his phone number there. I digress.
Once phones became cordless, let alone mobile, there was suddenly no need for these phone indexes. Poof, they were outdated. I happened to find two of them recently, in their original boxes, in utterly unused condition. They're available now in our Fiona Dorothy shop: phone index. Once again, at the checkout, the clerk was confused. "What are these?" she asked, looking at them in wonder.
[Now I truly digress. One of my major peeves is when checkout clerks comment on what I'm buying and ask questions. It feels like an invasion of privacy somehow. Their job is to be pleasant and scan my merchandise, and that's about it. It feels especially gruesome at the grocery store. "Is this any good?" I've had clerks ask me about a food product. No, it's crap, but I hate myself so I make myself eat it. It's a surreal experience whenever it happens, kind of like breaking the fourth wall in acting. There's a barrier that's supposed to be there. These days my response is always "I don't know." It's the most polite thing I can say, far preferable to my gut response, which is "What's it to you?" with a New York mafioso accent.]
A potato ricer. I remember my mother squeezing this thing for all she was worth to extrude the squigglies of cooked potato. In fact, these are still sold new, which makes it even more of a mystery that no one who sells these or auctions them has the least clue about their purpose. I've seen them described as choppers, drainers, strainers, mashers, sieves, and even "a squeezer." I have yet to see one described as a ricer. Which means, of course, that none of these people has ever had riced potatoes. That's a shame, because they're very nice. Potatoes in any form are superb. Unless you add green peppers to them, in which case you are a tragically misguided and a danger in the kitchen, and you should never prepare food again. Green peppers are Satan's poison.
Why it's called a "ricer" is anyone's guess. It doesn't make potatoes look like rice, and if it did, who would want them? Rice looks enough like rice, all on its own, to satisfy anyone.
|See the listing.|
Still, few people know what they are. They are described as ear cleaners (yecch), shoe hooks (true, but not the whole story), and mostly just as hooks. One description was "fishing tool," which is ridiculous because we all know fish don't even wear clothes.
Times change, and our household goods change with them. One thing that doesn't change, however, is the silliness of a certain spousal unit. The other day he asked me to take a picture of him with a bunch of yarn on his head. He said, "Look, I'm Donald Trump!" It's a decent likeness, don't you think? If the Donald needs a stunt double during his campaign, I guess he'll know who to call.
|Trump The Husband|