“The modern can opener, with a cutting wheel that rolls around the rim, was invented by William Lyman of the United States in 1870. The only change from the original patent was the introduction of a serrated rotation wheel by the Star Can Company of San Francisco in 1925. The basic principle continues to be used on the modern can openers, and it was the basis of the first electric can opener, introduced in December 1931. Pull-open cans, patented by Ermal Fraze of Ohio, debuted in 1966.” (http://www.ideafinder.com/history/inventions/canopener.htm).
If you are like me you own a basic, non-electric can opener. Also like me, when opening a tin can you may leave the newly-sharp top hanging by a thread, thus avoiding the challenge of finding an effective, and hopefully safe, manner of fishing it out of the food in the can (i.e. your fingers, a knife, a fork, your teeth, a crochet hook…). If this rings true, then you, like me, soon find yourself coaxing the sharp, jagged, circular top away from its almost equally sharp and jagged, cylindrical counterpart.
On the other hand, you may be a bit fancier in the kitchen. You may have an electric can opener; a nifty invention that takes the entire top off and holds onto it with a little magnet. Not only does this allow you to avoid the challenge of choosing an effective, and hopefully safe, manner of fishing it out of the food in the can, but neither do you find yourself having to coax the two menacing parts away from each other.
Pretty soon I’m going to be fancy in the kitchen with a nifty electric can opener. I’ve heard that if you open a tin can the old-fashioned way (not like a cowboy, whose tin can opening techniques are unknown to me but must certainly involve spurs and a revolver - but rather with a non-electric, manual can opener with a cutting wheel that rolls around the rim…) and if you make subsequent, dangerous decisions regarding the removal of the tin can top from its counterpart, bad and painful things could happen to you. I’ve heard that the sharp, jagged, nasty little tin can top can slice your very flesh open. Maybe even your left thumb. It’s true. It could hurt and bleed too. There’s also a good chance that you could this during dinner preparations for a family of five, which includes three hungry boys of preschool age. Then you won’t have any dinner to offer them. What you will have to offer is what I can only assume would be a rather frightening sight of a bleeding parent, jumping up and down saying “Ow, ow, ow, this really hurts” and the other parent looking at the gaping wound saying “yep, we better go get stitches”. Then you may have to find care for your kids so your spouse can drive you to Urgent Care because, after all, driving yourself would likely prove to be a bit of a challenge. At Urgent Care you may be in store for an overdue Tetanus shot, as well as some Novocain shots that hurt much more than the ones you get in your mouth before a filling and even hurt more than the Tetanus shot, and lastly, a few stitches.
I’m not saying at all that any of this happened to me. I’m just saying I’ve heard some things and have been thinking about it lately. I'm going to buy an electric can opener.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
For The Girls
Warning - Don’t read any further if you are terribly fond of Walmart or if you think you could be offended by a frank discussion of women’s undergarments. Otherwise, please, read on (and enjoy)!
As the daughter of a lifelong advocate for fair wages, humane working conditions and support for local industry and industry jobs, I strongly dislike Wal-Mart. As a reasonably endowed woman who likes to keep The Girls up where they belong, while still feeling pretty under her blouse, I cherish a great bra.
I bought a bra at Walmart (gasp!). I liked it so much that I bought another (GASP!). And then, another. Oh, the guilt! You might wonder how this happened, and so, the story begins.
In the eighties, during adolescence, my girlfriends and I started the exciting foray into the world of makeup, stylish clothes and magical hair products; blue eye shadow, blue eyeliner, leg warmers, mousse and lots and lots of hairspray. Back then I wore whatever bra my mom bought for me; after all, she knew more about such things and at the time I didn’t care about anything anyone couldn’t see. (And frankly, in retrospect, at that age, regardless of size, the amount and manner of support was insignificant in light of the newness of the parts).
Come the nineties, I was a young woman with more confidence and the novelty of my “girl-ness” and its trappings faded. I became more strategic about my appearance; my small face looked better in shorter hair, my blue eyes “popped” with brown eye makeup and clothes that fit well were of greater value to me than those that were in style. This was a decade of fun experimentation with bras. I had my own money and I bought my own bras. People saw my bras. How exciting! I was among the mass of twenty-something women with a small, pink, plastic card in my wallet with a manageable, albeit unnecessary balance.
Cut to the new millennium and I really know things about myself now. Comfort is key, but not at the expense of looking nice. I’m not a slob, but neither am I polished head to toe. Case in point, I have nice eyes and skin but terrible hair, so I’ll go to the grocery store without makeup, but not without trying to make my hair behave first. My teeth are discolored from the umpteen cups of coffee and glasses of red wine I’ve consumed over the years, but I don’t whiten them. Whitening hurts too much and I shudder at the notion of giving up the staining culprits. As a stay at home mom my clothes are much along the lines of Yoga-wear; comfortable enough to take care of three little boys, but fitted and colorful enough to be flattering and interesting. On date nights I wear low cut, but warm tops with fitted jeans that hide my twins tummy, heeled boots, smoky eye makeup and perfume. Underneath I wear a very pretty, yet highly functional bra.
The quest for the very pretty, yet highly functional bra began sometime in my late twenties or early thirties. I settled for some pretty bras that didn’t fit quite right. From the outside, where the mirrors and the rest of the human world existed, The Girls didn’t look so great and I gave up the small, pink, plastic card. I then settled for some practical bras that were just plain ugly. But, wow, the girls hadn’t looked so good in years! Then I had three babies. There was breastfeeding and pumping and endless hours and days in t-shirts, pajamas or nothing (“going commando”, so to speak). For The Girls a whole new level of need opened up. I searched, I fought, I settled, I bought – until one day I stopped at Walmart to get a snack for the kids. I checked out the bras as I had become accustomed to doing. I felt a pull toward a display and walked right up to a lovely black, green and white striped bra. It had full coverage! It had wide straps! It had three hook and eye closures where most pretty bras only had one or two! They had my size! It was $10.00! I bought it, took it home, put it on and it was glorious. The heavens opened up, angels sang and I was happy.
I don’t plan to shop much at Walmart – the occasional clothing item for the boys, maybe some winter boots, but most definitely without guilt, I will buy bras. I have reconciled my upbringing on picket lines with my desire (my need) for the perfect bra. Any woman whose story of the last twenty-five-ish years sounds similar to mine will understand; I’m doing this for The Girls.
As the daughter of a lifelong advocate for fair wages, humane working conditions and support for local industry and industry jobs, I strongly dislike Wal-Mart. As a reasonably endowed woman who likes to keep The Girls up where they belong, while still feeling pretty under her blouse, I cherish a great bra.
I bought a bra at Walmart (gasp!). I liked it so much that I bought another (GASP!). And then, another. Oh, the guilt! You might wonder how this happened, and so, the story begins.
In the eighties, during adolescence, my girlfriends and I started the exciting foray into the world of makeup, stylish clothes and magical hair products; blue eye shadow, blue eyeliner, leg warmers, mousse and lots and lots of hairspray. Back then I wore whatever bra my mom bought for me; after all, she knew more about such things and at the time I didn’t care about anything anyone couldn’t see. (And frankly, in retrospect, at that age, regardless of size, the amount and manner of support was insignificant in light of the newness of the parts).
Come the nineties, I was a young woman with more confidence and the novelty of my “girl-ness” and its trappings faded. I became more strategic about my appearance; my small face looked better in shorter hair, my blue eyes “popped” with brown eye makeup and clothes that fit well were of greater value to me than those that were in style. This was a decade of fun experimentation with bras. I had my own money and I bought my own bras. People saw my bras. How exciting! I was among the mass of twenty-something women with a small, pink, plastic card in my wallet with a manageable, albeit unnecessary balance.
Cut to the new millennium and I really know things about myself now. Comfort is key, but not at the expense of looking nice. I’m not a slob, but neither am I polished head to toe. Case in point, I have nice eyes and skin but terrible hair, so I’ll go to the grocery store without makeup, but not without trying to make my hair behave first. My teeth are discolored from the umpteen cups of coffee and glasses of red wine I’ve consumed over the years, but I don’t whiten them. Whitening hurts too much and I shudder at the notion of giving up the staining culprits. As a stay at home mom my clothes are much along the lines of Yoga-wear; comfortable enough to take care of three little boys, but fitted and colorful enough to be flattering and interesting. On date nights I wear low cut, but warm tops with fitted jeans that hide my twins tummy, heeled boots, smoky eye makeup and perfume. Underneath I wear a very pretty, yet highly functional bra.
The quest for the very pretty, yet highly functional bra began sometime in my late twenties or early thirties. I settled for some pretty bras that didn’t fit quite right. From the outside, where the mirrors and the rest of the human world existed, The Girls didn’t look so great and I gave up the small, pink, plastic card. I then settled for some practical bras that were just plain ugly. But, wow, the girls hadn’t looked so good in years! Then I had three babies. There was breastfeeding and pumping and endless hours and days in t-shirts, pajamas or nothing (“going commando”, so to speak). For The Girls a whole new level of need opened up. I searched, I fought, I settled, I bought – until one day I stopped at Walmart to get a snack for the kids. I checked out the bras as I had become accustomed to doing. I felt a pull toward a display and walked right up to a lovely black, green and white striped bra. It had full coverage! It had wide straps! It had three hook and eye closures where most pretty bras only had one or two! They had my size! It was $10.00! I bought it, took it home, put it on and it was glorious. The heavens opened up, angels sang and I was happy.
I don’t plan to shop much at Walmart – the occasional clothing item for the boys, maybe some winter boots, but most definitely without guilt, I will buy bras. I have reconciled my upbringing on picket lines with my desire (my need) for the perfect bra. Any woman whose story of the last twenty-five-ish years sounds similar to mine will understand; I’m doing this for The Girls.
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