Another election year is underway.
I should share some of my thoughts on the presidential debates, the “race for The White House”—cue the music.
I could pick a side, make fun of Trump’s hair for the thousandth time or baulk that Hillary never seems “friendly” enough. Now might be the time to start feeling the Burn or figure out how Ted manages to slip his foot into his mouth so often.
The stakes are high. Maybe political opinions should fly in the laundry room.
Or. . . We could discuss Silly Putty. Yeah, let’s do that.
I was in Walgreens yesterday buying a different toothpaste because I want whiter teeth. On my way to the cashier, I spotted a familiar red egg with the wild-eyed cartoon on the package.
I loved Silly Putty when I was a kid.
It was intriguing. I liked that it melted to my hand, and I used to see how flat and thin I could pound it.
Anything was possible when I got my first egg of Silly Putty. It even picked up the colorful pictures from the Sunday comics. One time, I bit into the rubbery pink ball because I needed to know if it had a taste. It doesn’t.
Back in the day, Silly Putty wasn’t like Play-Dough, it was Dough’s cooler, sleeker sister. It was new, and I would spend hours alone or with friends seeing if Silly Putty would bounce, fall apart, or ever get dirty.
There were so many questions to ponder.
I bought Silly Putty along with my you’ll-have-perfect-teeth-in-no-time toothpaste yesterday. I wondered, opening the package when I got home, if it would be different. If after all these years there had been any improvements or if it would be exactly the same.
I kneaded it in my hands, pressed some onto a newspaper and discovered I could still pick up the imprint of a face and stretch until it was unrecognizable. Silly Putty still doesn’t work on magazines and that popping sound when it’s pulled over and over again—still there.
Silly Putty is more expensive than I remember, and I think it comes in glow-in-the-dark now, but other than that, it’s the same as it has always been. Nothing has changed.
My thoughts from the laundry room. Naptime.