It began harmlessly enough. A couple of saucepans, lined up on the kitchen table. She admired them while she was having a coffee mid-afternoon. Sometimes she did the Charleston for them in her flapper outfits. She was the Clara Bow of saucepans, and she was young, and it was - well, really quite fun.*
They were, after all, Wear-Ever. That's the bee's knees, Wear-Ever. Shiny. Durable. "Friendly to food," the ads said. It's nice to be friendly, isn't it? And - well, she just liked looking at them, OK? Was that so wrong?
It's not like she was hurting anyone. It's not like she was throwing them at Mr. America's head when he didn't eat up all his creamed onions or anything.
But as the years went on, things got a little - strange. She always asked for Wear-Ever for Christmas and birthday presents. "It's what I want, dear," she'd say, poised with the shiny coffee pot held menacingly high in one hand.
And now it's 1956 and things have come down to this. Coffee klatsches on the living room rug with dozens of her shiny little friends. See how they all cluster around Mrs. A., resplendent in her best pink ballgown.
Better get a few more coffee cups out, though. I imagine that the whistling kettle and the deep fryer get awfully upset when they feel left out. And the double boiler would like a sugar cookie, if you haven't eaten them all, instead of those creamed onions.
* I realize that the 1920s flapper would only be 30 years away from 1956, not 56 years. Hence, my favorite four words-for-writers: willing suspension of disbelief! Thank you and good night.
A thousand thanks to Lisanne at Flickr for this one, from a 1956 Good Housekeeping.