After however many years of being tenants, my parents fulfilled their lifelong dream and bought their own house in early 1976. At the time I was about a month shy of turning 10. My dad was a typical straight guy and although he was fastidious about his lawn, he didn’t really care about the decor inside the house. He left that to my mom, who, in my 20/20 hindsight, was apparently very much into all things glass, chrome, lucite and mirrored. As part of my household chores, it was my responsibility to keep the glass shelves, chrome borders, lucite chachkes and mirrored bases clean and dust-free (I swear, we should’ve bought stock in Windex). She had a glass cocktail table in the living room and unfortunately, that was my responsibility too. I didn’t mind making the other stuff sparkly because it fed into my anal-retentive tendencies but I HATED that table, because it was by a window that faced south so EVERY fingerprint and EVERY smudge and EVERY piece of dust showed up on that freakin’ thing. Always. Even right after I cleaned it. I swore up and down that I would NEVER get a glass coffee table when I grew up. EVER. Well, not until I grew up and had my own house and saw a really cool glass-topped one (and its matching end table) whose legs were made of grape vines from old plants that were no longer viable. VERY cool, VERY “us” and it fit every spec we had (earth tones, no 90 degree angles – between the brick fireplace and square tile floor, the whole ROOM is 90 degree angles).

Yeah well, so much for that. Next I bet you’re going to tell me that my lifelong hatred of coconut will dwindle around the time of my 44th birthday too, huh? Oh yeah…it did.