So many bloggable things happened since my last post: I spent two nights last week at a resort for a grant review session (ice cream drinks! Snow! Networking! Limited vegetarian options at a local supper club!); my partner in crime became ill with a severe cold, so much so that it that almost impeded his video gaming abilities; Daisy had her teeth professionally cleaned at the vet for the first time and now has breath like a field of sweet clover; my editor informed me that my novel may be released in May of 2008--the news of which led my dear mother-in-law to ruefully remark to her sister, “Well, I guess we'll just have to hang on and make it until then.” Meaning, live another year and a half. So thank goodness for large-print and audio books. And ventilation machines and other life support paraphernalia.
But I will have to remove some of the older pop culture references from the book. I don’t think anyone wants to poke fun at Steve Irwin anymore, however good-natured the punchline may be. *wince*
Oh! And I barely escaped with my life after a visit to my place of employment by two young men from the Unification Church. (Not to be confused with the Unitarians.) They were peddling overpriced suncatchers.
While I don’t agree with their religious views or the value of their wares of dubious origin, one of them did have a snappy sense of humor.
But here’s what I really wanted to tell you.
Recently my husband told me that as a child, I looked like “that guy on Welcome Back Kotter.”
Those were his exact words. Recalling my childhood fro, I grimaced. “Arnold Horshack?”
J shook his head.
“No, the Hispanic guy with the gap in his front teeth. Epstein!”
You be the judge.
Halloween, probably 1978. Would you trust this bunny? Unfortunately, my Epstein fro is being suppressed by this novelty headress. Also, what's up with the tail on my neck?
The officially licensed Welcome Back Kotter candy (and TWO prizes!), featuring Juan Epstein. Perhaps I had even received this in the course of my trick-or-treating that year.
In blue footy pajamas, Christmas 1977. Or 1978. Who remembers the seventies, anyway? Here we see a better view of the yard refuse masquerading as my hair. Unfortunately, the best pictures of my fro days are at my parents' house. One of these days I'll have to find and post one. Lucky you.