Three things happened today that marked the end of my childhood. Or forced me to acknowlege that, oh yeah, it's over.
1. My friend Steph had her first baby. He's healthy and she's doing well. She's also 37 and probably the last of my friends to take the plunge into motherhood. I have to fight the impulse to shower her with gifts she doesn't want and advice she probably doesn't need.
2. Michael Jackson and Farrah Fawcett died. Of course, you knew this, but my kids have no idea who either of them were and there's no way I can explain it to them. I wasn't a huge fan of either, but both were such specific cultural markers.
Farrah: I was five, living in Eagle Heights when an episode of Charlie's Angels scared the bejeezus out of me. The killer left clown dolls at the crime scene. Shiver.
Michael Jackson: I was twelve, listening to "Billie Jean" in Sonia Jun's basement. I never had a sparkly glove, but I did have a pair of silver, sparkly socks.
3. I bought a Dyson vacuum cleaner. My stairs are clean and my lampshades are dust free. I've never been more excited about a domestic purchase, probably ever.