Thanks a lot, Costco

We don't belong to Costco but my Mom does so when she visits we make a Costco run.  Actually we make several runs but that's between me, my mom and our therapists.  Mind your own business.  During her last visit, as we were walking up and down the aisles, she noticed kitchen knives.  I'm sure you've seen the same ones; the set where each knife is a different color.   Mom, "Do you need new knives?"  Well, none of my knives are purple, or orange so I naturally answered, "Yes!"  Maybe, all this time, all I've needed as encouragement to cook more often was a set of Sesame Street knives.  This could be what our kitchen has been missing.  Quick, grab the knives before they're all gone!

So we brought home the multi-colored happiness knives.  I stored them with all the other sad, boring, black and silver knives, bringing sunshine to the entire drawer, and awaited the return of John the Engineer, fully expecting to hear his theory on Function Over Form.  Again.  But it didn't come because, damn, if those aren't great knives!  They're the best knives we've ever owned. You know how on the Food Network, they can chop-chop-chop-chop through an onion in like five seconds?  And it makes that awesome choppy sound?  I can do that now.  With my big beautiful red chopping knife, I'm all chop-chop-chop-chop-chop-chop-shit-ooowwww.  Unfortunately, really sharp knives does not a great chef make.

Every time I use these wonderful smiley knives, I cut off a small piece of myself.  Be it the yellow paring knife, the blue vegetable knife, or the strange curvy turquoise one, some small part of my body is sliced off like a little blood sacrifice to the kitchen gods.  These knives may actually be the worst form of suicide ever.  "Well, she got these amazing knives and then 3 1/2 years later she bled out. So sad."  At one point John asked, "Are you turning into a cutter?  Should I be checking your thighs and upper arms?"

This Thanksgiving was a blood bath.  After the third trip from the bathroom with band-aids, Sam told me, "Mom, you have to stop chopping."  It was like having your get-away driver turn to you, after having barely evaded the police again, and saying, "We've gotta go straight, Man. We gotta try."
And the worst part was I couldn't wash my hair because you know how a few strands of hair will slide through the cut <shiver> god, I hate that!

Anyway, this year I offer thanks for my amazing techni-colored dream knives.  I think.

Just a little off the sides, please.