(Today’s post is brought to you by Frugaa.com and lil’ ole’ me. This is the part where, per federal law, I’m required to announce to the whole world that I was compensated, in one way or another, for my honest opinion)
The 1970’s…flowered wall paper in every kitchen of off white, pee yellow, dog poo brown and burnt orange.
Black and gold striped sofa’s covered in plastic and the ugliest lime, green stamps ever created that I was forced to lick and paste on to a yellow card so my parents could accumulate enough savings for a new lamp shade
For The Love Of God…Who Was In Charge Of Color Coordinating in the 70’s, anyway?
Our family back then, all five of us, would take turns sitting on our torn bar stools, listen to my moms Barry Manilow albums and lick the savings stamps until our tongues swelled out of our heads.
And then one day mom came home from the store all excited.
“Guess what, guess what?”
My dad looked over at her. “Barry Manilow has a new album?”
“We’re adopted?” My brother asked.