My very first childhood memory is an abstract tableau in the backyard of my house, viewed in the dim light of a smeared peach sunset, on a warm Southern California evening.  

I am certain that this memory is preserved from the mind of a very small child because, when I conjure it up now there is a lazy quality to it; a timeless pre-verbal feeling that accompanies the image with a sensation unique to kids: A kind of unconscious powerlessness intertwined with pure unadulterated wonder. 

I simply can’t remember a time when I did not remember this scene.   

The perspective is unusual, like a snapshot taken from a spot quite close to the ground; where the foreground of speckled pebbles seems somehow tremendously important and the old splintered fence post soars impossibly high like a cartoon skyscraper or the launch tower of a rocket ship, disappearing to a sharp point stabbed into the velvety twilight sky. 

When I was little, there was so much that went on over my head.

That sunset vision could be any time of the year since seasons are not native to the region where I was born.  The air temperature feels no different from my body temperature as if the air itself is an extension of my skin or my body has no boundary.  There is no evening breeze.  The air is still, but not stifling. 

No noises can be heard except for the listless droning of unenthusiastic suburban crickets, the muffled whoosh of distant traffic from an invisible freeway and the soft spitting of a neighbor’s lawn sprinklers.  The shouts from the horde of big kids, who play Kick-the-Can or dodge ball in the street, cannot be heard.  They must have been called in to dinner or it is past their bedtime.  No one is yelling at me to come inside, to wash my hands, to sit down and eat, for God’s sake you need to eat!  I remember being excited by the silence, breathing it in and holding it, trying to make it last, savoring it like Christmas candy.

The smooth grey paving stones that line the path along the asphalt driveway are delightfully cool under my bare feet and my heart pounds with the anticipation of exploration, no different, no less thrilling, than any other brave adventurer’s first step into a virgin land.

I know that I am not allowed to go here by myself, into the little side yard past the garage where the trashcans are kept, but no one is watching me now and the strange smell, the sweet mysterious vapors beckon.

And then I see them high up, over head:

A linear pattern of geometric silhouettes floats magically far above me. Each shape is held equidistant from its fellows, hovering in space, connected but not touching, suspended cleverly so as to leave no trace of the wire which holds them.

Pierced hexagons, flat circles and thin cylinders dangle from invisible wires hung along the fence, like daring circus performers. I know that I should not touch them, even if they were in reach.  No one can touch them except my father who has instructed, I believe, the dust motes in the air to not mar their smooth and shining finish. It is imperative that these small pieces must be perfect, that no flaws can be seen upon their bright coats - although once taken down and assembled, no one will ever see them again.

They are a set of metal nuts, bolts and washers which have just been painted in glossy black and they glisten with the golden reflections of the honeyed sunset sky.

All I can see are car parts, car parts, beautiful, beautiful car parts.

"Oh no!  I've been attacked in the middle of the night by a diabolical lazy ray and can't get out of bed.  Will you bring me breakfast, mom?"

The last time I saw Travis, he was at my office door upset. Or more like, agitated.  He was interrupting something I was supposed to have completed, some underdone overdue unimportant work assignment.  But I could see that he wanted to talk to me and I honestly liked talking to the guy, I supposed I wanted to be interrupted.  And I could see by the look on his face it was important to him.  I knew that he only came to talk to me when he thought he had a problem that he couldn’t fix himself and these instances were fairly rare.

I can’t even remember the issue now.  I remember seeing Travis and I remember being glad to see him and I remember not being surprised when he started to complain about, probably, not being able to get machines or if he got machines they were all broken or un-ssh-able or he didn’t have the right group permissions.  As he stood there he told me what he wanted to do and then listed all of the ways that he went about it and then all the various steps (in detail) that didn’t work the way that they should have and then, and then, he explained to me how the machine management process should work, what would be the right way to do this very simple thing that was simply now such a huge pain in the ass.

And of course, he was right.

I remember being happy that he cared enough to want to talk to me, to want to try to fix these things.  And that thought made me smile.  I don't know if he thought I wasn't taking his situation seriously, me sitting there smiling when he was upset.  I wish I could explain to him now that I just enjoyed listening to him, I always learned something from him, it didn't mean that I didn't care but the opposite.  I worry that he thought I was just an oblivious idiot manager.

But I was also smiling because it was so quintessential Travis: It was clear that he had interrupted me to tell me about something that he could fix, that he knew he could fix himself.  Mostly he just wanted to tell me that it was wrong that he had to fix it, it should just work.  And all I could do was agree because he was right.  He knew he was right.  We both knew it.  But there was simply nothing that either of us could do about it at that point in time.

And now this image of him is stuck in my mind, Travis is standing there holding in both hands a steaming paper cup, barricading my office door from the row of cubes at his back.  He is insistent that these very basic pre-requisites for doing our jobs should not be this screwed up, that for everyone to waste their time like this is wrong.  And there I am, nodding my head silently, smiling, bathed in the man's pure unstoppable logic in the face of an inscrutable corporate corporeality.

Thinking about going to work today and not seeing him, not ever seeing him again, brings his words back to me.  And again, I can only agree with him:

“This is bullshit! Total bullshit!” 

It's cool to see that the original iMac, one of my projects at Apple, is in here.

Nick and Schuyler’s Top Ten Variations on the “Guitar Hero” Videogame.  Try this list out on another ten year old boy to see if they think it is really really funny.

The runner ups are:

10. Opera Hero – You dress up like a fat lady wearing a horned helmet and yell.

  9. Guitar Geek – Hack into fame by using a computer for a guitar!

  8. Drum Hero – Play the drums if you can’t keep a tune.

  7. Guitar Freak – Like Guitar Geek but weirder.

  6. Guitar Villain – Run around and hit people with a guitar.

  5. Guitar Hamster!  (no explanation)

  4. Guitar Villain Hero – Chases the guy hitting people with guitars

  3. Shut-up Hero – Hits the guy making up the guitar hero list for being stupid

  2. Bagpipe Hero – You have to wear a kilt.

The Number One alternative Guitar Hero game title is:
  
  1. Fart Hero! 

Zoe has an old typewriter which seems to spontaneously generate strange correspondence.  I found this in it the other day:

Dear Ant Margarine,

How are you? We are all fine cept Muffin; Gorgy’s latest goo was rather Vicious.  It ate a good bit of Muffin’s Fur before Expolding.  Left a horrid stink it did.

Last Market Dae, Mum came home with many things, Pots and cups and even China Plates!  Mum says the plates are not reely from China, as they are made by Mr. Barker who lives down the Layne.

Johnnie has been Naughty lately, he let Muffin ride him about and they crashed into the potting shed and broke 5 pots and a Ceramic Vase Mum puts Roses in.  Johnnie got a Hat to match his Lace.  He is very Stylish.  His hat twas maed by Gorgy, it is Purpul beecuz it is his favrit color. Johnnie also ate a bit of wall Paper and now Mum is in a Tizzy.  She said that we must Redo the Batheroom. 

Ooh and Grampa Bobbs has come up Tops, for he has givyn us a Pig!  The Pigs name is Beatrix, she has Piglets, there be 6 of them and they are named by Number.  He has also givyn us another Cow, it has maed Friends with Bessie.  We have named the newe Cow Oxford.  Mum says it’s a Joke but I don’t Get It. 

Mum has got Gorgy a new Pet:  It is two Little White Mice in a Cage.  Gorgy calls them Blindy and Chopper; she reeds Too Many Books. The Brown Chicken lives under the Roof nowe with us.  It has made a nest on the Beem and sqawks at Mum when she commes Neer. 

Gorgy lost a Tooth.  It had no Holes.

That is all for now.

Love,

Ted.

When I asked Sky which country he was writing about for his end of the year report, he replied:  "Psuedo Arabia."

My mom's twin sister, Margie, and my daughter, Zoe.  Zoe is looking awfully smug. 

The boys are reading in the back seat of the car; squeezed between more than a couple dozen different dog-eared books which are built into wobbling cairns between their bodies, their dirt splotched feet and against the pock-marked armrests of our aging Subaru.   Nick is reading the last book of Jonathan Stroud’s Bartimeus trilogy and the latest in the Tamora Pierce fantasy series, purchased with a birthday gift certificate from Grandma. Schuyler's eyes are glued to an illustrated Ripley’s Believe it or Not with a Stars Wars Visual Dictionary and one of my old Xmen compilations blanketing his lap.  

[Note: It is not unusual for the boys to read more than one book at a time.  If it’s a new title by a favorite author, like Tamora Pierce, they’ll take turns reading it, alternating chapters.  Also, if a story is almost at it’s end – let’s say within one or two hundred pages of completion – then another book is necessary as a back-up.  Arguments about the need to bring multiple paperbacks on a five minute car trip to the grocery store are not uncommon.  As the photo illustrates smaller books can also be used as bookmarks.]

Nick pauses from his reading.  I look in the rear-view mirror anticipating a rare conversation with my first-born son. His eyes look into mine.  Yes! A chance to talk.  About something other than books maybe?  I smile back at him and nod, excited, waiting for him to speak.  He has a gleam in his eye.  He wants to tell me something.


Nick: Hey Mom, do you think Bartimeus would beat Wolverine?

Me (crestfallen): Huh?

Sky (not missing a beat): Well I got Wolverine, Storm and Nightcrawler.  They'd beat Bartimeus.  Nightcrawler is a demon too you know.

Nick: But Bartimeus is five thousand years old!  And I have all the gods and goddesses from Tamora Pierce too.

Sky:  What about Terry Pratchett, like all the books he has ever written?  There is about one hundred.  I would put the whole Terry Pratchett series against Tamora Pierce!

Nick (laughs, confidently):  No way.  Bartimeus would beat Pratchett. Easy.

Sky: Well, I have the world history of horror stories that would scare them.  And Ripley’s Believe it or Not!  There’s some really weird stuff in there! And the complete Star Wars Visual Dictionary.  How about that?  That's like, in the future!

Nick: Light sabers can’t actually hurt gods and goddesses. 

Sky: What if I had a Bible?  Then they wouldn’t exist! 

Nick: Would you throw the Bible at them?

Sky:  Sure!  That would scare them! 

Nick: What if I had the whole San Jose Library?  That would beat the entire Star Wars universe!

Me (gamely): Which library?  There are different branches – there is the Willow Glen Branch and the downtown branch…

Sky: Well, in the Star Wars book there is a whole universe of different planets and each planet has their own library and each library has a zillion books in it.  It would be like a Death Star Library!

Me (exasperated):  Guys!  Books are not weapons!  Why does everything have to be a battle?!

Nick:  What is she talking about?

Sky:  I don’t know.  She never makes any sense to me.

Nick:  Just ignore her. 

Sky:  Wait!  I know!  We could use all of the stories in the universe that end with happily ever after!  That would win!

Nick: Yeah! Happily ever forever!

We have been having a difficult time naming the new car.  Usually names come to us quite easily and really we thought this would be a done deal by now.  Zoe is our family's Chief Namer of All Pets and Important Objects.  The first name she delivered, the very first time she saw the car, and which we all agreed was an obvious good choice was: Beatrice. 

It was so simple, so right and so well done until I talked to Tim - that very night - my only other Prius-owning friend.  I told him that we had a Prius and her name was Beatrice.

He said, "No, you can't name your car that!" He was quite adamant too, because, unbelievably, his daughter Abby had christened their vehicle "Beatrice" years before when they had bought it from a French woman of the same appellation.  Apparently Abby thought that there was a rule that your car must be named after the person from whom you purchased it.  Anyway, we immediately agreed that it would be far too confusing to have two cars and one French woman all sharing the identical name, so strangely and suddenly our Prius was anonymous again.

But then, after admiring the car's verdant hue one morning, I came up with Esmeralda.  None of the kids liked it though.  They didn't get the reference to the car's exquisitly glittering green tint nor had they read the book or even seen the Disney version of the Hunchback of Notre Dame.  I was greatly disappointed because I love this character (the original Hugo which I read in High School, not the Disney version) and have always been jealous of her for having a pet goat. 

Zoe next countered with Charybdis.  She insisted that this was a very good name and was somewhat offended when I countered that it lacked a particular warmth and didn't particularly roll easily off one's tongue.  Anyway such a moniker was destined not to stick.  At all.

This whole thing is mildly reminiscent of working at Apple on the original iMac proposal.  We had pitched the translucent, blobby, all-in-one-concept to Steve with such success that he wanted a detailed prototype as soon as possible.   This meant the design team stayed up late night after endless night, coming up with what we thought were perfectly good solutions to completely impossible engineering problems; only to have Steve reject them with the words that he knew "we could do better".  Or if he felt a little less benevolent - which became more and more the case as the days went by on this particular program - he'd say "This is crap" and send us back, literally, to our drawing boards and CAD systems.  After weeks of rejection and professional humiliation, the entire team started to finally crumble from exhaustion, believing that it was not technically possible, knowing we would get fired for daring to return empty handed.  We doubted ourselves, our worth and almost everything we had thought to be good and right.  We watched what started out as such a simple, brilliant concept teeter into a total product disaster.

And then, one day, without warning or explanation or reason, it just happened.

We came upon something that we hadn't seen before.  Something new.  Something completely perfect.

We were miserably tired, standing in an unhappy queue at Costco with a cartload of toilet paper, goldfish crackers, cleaning supplies and kitty litter; when Nick saw the sign advertising soft serve cones on the other side of the check-out counter. 

He asked me ever so sweetly, "Mom, can we please get some ice cream from the concussion stand?"

Nick: This is a dude robot!

Sky: Look! It can use Two-Faced machinery!  Here you go, dude!

Nick: Good for him.  Except for these Two-Face vehicles.  Then you need an actual person to use it.

Sky [sad robot voice]: Just because I’m robotic, doesn’t mean that I should be completely abandoned.

Nick: OK, you can be the copilot.

Sky: My arms and head are courtesy of General Grievous.

Nick: How generous, General Grievous!

Sky: This vehicle can throw a wide variety of hand grenades and sneaky missiles.  These missiles wait until you least expect it, then there is an explosion.

Nick: Sky, this is a Two-Faced machinery spear.  He has loads of specialized weaponry.  And this is Two-Faced plumbing.  Look! Water gushes out of the TV!  It’s attached to the Lego Batman Video game. 

Sky: Hey, that’s a good idea! Let’s let the mini-figures play the Batman videogame!

Nick: Sweet!  Attack the TV!

[Sound of stomping, stocking feet running back and forth between the bedroom and the den with much giggling]

I tell Death to blow his nose, it’s dripping, and hand him a small plastic-wrapped package of tissues from Trader Joe’s to tuck into a pocket of his black hooded cloak.

THANKS, MOM.*

He answers me without looking up from his book, the massive third installment of the Paolini dragon franchise: Brisingr.  His brother, Robin Hood, is deeply engrossed in A Far Side compendium, seated next to him as we drive to school on Halloween.

The air of our Subaru’s interior has a distinct chemical edge to it this morning – a reek of hair dye and ammonia, Sharpie® permanent marker and shoe polish – which overpowers the usual sour milk and wet sock scent of the aging upholstery.  I adjust the climate controls accordingly, increasing fresh airflow but lowering the temperature so as not to overheat my heavily robed passengers.

The wipers carve smooth shining half-halos from the grey stippled windshield, revealing a dismal, damp view of our morning commute.  Long columns of cars are stopped for as far as I can ahead along the tapering strip of freeway.

High above the dripping chain link and wet concrete, though, a lighter patch of clouds teases some hope for a break in the rain; a chance that maybe it will stay dry enough for the school parade this morning.  I worry about the Grim Reaper’s cold getting worse in this crummy weather.

Zoe is next to me in the front seat, listening to her beloved nano and playing solitaire.  My daughter's costume defies any easy definition.  It was derived from a meticulously detailed pencil sketch - complete with numbered arrows designating locations of specific fabrics, ribbons and skulls. We’ve been working on it for more than a month and it was finished just last night before midnight.  Her attire consists of many yards of black velveteen and white lace, with a black and white checkerboard print over striped leggings.  The end effect is somewhat, purposefully, visually distressing.  There are many more details, though, which are not obvious to a casual observer, such as the heated discussions concerning zippers versus buttons and why exactly four different kinds of lace were needed and, most importantly, when someone is trying their best to sew something for someone else how important it is to not treat that person like a complete idiot.

Anyway, Zoe’s vision of the outfit far exceeded my budget, patience and “mad” sewing skills (her adjective), but somehow, incredibly, it has worked out to her begrudging satisfaction.  She looks like a kind of Evil Alice in Wonderland or a character from a pre-Technicolor Tim Burton movie.  It’s also the first time I’ve ever seen her with make-up, in a petticoat and black heels. And the most truly frightening aspect of her outfit, is that she is wearing my shoes, which are a size 9-1/2 and fit her just fine.

I glance at her powder-white face and black-lined eyes bent over her ipod, relieved she’s silent for a while.  Earlier this morning, as I was trying to make lunch, she kept asking me “Do you know who killed me?” in a disturbing whispered monotone, with an unbreakable vacant stare. It went kind of like this:

ME: “Zoe, can you get the lettuce out of the fridge?”

ZOE (dully): “Do you know who killed me?”

ME: “Zoe, please, would you just hand me the lettuce?”

ZOE: “But do you know?  Do you know who killed me?”

ME: “No.  Stop it! You’re creeping me out!”

ZOE (approaching Robin Hood with the head of lettuce, zombie-like, whispering still) “Do you know who killed me?”

ROBIN HOOD: “Why do you want to know?”

ZOE: “So I can return the favor.”

The cars move forward in fits.  A bald clown in a white VW van glances over at us, frowning as we merge into the carpool lane, passing him. The thin light smear in the sky oozes wider as we slip north towards it.  Zoe sings a Leonard Cohen song, Famous Blue Raincoat, in off-key snatches.

Robin Hood laughs and reads a Gary Larsen caption out loud: “Historical note:  At first, Robin Hood robbed from the rich and gave to the porcupines!”  I laugh.  Death and my undead daughter do not.

The Grim Reaper’s breath is a syrupy gurgle.

“Nick?  Can you please blow your nose?”

He doesn’t hear me. He’s reading.

“Nick?”

Still no response.  So, with one hand still on the steering wheel, I reach back blindly for the page that he’s reading, patting the book and waving my hand over the words to get his attention.

WHAT?

“Can you please blow your nose?”

OK.

Death hands me a snotty tissue.





It’s later now. The boys are in bed and I am typing this from the couch in the front room.  The wind is rattling the sycamores and flinging rain against the windows sounding like tossed handfuls of dried peas in tin pans.  The storm which had held its breath all day, keeping the morning school parade dry, has now let loose in gusty bursts.  Jets flying into SJC echo loudly, as if they are flying right through the house; an atmospheric acoustic trick of this thick wet air.  Bass rhythms from a party down the street are punctuated by random screams and muffled howls.  Car doors slam, engines grumble to life and then fade into the hum of the rain.

Russ has gone to pick Zoe up from a Palo Alto party and they won’t be back until eleven o’clock. But I don’t think I can stay awake that late – I am still nursing my sewing hangover – so I plan to stay on the couch here tonight, a strange new couch because our old couch is in my new house.  This is just like when my parents were divorced when I was ten: He got the house, she got the furniture.

Zoe had looked at me funny when I told her my plan.  She asked me “Mom, isn’t it weird that you’re going to spend the night in your ex-husband’s house on the couch?” And I had immediately, reactively, said “No.”  But later, I thought that maybe I had not told the truth completely.

But it’s not a normal night.  It’s Halloween: a holiday that adults have crafted for kids to be decidedly not normal. Our neighborhood of turn-of-the-century Victorian homes usually puts on a good show for all ages of trick or treaters. After dinner, I pry the Paolini book out of Nick’s hands, insisting that it stay home when we go out to trick or treat.  He complained that he was almost done with it and he should be allowed to read the last 100 pages or so before having to put it down.  I disagreed, but noted that it was probably not normal 9-year old behavior for my son preferring reading to collecting free candy. 

After the boys had made the rounds of our block, they wanted to give out candy.  Once we turned the lights on, our front porch was attacked by midget zombies, glow-in-the-dark skeletons and vampires covered in fake blood.  There were also the prerequisite Spidermen, ninjas and monkeys.  A number of times we found the identical clone trooper child, manufactured by Target, with the only variation to their costume being the candy bag.  You have to marvel at the continued strength of Star Wars character licensing deals after more than two decades.

Honorable mentions go to the identical triplet Snow Whites who were shivering and adorable, but also very much pre-fab from Target. There were even two kids as Sarah Palin and John McCain – complete with tailored suits whose lapels were pierced with little flag pins.  I wasn’t sure if they were for or against the Republican ticket, although it was clear that they just wanted candy and were not looking for votes.

But after a couple hours, I was starting to be less enthused and more irritated with the trick or treating. First of all, there seemed to be more and more teenagers who didn’t even bother to dress up, they just held out their already half-filled pillowcases and slouched away. Some of these kids looked like they could easily be driving. Or they were maybe even legal voting age.  I wanted to ask for ID or put some kind of measuring bar at the top of our steps with a sign like you see at Disneyland that said you had to be less than so high to get any candy.

And this year, for the first time, I had a kid on a cell phone take our candy. She was a chubby prepubescent Cinderella in pink polyester, who did not even stop talking on her phone long enough to say “Trick or Treat”!  I was kind of stunned.

Finally, there was one really extremely fat child, not in a costume, just wearing his school uniform, which was a white polo shirt and blue slacks, who stood at our door holding out not one but two candy bags.  I had a moment where I almost could not give him candy.  But what was I going to say?  “I’m sorry you can’t have my candy, you are obviously unimaginative and overweight and greedy.”  Would I need to add a scale for weighing-in and a candy bag limit; in addition to the height requirement bar next year? Maybe he was collecting goodies for an injured sibling or sick friend.  Of course, I gave him two pieces of candy but I couldn’t help feeling like it was wrong, very wrong, like I was handing him some rat poison or a loaded gun.  All the while, his very large parents were standing on my sidewalk, in Raiders jackets, watching me.

It also didn’t help that as the evening wore on, I began to feel less than well myself.  Perhaps it could have been the six or seven or eight or maybe nine large Reese’s Peanut Butter cups I snitched from the piles of my own children’s candy.  The kids have an elaborate post-Trick or Treat sorting and trading system to eliminate the unfavorable strains of particular sweets. I imagine that this must have been what commodities trading was like before computers.  “I’ll trade you two tootsie rolls for those smarties!” “But that tootsie roll is smooshed.  I’ll take the Hershey’s bar instead.”  Since none of the kids like peanut butter these were fair game.  And now I felt lousy.

But it was something more than physical discomfort, it was my mind and spirit as well.  Nothing seemed right.  I decided that next year I would forgo tradition; we would hand out toothbrushes or vitamins or nickels or something, anything, non-fattening and non-cavity-forming.  It would be something good, and good for you, something good for all of us!  Basically, I vowed that I was going to buy and give away only items that I myself would not be tempted to eat to the point of absolute nausea.

So I stood looking out over the stoop that was no longer mine, feeling sick and terribly worn out as well as mildly pissed off with myself and Halloween in general; when a little girl came up our steps.  She couldn’t have been more than four.  She was dressed as a fairy princess, complete with a sparkling magic wand, trailing rainbow colored ribbons.  Over one small elbow she carried a little cloth pumpkin. She held onto the uprights of the painted wrought iron hand railing with a petite but determined fist, taking each step slowly with both small bejeweled feet. I could just make out her father who seemed happily normal sized, waiting at the foot of the driveway in the dark, hunched up in his jacket, hands in his pockets to keep warm against the chill.

The little girl made her way to the door where I stood holding the candy bowl and said in a tiny voice “Twick oh tweet.”

That is when I felt something hard and tight that I didn’t even know I was holding, melt inside of me.  It must have been my inner sap suddenly thawing.

Squatting down before her so she could see into the candy bowl, I offered up its contents to her silently:  Dozens of Mini Three Muskateer bars mixed with a score of gold-wrapped Snickers and some candy corn in little clear sealed plastic packs.

The fairy princess slowly looked at the candy, then looked at me again. Her big hazel eyes were fringed with a luscious awning of light brown lashes.  I felt huge and bloated, monstrously decrepit in her gaze. I noticed that my fingernails were actually stained black from the finishing touches I had put on Death’s costume earlier that day and stunk of petroleum solvent.  I tried to hide my hands from her as she leaned over, carefully picking out a package of candy corn. Her bent head of wispy honey blonde hair, was braided with pink ribbon and interwoven through a delicate ruby and emerald encrusted crown.  I caught myself disbelieving that this young child had stood still for the fabrication of such a complicated hairstyle. I would have had to wrestle or tranquilize any one of my kids in order to pull off something that involved more than a couple glancing blows with a hairbrush.

The perfect fairy princess dropped the candy into her pumpkin with calm precision.  We both watched it fall and then slide to a stop to lie snugly and safely on top of a colorful quilt of its confectionary fellows.  And then she looked again into my tired eyes, directly into my fractured heart, and chirped solemnly:

“Tane queue.”

I smiled and drew in the heavy wet air, cold and misty and sweet.  I could feel the hollow dry space of my mouth and throat fill up with a delicious tingle.  In that moment, I was transported to a past life, when my daughter was so little I could hold her with one hand, her small arms just long enough to wrap around my neck, her whole being glowing with barely contained exuberance.  I could remember from a time long ago, when everything was new and how the simplest things became utterly amazing when seen though her eyes.

And I remember when she believed, she really believed, everything I told her was true.














*See http://onehundredwordsforfog.spaces.live.com/blog/cns!6BE540E51F6BB3B0!446.entry

Zoe had had her braces painfully tightened by the orthodontist yesterday; so, when I was at Fry's today, I bought her some new earbuds for her beloved black ipod nano, Chaos Blossom.  They are very spiffy noise canceling earphones in aluminum and black with clear squishy plastic pillowy cushions that fit snugly inside your ear.

She squeaked in delight when she tore into the package, and then became silent as she tested out the whole assembly on Leonard Cohen.  What twelve year old listens to Leonard Cohen of her own free will?  Then she made me listen to him too. And then she tried to make the cat listen, but he was too quick and wiggly.

I explained that I had contemplated the available options of blue, pink or black earbuds, but I chose black because it would match her nano. 

Zoe replied: "Of course, you know - black is the new black."

We were discussing the current economic situation and Sky said "I'm really glad my allowance isn't tied to the stock market!"

This weekend a terrible fight broke out in our basement.  The entire Lego mini-figure population came under attack from alien Bionicles.  Fortunately, they were prepared. 

This typewritten note was found while I was packing up books to move to the new house -


Dear sir/madam:

It has come to the attention of some of us here at SanCo that you have committed several offenses against the well-being of yourself, others and SanCo. These offenses include:

      Kicking one A. C. Winkheimer in the shins, ankles, and groinal area
    
      Making rude hand and facial gestures to one Mr. M. McKlompel

      Removing company property without permission and/or proper form

      Causing disturbances in the workplace

      Causing small explosions and noxious fumes to exude from the Chem Lab

      Prodding one R. B. Jenkins in a "disturbing way"

      Being a danger to yourself and those around you

      Setting fire to Cube 6 (sector 1/4)

      Stealing children's complimentary candy on Take Your Child to Work Day

      Kidnapping and holding for ransom Terry the Tortoise, mascot of Cube 11

      Stealing children on Take Your Child to Work Day

      Stealing one D. Iyele's "comfort appliance" and dyeing it pink.

Zoe sent me this link from Improv Everywhere; urban pranksters who create funny scenes and film it.  This "mission" is to create a human "mirror" in a subway car.  More fun here.

More classic dialogue as heard at the lego table.  I don't write this stuff, people, I just write it down as I hear it.


Sky: Get away from my house!  Firing the missile launcher.  Nick, Nick, your house is on fire!

Nick: I wonder if I have a firefighter around here?

Sky: My firefighters eat fire!  They have big red bulging bellies!

Nick: Have a flaming hot pizza while you're at it!  Here's a flaming Pizza of Doom for you! Nice mixture of spiced meat too.  Glad to eat you!

Sky: Here's items I got in my inventory - Liquid flame, two pizzas.

Nick: There's a flaming hot ash plant

Sky: Thanks!

Nick: Damage to the base comes a bit late.  Maybe I should take back the natives I made if they are only going to kill me. Hmmm. I need something to hold my fire.  Can I use this?

Sky: Sure, you can put the fire right in the middle of it. Does that hold it? Let me demonstrate my idea to you. 

Nick: OK

Sky: I made a base for it. Maybe I should get some supplies

Nick: Getting supplies!  Getting supplies!  Getting supplies!

Sky: You can sell some of your berries.

Nick: I have a tractor with heavy duty tires that can start a farm.

Sky: Yes, we will need more land

Nick: Can I expand this? 

Sky: Yes, it will be farm land.

Nick: Let's put the land near the house.

Sky: You can place your house here and this can be the field.

Nick: OK, but it takes a while to move the bunker. Oooh. Tree, tree, valuable tree.  Over here.

Sky: What's that?

Nick: The Elixir of Life plant. 

Sky: OK

Nick: I have a very big house compared to the natives.  I think it makes them mad.

Sky: The natives are easily stompable.  But you have to watch out for the prickly spikes that protude from the dead corpses.  It will hurt if you step on them.

Nick: Hey, I am growing a pizza plant.  It's already blooming! 

Sky: Pizza plants rule!

Nick: I wonder if that farm person is going to come back?  Or if he's been killed?

Sky: I am making a Golden City.  It's not a very big Golden City.

Nick: I wonder if I can cross it?  I want to get to the other side.

Sky: That's the idea.  You come, you go.

Nick: I think I'll trap myself in the armor plated house and starve to death. I want to stay inside. The natives have missiles!

Sky: I have three missiles!

Nick:  I have more.

Sky: Nick!

Nick: OK I only have 1 missile.  Sky what are you looking for?

Sky: Pieces. [sound of plastic being rummaged through]  Joy.  A missile part.

Nick: My Ninja escapes from the house. He gives the natives a chunk of meat and then runs for his life. Hey, Sky are you going to kill R2D2? 

Sky: I'm going to put it with the natives for safe keeping

Nick: The diamond was stolen!  I think R2D2 took it.

Sky: No. He returned the diamond. The natives blew their heads off for you. They hate you. Watch out! The wine is poison don't drink it!

Nick: The ninja put a drink dispenser in his house.  Now they won't kill me!

Sky: Here have a cup of lava - obvious poison.

Nick: No thanks. Someone gave me some spice.  I'm not revealing my sources so you won't kill them.

Sky: I have three potions.  They are healing. 

Nick:  My farm is armed!  The booby traps are spears shot with plasma cannons. They have optical sensors. That guy is called the Watchman, he is in a teeny room.  And there is a dark force guy.  He's a hover head gone mad - a hover head with a helmet.

Sky: The three potions are - Anitdote for burning pizza, insanely hot spice and I don't know what this potion is.

Nick: Here are the satellite tv connections for your house. Even though we don't even have a tv. 

Sky: This weapon has two safety locks for the heck of it.

Nick: Look, I have a theater TV now, it's very big.  Now the natives won't kill me.  Oh and I made peace with them by returning the diamond.

Sky: Yow!

Nick: I've got satellite TV!  He's going to give the natives a TV.

Sky: Are you rubbing it in that I don't? 

Nick: They will give you a flat screen tv plasma if you ask nice

Sky: How big is it?

Nick: It's the size of the faceplate for the glass building. It uses the tv at volume 5000. Once those guys are released from the room they have broken ear drums

Sky: This is the hover head of darkness.  He does short reigns of terror.

Nick: Why would he do that?  The natives will kill him.

Sky: But the natives fear him.  Don't ask why.

Nick: Your heart has been blown out of you.  Now you are a zombie droid.

Sky: But the light sphere cancels out darkness.

Nick: He threw a grenade!

Sky: No actually, it was just a cushion.  He threw it and a bunch of fuzzy kittens came out.

Nick: Fuzzy kittens are attacking!  And it's pink! How cute!  You still could be killed by cuteness!

Sky: These warriors are even more powerful than you.  Except when they are on their lunch break.

Nick: Hey, I now have an arm!  And it can hold a gun.  Now we can declare war on the natives.  But it would be very stupid to declare war on them because they have more missiles.

Sky: And nuclear subs. And giant plutonium bombs.  And pizza.

Nick: War is stupid.

Nick and I went to Barnes and Noble this afternoon to use one of his birthday gift certificates to purchase "Talking to Dragons", the fourth volume in a very funny and fanciful series by Patricia Wrede. 

I noticed that the cover was beautifully illustrated and asked if there were pictures on the inside of the book as well.  His answer is quoted below verbatim:

"No, there are no other illustrations. But the colorful adverbs and adjectives are more than adequate substitutes."