In a last minute switcheroo, my wife decided to stay home and hand out candy while I went trick-or-treating with the kids.
I had six kids in my group: four 10-year-old boys — a mummy (my kid), two ninjas, and an evil baseball catcher — plus a hyperactive 6-year-old cheerleader and a 5-year-old Blue’s Clues girl.
“I beat the traffic this morning. I got here an hour and a half early, but I only had to get up 45 minutes earlier.”
“So you saved 45 minutes.”
“I saved . . . let’s see . . . (looking thoughtfully skyward) . . . 45 minutes!
I don’t care what kind of car you drive, what kind of a deal you got on it, the gas mileage, how fast it goes . . .
Here’s why:
And look upon us, angels of young children, with regards not quite estranged, when the swift river bears us to the ocean.
And so, on page 243 of a 900-page novel, the 6-year-old Son referred to in the title dies!
“So what’s the rest of the book going to be about?” I wonder aloud.
“Your butt,” my son suggests.
I took my son out for dinner tonight. We went to Hof’s Hut, his choice.
I’ve been to Hof’s Hut twice in my life. The other time was the first real date I ever had with a girl. I took her to Hof’s Hut and a movie, where she fell asleep.
That seems like just last week, and yet this week I find myself married with a 10-year-old son, who orders off the grownup menu for the very first time . . .
I had three pieces of limestone on my desk, but I was terrified to find that they required to be dusted daily, when the furniture of my mind was all undusted still, and I threw them out the window in disgust. How, then, could I have a furnished house? I would rather sit in the open air, for no dust gathers on the grass, unless where man has broken ground.
We’ve got a number of uncontrolled fires burning in Southern California. It’s raining ash out of a darkened sky in Orange County, where I live, although we’re nowhere near the actual fires.
For several years after I got married, I kept a wedding picture on my desk at work — not one of the “professional” photos, but a candid picture of my wife and me, taken by one of the guests.
A colleague is internationalizing error messages for a login form. He can tell you that your password is wrong in 12 different languages, even though the users of the application all speak English.
“This is a brilliant waste of time,” he chortles.
“It sure is . . . if by ‘brilliant waste of time,’ you mean ‘waste of time.’”
If by “sound,” you mean vibrations in air pressure capable of being interpreted as sound, then yes, it does make a sound.
If by “sound,” you mean CRRRRRRRRASSSSSH!, then it doesn’t.
DURHAM, N.C. — A jury convicted novelist Michael Peterson Friday of bludgeoning his wife of five years in the stairwell of their Durham mansion.
Peterson says his wife fell down the stairs. Coincidentally, another female friend of Peterson’s was found dead at the bottom of a staicase in 1985 . . .
The earth keeps some vibration going
There in your heart, and that is you.
There’s a balance to be struck between providing a kid with some direction in his life, and thinking that he should like certain things because I like them, or dislike certain things because I don’t like them, or that he should do things a certain way because that’s the way I would do them, the danger being that even though my way is, of course, the best way, the way he does it is what makes him him . . .
My son wants an Icee after roller hockey practice, so I give him some money and he skates off to the snack bar.
When I get there, the snack bar girl is giving him the Icee and his money back.
My nephew died yesterday in a car smash in Amarillo, TX, where he lived.
He was 10 years old, the same age as my son. He was my son’s favorite cousin.
We have a new governor in California:
Does the punishment of a humiliating recall fit Davis’ crimes? Maybe not. But the issue isn’t fairness to Davis. It’s the future of the state. If the voters brutally and unfairly punish a state-of-the-art pol who overspends in boom times and puts off tough decisions until after he’s reelected, that doesn’t seem to me a terrible precedent to set. It seems a useful precedent.
From a company newsletter:
[Insert woman's name here] is quite a rescuer. She started with animals and now has six dogs, 13 cats and a rabbit. Last fall, she decided to extend her caretaking talents to children by becoming a foster parent. She and her partner, [Insert another woman's name here], are foster parents to 7- and 9-year-old children and expect to take in several more soon. In fact, the two recently added on to their house to accomodate the growing family.
We have a young man in our neighborhood — he looks to be junior high school age — who likes to moon passing cars from a high wall in his backyard.
LOS ANGELES — Murderess Vidilia Spragin, who is dying of cancer and won “compassionate release” after 20 years in prison, wants to be buried in a plot alongside the husband she killed in 1982.
She was convicted of setting Mr. Spragin on fire.
