Crazy Crap Item #234: The part where Miles is not amused

As I have mentioned before, my young neighbor Miles is a budding expert on dinosaurs. Recently, he was also attempting to tell riddles. I have dwelt upon the capacity of the 5-and-under set to tell riddles before they truly grasp the concept of humor. As may be recalled, this attempt is not always successful or sensemaking. Miles, I discovered, was similarly ill-adept. I thought I'd help him along by inventing my own dinosaur-themed riddle.

Kay: "Hey, Miles. What happens when two dinosaurs run into each other?"

Miles: [Dull silence]

Kay: "It's a riddle. What happens when two dinosaurs run into each other?"

Miles: [Blank stare]

Kay: "Tyrannosaurus wrecks!"

Miles: [Palpable discomfort]

Kay: "Get it? Tyrannosaurus wrecks! Do you like that one? You think it's funny?"

[Long pause]

Miles: "No."

Wit is wasted on the young.

Crazy Crap Item #233: The part where I go dumpster diving

This morning, I was enjoying my habitual repast of cinnamon toast and strawberries and reading about an obscure 17th-century poetess, when the phone rang. It was my lovely neighbor Ruth.

"I thought you should know that there's a full-size stuffed lion in the alley behind the Walters' house. They're throwing out a bunch of stuff."

"I'm on it."

Mere minutes later, and I am in possession of said lion -- a glorious, free-standing example of toy-making at its finest. As I stroll through my backyard with this lion -- I think I'll call him Frazier -- hoisted up on my shoulder, I hear Kevin and Sam call to me from their backyard, some four or so houses down. They wave a small toy monkey that they have rescued from the selfsame pile. I suggest our next block party should be jungle-themed.

Now, with Frazier safely stowed in my basement for whatever future adventures may await him on Norwood, I realize that I could easily go to bed now at 10:30 in the morning, as my day has already been as fulfilling as it could possibly be.

Crazy Crap Item #232: The part where I add an addendum

This is a follow-up to the story about the Caseys' very bad day. So if you haven't read that, read it first.

One thing I forgot to record in my account of the day of drama and trauma on Norwood is the actual cause of James' trip to the ER.

I first learned of it when Sam joined Jack and me to await the outcome. Jack was concerned it was his fault. I asked what happened, and he said it was his fault because he was the one who had told James to jump from one bed to the other -- the incident which resulted in the noggin-cracking.

"Accidents happen," I told Jack, who I felt didn't need a "Didn't-your-mother-always-tell-you-not-to-jump-on-the-beds?" lecture at that precise moment. Plus, it seemed like a pretty self-evident lesson.

Today, to help bolster recovery of both James and the entire Casey clan, I whipped up one of my now-world-renowned batches of brownies. When I delivered said treat, James' uncle was visiting, and asked James, "Whose fault was it that you hurt your head?"

Without missing a beat: "The bed's."

I've said it before, I'll say it again: I like the way that kid thinks.

Crazy Crap Item #231: The part where the Caseys have a very bad day

[NOTE: No children were harmed in the posting of this story. Though the story itself was the source of some harm.]

Yesterday was full of drama and trauma on Norwood. Around 5pm, I was putzing around the entryway, after investing some considerable time in a new entryway-beautification project. What to my wondering ears should appear but my neighbor Ann calling to me.

I opened the door to find her out on the lawn holding James. She's a very laidback lady, so it took me a few seconds to realize that she was in full-on panic mode. It's not initially very far off from regular Ann mode, except that in panic mode, she doesn't finish sentences.

It also took me a few seconds to notice a lot of blood on her shirt, at which point, it very slowly dawned on me that something was terribly wrong. I cut her off in mid-sputter. "What happened?" She started to say something about how she had called Ruth because James had a cut on his head, and could Jack come over, and Sam too, since Ruth was going with her to the ER. I said of course, and called to Jack to come in.

The poor kid was extremely freaked out. He was just crying and asking, "Is my brother going to be OK?" I told him I knew it was scary, and did he want to talk about it? He said no, that would make it worse, so I suggested chocolate milk and cartoons. He thought that seemed ok.

As we sat on the couch looking for a good kid-type show, he broached a few comments about how worried he was about his brother. He seemed very concerned that it was just going to take too long for the ER folk to help James. As Jack is a logical, detail-oriented kid, I told him about triage, and how they screen patients to determine who needs immediate care. I recounted my last trip to the ER. In response to his worries about James feeling pain, I described the medicines they have to make pain go away.

Finally, we got to the big question.

"Is he going to die?"

I answered, "No. No, he's not. He is not going to die from this. He's going to be fine."

I've never seen such a visible sign of relief.

Then Sam came over, and they snacked on cheese, and played with some army men I just bought from the dollar bin at Target. Then we went outside and made swords out of styrofoam. Later, Sam's dad Kevin arrived home from work his son, who was miffed that Jack got to stay at the Dalys (the tenor of his complaint seemed to be something about how Jack gets all the fun).

By about 7:30, Jack, who had been waving off snacks for the past 2 1/2 hours, suddenly announced he was "starving." I hustled up some grub, and Jack, Eamon and I had a nice supper of chicken, corn and Scooby Doo cartoons.

Ann and Jim finally got James home by about 8:30. He ended up having 11 stitches, including 3 stitches deep in the wound, as the cut went all the way to the skull. But Ann said James didn't cry at all; everyone in the ER was amazed. And when they came to get Jack, James insisted on coming in, then leapt all over my livingroom, banged on my electric piano keyboard, climbed on the back of my couch, and, like his brother, was very reluctant to go home.

Ahh, the resilience of youth.

Crazy Crap Item #230: The part where Jack and James wax pious

Yesterday, Ann announced that Jack (age 7) and James (age 4) took it upon themselves to write a letter to God.

Apparently, Jack did all the actual writing (a skill he's been honing in first grade), while James added helpful suggestions. To wit:

- "Add some crosses there."

- "And stars. Jesus loves stars."

We inquired of Ann what the boys could possibly be writing to God. "A general proclamation of their love," it seems.

They were also concerned that if they stored it in a drawer overnight before mailing, God might show up and take their unfinished draft. This was, apparently, a great concern.

I suggested that Ann spirit the letter away in the night. Mimi added that she could leave a cross behind.

I suspect she did no such thing. So much for the true fun of parenting: messing with your kids.

Crazy Crap Item #229: The part where I play catch-up (Part 1, Cookie Party)

So it seems I have not been diligent enough in recording the doings on Norwood, as is attested to by the nagging of some of my readers (I'm looking at you, Ann). So here is my first attempt to hit rewind and record some of the events I neglected to document before.

Part 1: Cookie Party

For two years now, Cookie Party has been a hallowed annual tradition here on Norwood. Cookie Party consists of me making many sugar cookies in holiday shapes and obtaining an embarassing amount of holiday-themed embellishments. The final piece slides into place when I invite the small children of my neighborhood over to decorate these cookies by smearing frosting and applying sprinkles to both the sweet treats and themselves. Drop cloths assist in easy clean-up.

Last year's first annual cookie party was a grand success, and cries for a 2008 edition soon followed.

Applying the lessons of last year, I made a few changes in this year's plan. These included:

* Taking advantage of modern freezer technology to make and store cookies a few weeks in advance of said party to avoid pre-party preparation crunch.

* Slip-covering the diningroom chairs in cut-up plastic tablecloths to avoid the spilling of colored frosting and (yes) red wine on their cream-colored cloth seats.

* Purchasing even more supermarket gel icing squirters, since these seemed to be such a hit the year before.

* Making it clear in advance to all parents that I was very much OK with the idea that the post-cookie-sugar-crash would provide an excellent transition into parent-oriented happy hour, with the aid of some kid-style movies that could be lent by aforementioned parents.

* Removing all death- and injury-inducing items from our livingroom (pocket knives, laser pointers, nail clippers, cigarette lighters, cat o' nine tails, etc.), and placing all crystals, porcelains, and other valuables out of reach of small hands.

* Obtaining multitudinous toys from the dollar bin at Target, to be placed under the Christmas tree for general merriment and take-home gifts.

These preparations in place, the day of cookie party arrived attended by great excitement and a monumental snow fall. The latter led to yet another, hopefully soon-to-be repeated tradition, the transformation of the Caseys' front steps into a sledding hill. (See alternate sources for a full-photo record and video 1 and video 2 of this event).

After sledding, I returned to my cozy home to finalize preparations. Guests began arriving after 3pm, and festivities were soon well and truly underway. Highlights included:

* The new cookie-decorating efforts of young Anika, who displayed a determination and focus seldom seen in a such a tiny girl. She sat, fascinated for hours, emptying tube after tube of gel frosting onto a single cookie. When, at intervals, her tube would run out, she would hold it up to me with brow furrowed, as if to say, "What the hell?"

* The repeated, worried question "Can we eat them when we're done?", which repeatedly garnered the reply of "Um, yeah, I'm not planning to make a cookie art gallery with them." This followed by greedy gobbling, greedy gobbling, and more greedy gobbling.

* The constant tug-of-war between two schools of cookie decoration: the commitment to "cookie as art" versus "how much crap can I load onto one cookie?"

* The decision by some artisans to don protective eyewear to avoid the dreaded "jimmies in the eyes" risk.

* The retirement of parents to the livingroom for uninterrupted adult snacks during the first wave of decoration.

* After cookie decoration, the grand migration of kids into the livingroom for movie-watching, dancing, skipping, and general merriment, to be replaced by parents, snacks and many bottles of wine on the diningroom table.

* A visit by block favorite Jon Hey, who entertained the crowd with carols on the keyboard.

* The slow and steady drunkening of parents as children undergo a similar stupor of sugar-crash.

All in all, a grand success. To many more cookie parties!

Crazy Crap Item #228: The part where Miles waxes authoritative

If there's one thing I truly enjoy, it's the capacity of small children to completely make crap up on the fly, then explain it to you with an air of certainty, authority, and -- yes -- condescension that I can't seem to muster even when I know what I'm talking about.

To whit, young Miles on the topic of dinosaurs. Miles, four-years-old, is son to Mimi and Amanda and brother to the floppy-curled two-year-old Nolan. They reside on the dreaded 1400 block, but we try not to hold it against them, as they are so delightful.

Miles is a very serious young man. A greeting usually gains reciprocation by way of a very sober, non-gaze-meeting and highly formal "hello." It generally takes a good hour or so for Miles to respond to teasing with anything but puzzlement.

Thus, from Miles, I've come to expect "just the facts." It was in keeping with this general tenor that Miles sought to educate me on the topic of dinosaurs.

"This is diplodocus," Miles intoned with an air of matter-of-fact sobriety as he waved a plastic dinosaur figure at me. "He's a plant-eater. His teeth are short and dull."

I nodded and repeated the fact several times.

Later, he returned to the topic.

"This is T.rex. He's a meat-eater."

"Oh, does he eat ham sandwiches?" I inquired.

"No," Miles replied with furrowed brow. "Hes a meat eater."

"But ham is a meat," I reasoned. "Doesn't he eat ham sandwiches."

"NO," Miles asserted, with a touch of impatience. "He doesn't eat ham."

"But why wouldn't he eat ham? Ham is a meat."

With nary a pause and a tone of certainty, Miles replied, "He only eats skin meat."

I am schooled.

Crazy Crap Item #227: The part where I record yet another utterly perfect Norwood day

Those of you have dipped into my record of life in my little corner of the world have probably already heard too much about the utter perfection of a little block I like to call 1500 Norwood. To you I say, too bad; you're going to hear more.

Today, as it happens, was one of those hearts-and-rainbows, ponies-and-unicorn days in which all the glory of Mayberry comes out in full flower just outside my front door. On 1400 Norwood, life is sorrow. On 1300 Norwood, they eat naught but ashes and drink naught but tears. But on 1500 Norwood, all is bliss.

Here's how it went down:

10:30am: I depart my abode to head up to Highland Park for one of a million follow-ups on my poor beleagured jaw. What with unforeseen forestallments and emergency surguries galore, my appointment is pushed off, delaying my return considerably. During my my transit, I discover it is a rare, beautiful spring day in Chicago, and I contemplate a delicious fried egg sandwich, necessary fuel for one who has skipped breakfast.

1:00pm: Upon returning home, I prepare aforesaid sandwich and ponder where to consume said meal. "Outside would be bliss," I thought, "but what fun would it be without my delightful Caseys?" -- The Caseys being, of course, my next door neighbors; more specifically, Jack (age 7) and James (age 4).

I peek outside, and what to my wondering eyes should appear, but two small boys cavorting.

I head outdoors, sandwich in hand, only to be peppered with requests for shovels. I explain that I must eat my sandwich first, but the great sadness I witness convinces me that sandwiches can wait. I make with the shovels, and retire to my back steps for the duel delight of egg sandwich and an extravaganza of earth removal.

2:00pm: Basking in the spring sun, I realize that I have yet to consume some coffee, and excuse myself to go make a pot. Jack is scandalized -- where on earth could I be going??? I explain I will be right back.

As the coffee brews, I take it into my mind that I desire a nice hunk of blueberry cinnamon coffee cake. Thankfully, I have a recipe for said cake, and all ingredients on hand. I whip up the batter, slap pan in oven, and return to the back steps with coffee, no one the wiser about my improvised baking.

3:00pm: The coffee cake is done! But, oh, too hot to handle. So I grab a magazine, and sidle out to the benches so thoughtfully provided on the parkway down the block. Our neighbors, the Watts-Harrises (Kevin, Ruth and son Sam) have selflessly sacrificed the grass on their parkway so that all may bask in communal lounging. I plunk down with coffee and magazine.

3:30pm: I sense, from half a block away, that my coffee cake is now cool enough to cut. I sidle back up the block, and consider what to do with this bounty of cake. After all, I'm only one small girl, and this is a gi-normous 13" x 9" cake.

The first hunk goes to neighbor Lisa, who is laid up from recent childbirth and surgery. As I deliver it, her 2-year-old Caroline (one of four -- count 'em, four! -- children) eyes me with a mix of suspicion and flirtation.

En route to Lisa's, I pass by the venerable benches, where Megan has settled in. "What are you doing?" she asks. "Delivering coffee cake," I say. "I'll bring some out. Want some?" She does.

But first, I must make my second delivery. It goes to Nancy. Ah, Nancy. Shameless, irrepressible Nancy. A fixture on the block, Nancy has lived here since the '70s. Before that, she was in the convent. I like to think of her as a sort of Scotch-soaked Maria von Trapp. After leaving the nunnery, she taught at a school for autistic children, and eventually met the love of her life, Bill, an ex-priest. Now in her 80s, Nancy shacks up with Bill, goes for daily strolls, distributes chocolates by the fistful, and brings joy to the block with her Christmas lights, which are lit year-round.

Nancy and I forged a bond over physical therapy. She was recovering from knee replacement surgery; I was rehabbing a crotchety hip. We had two weekly dates for nearly 6 months, and have been fast friends since. When the mood strikes me, I toss tasty comestibles in a ziplock and tottle down to Nancy's for a visit.

So on this fine spring day, I set out with coffee cake in hand, only to find Nancy in conversation with a passerby. We are introduced. This person -- who, I suspect, is transsexual -- is walking a small, vivacious poodle. Apparently, she has been accosted by Nancy before, and decided to swing by for a chat. After fussing over her poodle, Sunshine, we make our way to Nancy's, where we enjoy a short visit. We are soon joined by Manny, a former neighbor, now residing in a local nursing home. He has returned with his daughter for a visit. We watch the preamble to the derby.

3:30pm: I excuse myself, explaining I have promised Megan some coffee cake. On the way home, I pass back by the benches, and re-assert to Megan, who is now joined by Ruth (proprietor of the benches) and Kim (a refugee from the much-despised 1400 block), that I will be bringing coffee cake.

But first, I realize, I must deliver a hunk to the Caseys. I carve off a hunk, foil it up, and traipse next door. I ring the bell, and realize I have interrupted violin practice. Jim and Jack seem to welcome a break and usher me in. I'm treated to several tunes by the deft-fingered Jack, including a duet with Jim. James totters in and whispers in Jim's ear. He, too, it seems, wants a go. Jim produces what I consider the smallest violin in creation (though Jim assures me there are much smaller ones, even in that very house), and James launches into a song entitled "Perpetual Motion," his 4-year-old fingers flying. I'm treated to several encores.

4:00pm: I depart the Caseys, and am accosted by shouts from the bench of "where is that coffee cake?" I explain that I had been ensnared by the Casey's siren song, and that I will be out in a second. I slice up the last quadrant of cake and take it out to the ladies.

4:15pm: We partake. Sam, Jack and James inflict serious damage on each other with light sabers. Ann comes out and models the stylish outfit she has donned for a fundraiser that evening at the local Catholic school. Megan departs to make her preparations for the same event.

In front of the McDermott house, a flock of children skip rope, draw with chalk, and do other things that children do at a first communion party.

Across the street, the Brenner twins roller skate.

Kevin joins Ruth and me at the benches, and we speak of this and that.

The Caltos leave for the fundraiser.

The Cancillas leave for the fundraiser.

I comment pitiously that I feel like I'm being left behind on prom night.

"Come to dinner with us," Kevin says.

"I was going to stay in," I reply, "But I like you people."

6:00pm: I pop inside to change clothes and slap on some eyeliner. When I return to rejoin Ruth and Kevin, I find that Jim has ventured outdoors with his guitar and serenading the block. We listen to a few tunes, and after the Caseys leave for the fundraiser, Kevin brings around the car, and off I go for a delightful repast of tacos and tequila.

And thus ends a perfect day on 1500 Norwood.

Crazy Crap Item #226: The part where I like the way James thinks

So, thanks to global warming, Lake Michigan, what have you, we experience a very chaotic version of spring here in Chicago. To wit: one day it will be 40 degrees with driving rains; the next will be 80 degrees and dry. Bizarre.

As a result, we have learned to take to our front lawns whenever the sun peeks her face out in the month of April.

It was during one of these sunny 15-minute windows when I happened to witness some sort of chase game occuring on the Caseys' front lawn. James was the quarry. Jack, Sam and Emmett were the predators. Mayhap it was cops and robbers, or cowboys and Indians, or Jedis and clones. All that matters for the purpose of this story is that James was being chased.

The merry band wound its way along the front parkways and sidewalks, until James, seeking to evade capture, sharply cut back along the west side of his house, an area which is strictly prohibited.

"James!" Jack hollered to stop him. "You can't go back there! You know you can't go back there."

James looked thunderstruck.

"Then why did YOU chase me there?"

Touche.

Crazy Crap Item #225: The part where James offers a definition

James: "If you get all wrapped up in black tape, then you're a mummy."

Kay: "What is a mummy?"

James: "A mummy is 100 years old. He is covered in bandaids."

Crazy Crap Item #224: The part where art appears on my doorstep

Yesterday, Eamon and I indulged in a pull-out-the-sofa-bed, eat-jelly-beans-for-breakfast, watch-trash-tv Sunday. It was delicious.

Around about 4:30, our doorbell rang. As is my way, I allowed Eamon to answer. I overheard the exchange, snatches of which included "poster," "anything you want," and "50 cents."

Eamon shut the door and returned, informing me that he had just purchased art. Our neighbor Calvin, roughly 8 years old, was going door to door with a friend peddling custom-made posters. Any subject you want, 50 cents apiece. To be delivered in 15 minutes. Eamon ordered two.

Some time later, the doorbell rang again, and we received said art, reproductions to be seen here and here. For their efforts, I paid our young artist-entrepreneurs the lofty fee of $2 ($1 for art; $1 tip). How lucky we are to live in a neighborhood where masterpieces are delivered to your very door!

Crazy Crap Item #223: The part where I publish an open memo to dog owners

First off, I know it's practically a mortal sin in this country to say anything negative about dogs. So let me be clear: This letter is directed to dog owners, not dogs themselves.

Secondly, this memo was not sparked by the actions of any dog owner I know personally. So, no, this is not a hint directed at you.

With those two caveats out of the way, it must be said:

Just because your dog is a "people dog," that does not mean I am a "dog person." So please, don't assume that I like being sniffed. Or nudged off a sidewalk into a mud puddle. Or climbed upon.

This is particularly true if your dog stands four feet from front paw to the top of the shoulder.

I know you think your dog is adorable. But, seriously, keep it in check. That's why God invented leashes.

Memo ended.

Crazy Crap Item #222: The part where the dead are seen to rise

In my grand tradition of pirating others' amusing stories to pad out my own observations, I include this exchange as reported by Jorge, brother to my good friend Roxi. Jorge is a speech therapist who works with children. This is an excerpt from a recent conversation with one of his students:

Jorge: Ok, Johnny, let's hear your report on Ulysses S. Grant.

Johnny: Ulysses S. Grant was our 18th President. He ran against Barack Obama.

Jorge: Wait, no, Johnny. Obama is alive today. He is our president now. Ulysses S. Grant has been dead a very long time.

Johnny: YOU MEAN HE'S A ZOMBIE?!

Crazy Crap Item #221: The part where Jack shows himself to be a bottom-liner

As is well known, neighbor Jack is a fiddler. He's been playing violin since, I don't know, perhaps the womb, and is quite adept.

He's also learned to revel in the limelight, particularly during one of my favorite annual events: busking at the Andersonville Somerfest.

For those unaware, "to busk" is to perform some sort of act in public, with a hat, jar, or instrument case out for the collection of contributions. Sometimes such actions are frowned upon. Rarely are they disputed, however, when the busker is in the 5-year-old age range.

That is what we learned when Jack busked a few years ago, with his friend and contemporary Sam adding a dance interpretation, and netted quite a handy pile of cash. He generously used his earnings to buy ice cream for us all.

Last year, he did a repeat, and earned enough to buy himself some knickknack I can't quite recall.

Well, recently, his younger brother James has also taken up the bow. I was a little concerned. Would Jack resent his spotlight and thunder being stolen.

I was relieved when I asked about future busking plans, and his response was, "James can do it too this year. We'll make about a billion dollars."

Clearly, Jack knows which is worth more: ego, or cold hard cash.

Crazy Crap Item #220: The part where I gather more lore of the famed O'Malley house

I have spoke oft and anon of the fabulous house I live in, located, as it is, on the best block in the universe: 1500 Norwood. We have, for example, many fantastic block parties. Neighbors organize "meal trains" when anyone is sick or has a baby. We gather for impromptu parties, gather for cookie parties, have backyard camp-outs, and watched the election of Obama in a huge 2-yard viewing extravaganza.

I can't help to think part of the fabulousness of this little community comes from the years of fabulous people who have gone before us, imprinting a path of fun that's as deep in the road as the potholes in our street that never seem to get fixed.

Today, I got yet another glimpse into that long legacy. My neighbor Florence recently had hip replacement surgery. Tonight was my night to bring over dinner. When I called to drop off lasagna, I had the chance to chat with her daughter, who is in town to help care for her during her recuperation.

"You're in the O'Malley house," she said. "I grew up there."

I looked puzzled, as she was clearly not an O'Malley, and she explained that she played there all the time.

"We used to have spitting contests off the back balcony," she revealed.

I also learned:

-- the funky room in the basement, with its shelves and paneling, was once, as I have always suspected, a Greg Brady-style oldest son's bedroom.

-- the dining room was formerly used as a den, with TV perched on the built-in breakfront.

--the dining room also housed a keyboard that was NOT TO BE TOUCHED, as it belong to an O'Malley uncle who played organ at Wrigley Field.

I revel in all these legacies, and look forward to the day when I, too, can host spitting contests off the back balcony.

Crazy Crap Item #219: The part where I receive a pretty authoritative vote of confidence

Well, not to crib again from the annals of James Casey, but his mother Ann just sent along another anecdote that must be shared. To wit:

After swimming today James and I were in the locker room and he says "When we get home we should ask Kay to come over and build us an indoor pool"

me - "why would we ask Kay?"

him - "because Kay came make anything"

me - "is that right?"

him - "well, I HOPE so!"

Crazy Crap Item #218: The part where James demonstrates his knowledge of things spiritual

I crib this story from Ann, James' mother. James is 4.

James wanted to read a story so I told him to go pick out a book. He came back with one and I told him "This is a book about what happens after you die". (It's a picture book that Rose gave us when the boy's grandfather died called "The Next Place".) James said "I already know what happens after you die, they make a statue of you and put it in church.........................or you become a ghost and fly around a castle".

Crazy Crap Item #217: The part where James sums things up quite nicely

Recently, my neighbor Ann had to go to the dentist to get a crown. She asked if I would hang out with James (age 4) while she did so.

I cherish any time I can spend with either or both of the Casey boys under any circumstances, so I readily agreed.

Most of the hour or so were spent with him demonstrating his many toys, making my knight battle his (I always lose), and with the eating of snacks. But we also steeped ourselves in philosophical discussion. To wit:

James: What comes before 4 and 102?

Kay: I don't think I understand your question.

James [said with greater emphasis]: What comes before 4 and 102?

Kay [not wanting to have to count from 1 to 101]: Well, every number before 102 is what comes before 1o2.

James: Yes, and 1, 2, 3 come before 4.

Kay [relieved]: Yes, that's exactly it.

James: 1 you wear diapers; 2 you wear diapers; 3 you wear underpants; 4 you wear underpants.

Kay: Yes. And what comes after 4? What do you wear then?

James: After 4, it's all underpants, all seasons.

And....scene.

Crazy Crap Item #216: The part where I share important information

From Elizabeth's England: Everyday Life in Elizabethan London, by Liza Picard

"Farting, like pissing, should ideally be done when alone, if at all possible, but if it is not possible to withdraw, 'let a cough cover the sound', which is not the whole answer to the problem. In all this, one has to remember that there were few lavatories, public or private, to which one could withdraw. The unfortunate Earl of Oxford farted as he bowed before Queen Elizabeth one day. He was so mortified that he left the Court for seven years. On his return the Queen greeted him reassuringly. 'My Lord, I had forgotten the fart.'"

Crazy Crap Item #215: The part where I am delighted by my homecoming surprise

OK, so I just returned from Banning, blah blah blah. Aside from being seated next to the WORLD'S ANGRIEST TODDLER for 3 hours of my trip, the trip was fairly uneventful.

Just prior to my return, Eamon posted a most enticing Facebook status update:
Eamon hopes Kay likes her surprise!

Well, I'm always someone who likes to come home, but this little missive really sealed the deal. But before I reveal said surprise, I must back up a bit.

I, dear friends, can charitably be called a "picky sleeper." I started developing insomnia in college, and committed myself fully to this endeavor by graduate school. My good friend, Mr. Czjaka, was always amused by my capacity to awake for no good reason at all, and stay awake for hours. "Are you like Jane Eyre," he'd ask. "Were you awakened by a shaft of moonlight breaking through your curtained window?"

This eventually led to a phenemenon I like to call "migratory sleeping." Fed up with my inability to sleep in one location, I'd move to another--a couch, the floor, whatever came to hand as a reasonable sleep surface.

My restlessness has also led to a phenomenon my brother has recently dubbed "pillow madness." It started as an attempt to pin myself down. I found that after tossing and turning for several hours, putting my pillow on top of my head would secure me in place and, sometimes, anyway, allow me to drift off.

Later, I discovered that a pillow laid along one side of me only helped matters. And then one on the other side.

It was only when I met Eamon that I was introduced to the greatest invention mankind has yet to create: the body pillow. For the unenlightened, this is an ENORMOUSLY long pillow that runs the full length of the body.

So, for those of you keeping up, at this point in our story, I am sleeping with:
-a pillow under my head
-a pillow over my head
-a body pillow on one side
-a pillow on the other side

As if this weren't insane enough, then came the physical woes. Chronic shoulder pain. Chronic hip pain. On opposite sides of the body. This means, of course, that I cannot sleep comfortably on either my left or my right side. (Later, I developed a carpal tunnel-esque condition that seemed to kick in when I lay on my back ... cruel irony ... but I've managed to get that under control).

So, anyway, to properly bolster all my body parts, I found I needed:
- aforementioned pillows over and under head
- body pillow with additional pillow on it when lying on side opposite my sore shoulder (so as to prop it up)
- two pillows laid end to end on the other side, so as to bolster my sore hip when lying on that opposite side

I call it the Kay Daly Sleep System (tm). Patent pending.

Clearly, I'm now taking up enough bed space for three stout souls. Eamon and I can no longer fit in our queen-size bed. Add in my migratory sleep patterns, and I'm soon permabulating from one guest bedroom to the other. In the wake of my recent nervous breakdown, I finally settled into our haunted guestroom. It's dark and soothing, quiet as a tomb, and has a mattress I quite like.

But I miss, you know, my actual bedroom, and the guy I share it with, so this makes me a bit sad.

Which brings us to my SURPRISE.

Upon arriving home from Banning, I'm escorted to the bedroom where Eamon has contrived THE BIGGEST BED THE WORLD HAS EVER KNOWN. It's bigger than a King-size bed. It's bigger than a California King.

He has moved out our previous bed, a queen-size Comfort-aire, which had always made me feel like I was sleeping in a hammock, no matter how much I filled my side with air. It now lives in the haunted guestroom.

He has moved the double bed that I like from the haunted guestroom into our bedroom.

He has moved an old twin bed from our basement up two flights of stairs to our bedroom.

He has cunningly pushed these two beds together to form one TITANIC SUPER-BED.

He has purchased new, high-quality sheets for each of the components of this new bed (unlike the nasty, low-thread-count affairs I usually cheap-out with).

He has purchased coverlets and decorative pillows to match the brown pillowcase I had chosen for my body pillow.

And thus it is, we now own the largest bed in the western hemisphere, and I am the happiest of girls.

P.S. I'm also a sheet stealer. But we found a solution for that as well.