Stream of consciousness Saturday

My wife has been cleaning our room. Her room. I'm afraid that it has become sort of a catch-all for objects that we can't leave in the rest of the house for my son to play with. She hands me a box. What's this? Oh! It's the imported beer that I got from my brother-in-law for Christmas! I've been looking for that. If you want to know what our room looked like, open up your utility closet. Move in a bed. There you go.

She found thousands of pictures that she wants to hang up. One is the Attack of the 50 Foot Woman movie poster. She wants to hang this over our bed. As if I didn't have enough nightmares. And there is every picture of her family that would be possible. It's like being in a Borgesian library - you could see every second of her relatives lives forever preserved and framed. And she wants to hang these up as well.

My mother-in-law has decided that she would like to be called Tutu. This is apparently Hawaiian for grandmother. As you may have guessed, I think this is particularly well-suited for her, given that she is a 5 foot tall, redhaired Irish woman. So I imagine my son will one day ask me, "I see Tutu and grandpa, uncles and aunts, 3rd cousins 15 times removed... but all on Mommy's side. Where's your family?" Of course I will tell him that I sprang fully-formed from Zeus's head.

I await the day soon after when he tells me that Bobby at school says that Santa isn't real, and that he has doubts about my jumping out of a Zeus.

You see, by then, the Zeus will be the hot new sports car. "Prometheus stole fire from the Gods and put it in a spark-plug," the advertisement will read, "but only Zeus goes 0-60 faster than you can say Titan!"

I will laugh and explain that Santa certainly is real, and is watching you right now. Even when you're in the bathroom. Then I will concede that I did not jump out of a Zeus, but have reproduced asexually since the great sex shortage of 1880 when Queen Victoria decreed that naughty was out, big hats were in. That is, my little man, until you were conceived. Now go tell Bobby that Harvey wants to talk to him about some lost easter eggs... and that he's pissed.

And remember your hat - we have auditions for Beach Blanket Babylon later.