So I'm sitting here in the detritus of last night's Thanksgiving gathering. There are 1000 dirty plates, more or less, 12 be-turkeyed napkins, cranberry sauce on the dog's head, rougly ten thousand wine glasses, and two pots of turkey soup on the boil. Eventually they will require all the lovely things that they require: defatting, de-yuckifying, straining, mashing, etc. Not for the faint of heart. Really not for the faints of heart who also happen to be vegetarians 260 days a year. (Hi!) Downstairs where the children were milling about there are 17 tiny Jedi bodies, innumerable headless clones, two demolished Republic starships mauled for their parts, a wooden train set spilling down the stairs and over a trestle bridge into the downstairs bathtub, and all 12 disks of the Lord Of the Rings trilogy scattered over the carpet. I should really be getting around to making all of this right, to re-establishing the rule of Order over Chaos, to cleaning and herding and scrubbing and all that.
Instead, I'm doubled over with silent laughter in my office, listening to two little boys cataloguing different euphemisms for their you-know-whats. The people who insist that children call their body parts by their official names are really missing out on some great comedy.