“What do you want for Christmas, honey?” I asked my six-year old, perhaps a month or so later than I should’ve.
“Where would we put him?” I asked, opting for the space argument instead of the financial one that usually works better on her older sister. “We don’t have much yard, and the garage is pretty full.”
“He can stay in my room.”
“Horses can’t be house-trained, honey,” I said, envisioning wall-to-wall newspaper and a pooper scooper the size of a snow shovel.
“I’ll walk him every day Two times.”
“Doesn’t matter—they don’t hold it, they just go whenever and wherever they are.“
“Oh,” she said, her little brow wrinkling. And then she smiled. “He can stay in your room, then.”
Murphy the Snail Finger Puppet
Because he’s a snail.
And a finger puppet.
And just look at that little face.
He was found in a museum gift shop this weekend, and I carried him around on my forefinger from the time I discovered him on the rack amongst the bunnies and puppies, seals and robins, hedgehogs and otters, sharks and etcetera—they have an remarkable selection—to the moment the clerk said, “Do you want a bag, or are you going to wear him home?”
I didn’t wear him home, thank you. I was driving.
Jane named him. I was thinking Morton, but he totally looks like a Murphy.
What he’s sitting on is the half thing that made me smile, because it’s the half-completed next scene from my WIP,
and I get to use straightjacket metaphorically for once.
(genre thing — best not to ask, really)
The Grapes that Stole Christmas
This is the season that our research patrons and volunteers and vendors like to give us cookies and fudge and chocolates and so forth.
And heaven knows, we appreciate it.
But this year, one of our favorite volunteers brought us these:
Grinches onna Stick for second breakfast!
*Not including Lyra’s latest post, which she published yesterday, but I caught first this thing morning. Gingerbread House metaphors and Elf Beer. Awesome.