Sexting TMI Tuesday

Uff da. Back in my premarital days when I was ethically eligible for a booty call, there was something called the "mobile car phone." It was anchored to your car with a 500-pound weight. It did not allow for texting. It barely permitted talking. I think if you tried to do anything sexy with it, you'd be crushed under its heft as soon as even one hand left the receiver.



1. Have you ever sent or recieved a sext message?

This would presume that I know how to text. I'm a kick-ass typist, but I require a querty qwerty keyboard.** I realize I just disqualified myself as an authority on my sexting post from a few days ago. I wouldn't mind receiving a sext message (from someone scrumptious my own age) but I probably couldn't figure out how to retrieve it. Oh, and my phone battery would surely be run into the ground. I am a walking billboard for landlines, pathetic as that is.

2. Have you ever made or recieved a booty call?

Well, this was back when phones were mostly analog, all attached to a wall jack, and still invariably owned by AT&T. But yeah. I'd just broken up with my college boyfriend and didn't foresee getting back together again. If I'd just waited a few days, my luck would've changed again. Luckily for me, I didn't wait, and I got to know the soccer legs of a workmate up closer than I'd ever hoped. (He would be worth a post or two of his own.)

3. Have you ever added or edited a word/entry to Wikipedia or Urban Dictionary or any other online reference?

I haven't added anything, but last I checked "Kittywampus" on Google, the only entry leading this blog was, in fact, Urban Dictionary.

4. At what age did you have your first consensual sexual experience?

Define sexual?

Okay, so there's not much point in nit-picking. I was a young-ish college freshman, and it all happened - everything from glorious oral sex to PIV coupling - the summer after freshman year, in the few months before I turned 19. I was so intent on moving beyond virginity, I wasn't terribly concerned with definitions.

5. What has been the greatest age difference between you and a consensual sexual partner?

Why, that would have to be my husband and long-term mate. He's six years older almost exactly. (I once had a not-quite-consensual experience with someone who might be a bit older yet, but that's a whole 'nother story, not light enough for TMI any day of the week.)

Bonus (as in optional): Why do you blog?

Umm, to embarrass myself in front of my ex-students who read this? To confirm my college friends' worst opinion of me? Actually, I think I do it to play with ideas that are otherwise outside the bounds of stodgy academic discourse. Why do I play TMI? Because I'm plum out of ideas for the moment - and the questions (or at least my answers) aren't so dreadfully shocking for my aforementioned students.

** Update: Seems I overestimate my typing skills! Well, let's just says I type faster than I think, and here's your evidence (if the rest of this blog didn't already prove it).

Shaking the Sausage

My penis spam junk mail box has had some marvelous subject lines this week:

Your sausage will be reputable

Women will beg you to walk naked and shake it

Combine those two images and you get a visual that ... well, maybe you'd better not go there. I sort of wish I hadn't.

I'll try to get back to more substantive posting tomorrow; I am completely fried from a long day spent driving to Columbus and chasing our kids around COSI, the science museum. Until then, dear readers, I'll leave you to ponder how exactly a hunk of quivering meat can be "reputable." Better than disreputable, I guess.

Feline GPS?

I am so totally stealing this from Badtux. This is Maru. If you've never encountered him 'til now, he lives in Japan and has his own blog, along with oodles of YouTube videos.

Watch closely and tell me if you see any holes in that bag. I couldn't see any. Which leads me to conclude that Maru is navigating via feline GPS. Pretty cool.

In Which I Apologize to the Wombat

Wombat photo by Flickr user Fifila, used under a Creative Commons license.

Following up on yesterday's post about the disappearance of the beaver, I was asked (offline) why I omitted the wombat from my list of alternative critters that could metaphorically refer to ladyparts. Since I can't see any reason to discriminate, I hereby apologize to wombats everywhere.

A quick Google search turns up a link between wombats and femininity that I had sadly ignored - until now. There's a WOMBAT mailing list - WOMen of Beauty And Temptation - for discussion of women and sexuality. It's limited to bisexual women, so I'm not eligible to join, more's the pity. There's WOMBATS - WOmen's Mountain Bike and Tea Society - for gals "with a passion for pedaling in the dirt." I like a nice smooth road, so I don't qualify for that group, either. But still! Two whole data points!

I dunno. The wombat is definitely as cute as the beaver, so why not? Also, it's a marsupial, which is just unspeakably cool. What that does to the metaphor ... I'd rather not speculate. You get into weird anatomy very quickly. (Actually, the space just behind the uterus and vagina is called the pouch of Douglas, so maybe the marsupial connection isn't all wrong?)

Then again, neither beaver nor wombat is as pettable - or intelligent - as the pussycat. So I think I'm gonna stay with the kitty as my metaphorical animal of choice.

Caturday Theology: Or, The Ceiling Cat Is Watching Me

Sistine kitteh from I Can Has Cheezburger?

No, I'm not hallucinating - or seeing visions of angels - from too much grading. (Though I am still buried under heaps of term papers and exams.)

Verily, the Ceiling Cat has cast his beatific feline glance upon me.

He really does see everything. At least, he saw this post about his presence on Twitter. He utters some LOLspeak ("Talkin bowt meh? Dey dunt seme so revrent") and the next thing I know, legions of his followers, hooman and kitteh alike, are pouncing on this humble blog.

And yes, it was the real Ceiling Cat, not his masturbation-obsessed doppelganger. O Ceiling Cat, I promise not to block you. (Unless that was you peeking at me the other day when I had a few private moments and ... oh, never mind.)

Just so you don't think we're blaspheming - we are a cat-inspired blog, after all, and we weren't snarking when we said you've mastered the form of the tweet - here's a felidiction in your honor:

May the Ceiling Cat bless you and keep you;
May he tickle you with his whiskers
And bring half-dead mice to you
May the Ceiling Cat lift up his furry countenance upon you,
And protect us from fleas.

If that doggerel is too un-catlike for you, well, we'd be happy to oblige with belly rubs.

(Oh, and I broke down and started following Ceiling Cat on Twitter. I was not going to actually use my account, just squat it! Thus begins the road to perdition, or at least procrastination.)

Found: Twitter's Divine Feline Use

First, you have to get over your chimera-disgust at the idea of cats tweeting. Really, it can be quite natural! Not monstrous at all!

Second, you (well, I) have to get over our anti-Twitter biases.

And then you can enjoy the application for which Twitter was obviously made in the first place: the tweets of the Ceiling Cat.

I stumbled on this chirping deity while exploring the LOLcat Bible, which was helping me procrastinate my actual task of reading up on feminist theological projects like The Woman's Bible. The LOLcat Bible very nearly landed in my Tuesday lecture. Yeah, we're all punchy by now, students and instructors alike, in this, the last week of classes before finals. I now regret not doing it.

The LOLcreation, at the LOLcat Bible.

So here's a sample of feline revelation:

An Iz dump teh sno on teh norfeest, So dat teh hoomins stai insied an cuddle der kittehs an keep dem warm.

Yu kno why kittehs eet teh tinsel from yer Crismus Trees? Cuz wen I wuz leeding dem thru teh desert, dat is wut manna luk liek.

In other words: Proof positive that the 140-character count meshes perfectly with a cat's walnut-sized brain. Not sure if this says more about cats, or more about Twitter.

I should warn you that there's a rival Ceiling Cat tweeting. While it doesn't appear to be the Basement Cat in disguise, this one is less active and creative, but a whole lot more prurient - maybe he's laying the groundwork for a Catichean struggle? Maybe he's just gunning to lead a meagachurch? Anyway, here's his obsession:

Watching you masturbate.

Just call me LL Ceiling C, because judging from my followers: Ladies Love Ceiling Cat. And Ceiling Cat loves watching you... you know.

If I hadn't seen it with my own eyes, I wouldn't believe some of the stuff y'all get up to.

Luckily for you (and by you, I once again mean me), Twitter offers the option: "Block Ceiling Cat."

Sungold = Angela Davis?

So Daisy just bailed me out when I've got too much grading and class prep, and no time to develop a thoughtful post: She led me to a quiz, Which Western Feminist Icon Are You? (Daisy was bell hooks, a very cool result indeed.)

Somewhat weirdly, I came up as ...

You are Angela Davis! You were the THIRD WOMYN IN HISTORY to appear on the FBI's Most Wanted List. You are a communinist, black power-lovin' lady who shook up the United States when you refused to lie down quietly to oppression. You WENT TO JAIL! Wow. You kick so much more ass than Foxxy Brown.

Hmmm. I checked the box for wanting feminism to reflect intersectional analysis. I also consistently checked the one on attitudes toward men that stated "Men are comrades and they're fun in bed." Otherwise, I tried varying a few answers. No matter how else I answered, I kept coming up Angela.

It's mysterious because I'm no communist, not even on those days where my socialist leanings swell and grow. I think black power alone is analytically inadequate just as feminism alone cannot explain the world. I've never been to jail (though I did once pick up a friend there) and while I may well have an FBI file, I'm not sure what the file would hold apart from "friend of people who know people who embrace lefty politics. Oh, and married to a furriner."

Much as I admire Angela Davis' body of work over the years, the one time I saw her speak was an unmitigated disaster. She was trying to use a laptop in her talk, and she was clearly overwhelmed by the technology, to the point where she kept getting tangled up and lost in what she wanted to say. (It was one of those feminist empress-has-no-clothes moments, because most of the audience rhapsodized anyway, even though the talk was largely incoherent, in my not-so-humble opinoin.) I had the feeling she'd have given a fine speech, if only she hadn't felt tethered to the laptop.

But Angela I am - never mind my evident whiteness or lack of kickassness. I'll take it as a compliment. Maybe as a challenge. At the very least, it's a reminder not to let my beloved laptop get in the way of actual communicaiton.

Seattle: Outpost of North Dakotan Imperialism

Months ago, I groused about how Sarah Palin swiped my accent. Sure, she's faded back into the Alaskan tundra, but I still can't let loose a nice "you betcha!" without being mocked. I guess I can thank the Ceiling Cat that I've got no talent for winking.

Now, from a faithful reader and longtime friend (who shall remain nameless unless he chooses to out himself in comments) comes evidence that elements of the North Dakotan vernacular survive in ... Seattle? Apparently not all Scandivanian immigrants got stuck in Minnesota and eastern North Dakota. Some realized that winters were milder in the Pacific Northwest. (Conclude what you will about the less clever ones who never made it past North Dakota and ultimately spawned ... me.)

Here's the evidence for North Dakotan/Scandinavian cultural imperialism. It's probably not news to people who actually live in this neighborhood, but I was floored. And no, I don't know when this clip was made, but both the cars and the driving techniques remind me of my youth. All that's missing is a dirt section-line road. To this day, I like Braille approaches to parallel parking.



You've gotta watch it clear to the end - and suffer the super-cheesy laugh track - before you come to the telltale "uff da."

Now I'm wondering if they tell Ole and Lena jokes in Seattle, too. My mom knows dozens of them and she's got perfect pitch on the accent. (My favorite involves Ole, Lena, Betty Crocker, and sex, but you'd really need my mom to tell it. Trust me.)

It's So Easy Being Green

Via The Smirking Cat, my blog just got a color analysis done:

Your Blog Should Be Green

Your blog is smart and thoughtful - not a lot of fluff. You enjoy a good discussion, especially if it involves picking apart ideas. However, you tend to get easily annoyed by any thoughtless comments in your blog.

What Color Should Your Blog or Journal Be?

I'd like to think all of that is true, even though I'm abashed about the last part. Really, it's not so much thoughtless as hostile comments that get me. Luckly for me, my commenters are a wonderfully thoughtful bunch.

The reason this blog is already green? To harmonize with garden photos, of course!

Caturday, Philip Glass Style

I don't know how I missed this. Apparently over 12 million viewers have seen Nora the Piano Cat, and yet - despite my 100% Felinity rating - I was totally ignorant of her existence, until now.

Just in case you missed her, too, here's Nora performing what seems to be an original composition. I'm guessing Philip Glass was one of her formative influences.

Wednesday Anti-recipe: Aluminum Soup

So here's what I made for dinner tonight:


That's, um, aluminum soup on the burner. I'd had a burst of energy and decided to make quiches for dinner - one with artichoke hearts, the other with asparagus. I put the pot on the burner, cranked it up to high, chopped the asparagus, and went to dump it into the pot.

That's when I saw the pot was empty. I'd neglected to add water. (What was that about my beautiful brain?)

I picked up the pot to rescue it from the heat, and the aluminum soup spilled out in a big glop. The aluminum layer sandwiched between two layers of stainless steel had liquified, expanded, and popped the bottom off the pan.

The blobular aluminum was shiny and pretty, in a perverse way:


Now, the good news is that this stove is 25 years old. It bakes unevenly and I've been jonesing for a new one ever since we bought this house nearly seven years ago. I know we could just replace the burner, but maybe this is the nudge I need to do a little research and buy a new range. Any suggestions? Past negotiations on this have always hit a stalemate because I long for a gas stove, while my husband wants something like a ceramic top that's easy to clean. As you can see, he's not being unreasonable - not at all.

The other reason I can't be upset about this is that I'm ecstatic about the surge of energy behind this kitchen fiasco. Yesterday I rode my bike to work and was pretty useless for the rest of the evening. Today I felt strong enough to bike to work again, and I still had enough oomph to embark on cooking a real dinner for just the second time since I fell sick on January 20.

As for the quiches? They were delicious.

Adam, Eve, and ... Insurance?

A friend and colleague (who just happens to be both gay and Catholic) recently sent me this, brimming with blasphemic glee.

I'm still trying to figure out how this ad will sell insurance. If you have a theory, let me know in comments. Otherwise, just enjoy.

My LOLcat Alter Ego: Happy Cat

Kittywampus has suffered a severe frivolity shortage lately. Today's antidote: taking the "What LOLcat Are You?" test.

I came out as Happy Cat, the original "I Can Has Cheezburger?" kitteh.

Your result for The Which Lolcat Are You? Test ...

Happy Cat

64% Affectionate, 55% Excitable, 60% Hungry

Compared to other takers

• 65/100 You scored 64% on Affection, higher than 65% of your peers.
• 63/100 You scored 55% on Excitability, higher than 63% of your peers.
• 83/100 You scored 60% on Hunger, higher than 83% of your peers.
• 50/100 You scored 100% on Felinity, higher than 50% of your peers.

May I just brag briefly about my felinity score? Last time I scored 100% it was on the peripheral vision test I took on Monday. Time before that was probably the final exam for Intro to Material Science in spring 1983.

Obviously, neither vision nor the material world are as vital as felinity.

My kids took the quiz, too. This created a slight moment of Bad Mommydom, as I had to rush the Bear past a response featuring "buttsecks." I'm not quite ready to explain that one to a nine-year-old.

The Bear also came out as Happy Cat, which made him, well, happy. The Tiger came out as Sad Cookie Cat. He burst into tears at this result. Truth told, though, the grammar, the kind impulse, and the behind-our-backs gluttony all fit him perfectly.

Both kids also scored 100% on felinity, I'm proud to say.

Now it's your turn. Go take the "What LOLcat Are You?" test and report back, please. (If you post your results on your blog, toss us a link.) And yes, I'm talking to you, my dearly loved lurkers. :-)

Sweet Schadenfreude: Adieu, Bill Kristol

Yesterday, in response to Amanda Marcotte's post arguing that that New York Times should give Steven Pinker a column on language to distract him from bloviating on ev psych, I said:

Now that you’re found the perfect job for Pinker, can we launch a re-employment program for Bill Kristol, too?

And lo! Today comes word that the Times has ended Kristol's contract (I read the happy news at Skippy the Bush Kangaroo.) I feel a lot of empathy for people getting laid off right now. For Kristol, it's pure schadenfreude, sullied only by the news that the Washington Post has already offered him a monthly gig.

So I may be cognitively impaired at the moment. (I'm feeling much like I did a few days ago: still much afflicted with these neurological symptoms, still waiting for an answer.) But I seem to be developing powers of prognostication. Maybe even mind control! I'm gonna go try to bend some spoons now.

From the Department of Too-Perfect Names ...

... comes this:

Warner Chilcott Limited today [1-7-2009] announced that it has signed an agreement with Dong-A PharmTech Co. Ltd., based in Korea, to develop and market their orally-administered udenafil product, a phosphodiesterase type 5 (PDE5) inhibitor for the treatment of erectile dysfunction (ED) in the United States. Dong-A has successfully completed Phase 2 studies of the product in the United States.

Got that? Vi*agra is about to get a new competitor, developed by a company named Dong-A.

I can only assume it means something different in Korean.

Mind you, I'm not mocking the product at all. It's reportedly effective but may have fewer side effects than Vi*agra. That could be a real boon to the substantial number of men who give up PDE5 inhibitors because they get spooky vision changes, severe headaches, or other untoward symptoms.

In the meantime, I bet some enterprising pharma company is working its way up toward Willie-Z.

Saturday Silliness: Manamana

For about the past month, my kids have been utterly obsessed with the Muppet Show. They are turning into miniature YouTube addicts. (In contrast to the rest of us, who are full-blown addicts by now.) This is the clip that started it all - their gateway drug, you might say. I have to admit it is very funny, especially the cows' mouths, even though I've now heard it, oh, a hundred times or so.

A LOLbeaver? Or The Patriarchy at Work?

I'm not gonna comment on where I stand on this until after I use it in my Women's and Gender Studies class today, but I'm curious what others think of this ad. I'll update with my stduents' thoughts and mine after class. In the meantime, leave a comment! (Via Samhita at Feministing.)

A Tail of Two Tigers

What to do when the kids are burbling with post-Christmas energy and turning the house into a zoo? My little Tiger, in particular, has been bouncing off the walls, acting silly and obviously craving the company of his own kind. Frustratingly, nearly all of his friends are still out of town for the holiday.

And so yesterday we packed these bouncy, giggly kids into the car and drove to Columbus. If you're running a zoo, you might as well take it literally. If my Tiger couldn't be with his friends, at least he could visit his namesakes.


Here's the tiger's best pussycat imitation ...


... and proof he was just faking it.


"I can has cheezburger?" (Or is that a childburger? He was looking straight at us!)


Thanks to weirdly warm temperatures of almost 70 degrees, the flamingos made a rare winter appearance.


I'd never seen the koala awake before yesterday (they sleep 22 hours a day), but apparently he too warmed up enough to scootch slowly, slowly toward his eucalyptus leaves.


The tree kangaroo was nearly as sleepy and slothful as the koala, and just as furry.


This gorilla was looking after a baby who made me very grateful for my own kids' comparatively good behavior. Her little charge was smearing something on the window that looked suspiciously like poop.


The Columbus Zoo does a holiday light show, Wildlights, which drew so many visitors yesterday that traffic was backed up for miles in both directions when we headed home. A photo can only hint at how many lights there were (millions, I think) and how beautiful they are when you see them "by real," as the Tiger would say.


On the drive home, the Tiger fell asleep, all his silliness and wildness now just a shimmer of a dream.

Merry Christmas Redux

The Brits have Boxing Day. The Germans have their Zweiter Weihnachtstag (second Christmas Day).

Here? The dang markets are open and so my poor little sister, who works for a major mutual fund company, has to go to work. That just seems wrong! I love the idea of a second Christmas Day and I think no one should have to go to work unless they provide a life-sustaining service. Heck, I'm in favor of all twelve days, even if that song really gnaws on my nerves.

So here's wishing you a very merry Second Christmas Day. In its honor, I give you two of my favorite holiday things: music (at least those songs that don't make me want to shoot someone) and cut-out cookies.

Thanks to my computer's built-in mike, the sound is pretty reminiscent of a music box. And the beginning sounds pretty wooden, since I was watching to see if the technology was cooperating, which only enhances the music-box effect. Otherwise it's a flawless performance (ha!) of Mel Torme's "The Christmas Song," arranged for piano by Philip Keveren. Listen at your own peril.

I can't claim the cookies are in any better taste. Still, the frosting does taste good (thanks to a generous splash of almond flavoring). There's probably enough dyes in them to preserve us for the next 80 years.

The Tiger, who made this one, hearts Christmas almost as much as he hearts sugar.


What's Christmas without a festive cat?


Or two?


And then there's the traditional Christmas rooster.


This guy might slide through as the Ghost of Christmas Past.


Apparently the Blue Man show has gone to the North Pole.


Here's our homage to Charlie Brown's tree.

I'd close by quoting Mel Torme's last line - "May all your Christmases be white" - but darn it, a thunderstorm just rolled into town. So instead, I'll just wish you love, kindness, joy, peace, compassion - and a glimpse of the holiday spirit where you might not expect it, whether in a torrential rainfall or a purple tree.

The Tragedy of the Elves

Today I have a horrible elf hangover. No, I didn't fall too deep into the egg nog last night. I was up until the wee hours doing the work of the elves.

As always, this wasn't how I'd planned it.

A few weeks back, the Bear mentioned that the one toy that caught his imagination in the Christmas catalogs was a puppet theater. I whispered to his dad that we could maybe build our own; the one in the catalog looked small and flimsy. By "we," I of course meant "he." The Bear didn't bring it up again - until a few days ago, with hope gleaming in his eyes. By then, his dad was under the weather and nothing was going to be built of wood and hardware.

But I started to fret that the Bear might be disappointed to not get the one and only toy he'd requested. So yesterday, I got the brilliant idea (and by "brilliant," I of course mean "harebrained") that I could sew a puppet theater. These Martha Stewart-ish fits strike me only about once a year. They always end in me feeling grateful that home ec was a required course during my long-ago North Dakotan girlhood - and foolish at not having learned my lesson during my last fit of craftiness.

4 p.m.: I'm in Wal-Mart, scouring the fabric department for supplies. (Please don't chide me for patronizing the evil empire; it's the only source for fabric within 40 miles.) Finally I find the only bolt of velvet in stock. Technically it's velveteen, but it'll do. It's lush and black. As for trimmings, I settle on sequined braid, ribbon, and tassels, all in a festive gold.

9:30 p.m.: I sneak the sewing machine out of the upstairs closet and past the kids as their dad gets them ready for bed. I discover that the prongs on the plug are badly warped. I unwarp them just enough to render them pluggable. Mercifully, the machine runs smoothly; I hadn't used it since I'd driven all the way to Zanesville for repairs after I'd broken the entire needle unit while sewing a Halloween costume. It dawns on me how stupid it is to engage in Christmas brinksmanship.

9:35 p.m.: The Bear appears downstairs. I bark at him - rather unmerrily - to get back to bed. I thank my stars that it wasn't the Tiger, who still believes.

11 p.m.: My husband slinks out to his woodshop in the garage, after all, to sand down a dowel to support the bottom of the stage's opening.

12 midnight: We cross the Christmas dateline without any kids appearing again. Ribbon loops grace the top edge of the curtain, an arched opening has taken shape, and I'm about to hem the edges. I realize that the edges are really long - six foot along the floor and nearly five feet vertically. This theater is big enough to accommodate three or four puppeteers.

1 a.m.: Everything is finished except the trim. I reconsider my original plan of using the hot glue gun to attach it. What if it makes the curtain too stiff? What if it melts the sequins? If I wreck the theater, I've got no Plan B. How about if I sew the sequins on with the machine? No, no, no - that's how I broke the damn thing last time. (My machine is no match for the glue on sequined fabric and trims.) I google variations on "attaching sequins" and come up remarkably empty. Oh Martha, Martha, why hast thou forsaken me?

1:15 a.m.: I sigh and start sewing on the sequined braid by hand. It is two yards in length. I learn that black is a truly fiendish color in dim artificial light when your eyes are tired and you've refused to get bifocals despite advancing presbyopia. I take off my glasses and bring the fabric within a few inches of my face.

2:30 a.m.: I go through another round of dithering about how to attach the tassel trim. This time, I use the machine. The metallic gold thread breaks again and again.

3:00 a.m.: I hang the theater on the suspension rod. I can't believe it's finally done. I can't believe it actually worked and - as the Tiger loves to say - "it looks awesome." I'm so tickled, I have to take a picture.


I lay out a trail of animal puppets to lead the kids from the stairs to the theater. Santa's work is done, and not once did I use the seam ripper.

3:30 a.m.: I crawl into bed.

4:00 a.m.: The Bear crawls out of his bed.

6:15 a.m.: The Bear wakes me up to inform me that the motor for one of his toys just overheated.

I promised you a tragedy, so I'll tell you right now that nothing burned down from this incident. But as I groggily assured the Bear we'd figure it out later, I realized that yet again, the kids proved it's impossible to witness their pleasure when they discover Santa's goodies. Unless, of course, you stay up all night. Hey, I nearly did pull an all-nighter, and I still missed that mythical magical moment.

That's the tragedy of the elves, isn't it? Every year, they do Santa's bidding. And then, every year, Santa gets the credit and the elves - unless they're uncommonly early risers - miss the show.

I'm reminded of a story my mom still tells of how my dad once built a kid-sized tool bench for my brother. Santa got the glory. I'd always vowed that I wouldn't do the same; that I would refuse to let Santa be a free rider.

Except for this: The Bear is in on the secret. A few years ago, he dissected all the logical flaws in Santa's cover story. And so after I finally dragged my bones out of bed later this morning, he and I exchanged a few knowing, smiling glances. He knows. I know he knows. That's good enough. That, plus the excited gleam in his eye as he said, "I really love the puppet theater, Mama."