There's a little boy a few tables away from where I sit in the local Barnes & Noble, speaking a distinct dialect of chainsaw. And I halfway understand what he's saying. But I want to ask him some questions, like
Why is it that running a chainsaw is like trying to understand what a wailing baby wants? I mean, half the time you get it right on the first try, but mostly you just nervously jostle the kid (not to be confused with shaking it) and will it to telepathically communicate its mysterious needs, or better yet, hope that the jostling will have a soothing effect that eliminates any need for further action. I feel like every time I pick up a saw, there's gonna be a 50-50 chance that I'll make it through the day without somehow breaking it in a small way that I won't notice until someone else picks the thing up the next day and it doesn't start. (Not that this part is comperable to the earlier babies reference...erm.)

But I refrain, because his mother is one of those tired-looking laptop ladies who would give me a tired laptop-lady stare if I tried to take up discussing dangerous machinery with a four-year old.

Also, I am bursting to tell you about the dress I am currently wearing that I will somday run away with the circus in. They would take me in a minute in this thing...or at least I should find an elephant to bareback ride with cotton candy in one hand. I'm telling you, this beauty of a smock is giving me some outragious ideas...

But more later...Kate is jonesing for Thai, and who am I to argue?