Welcome Home

Several years ago, I discovered that I had one undeniable duty in my life: every time I entered a retail establishment and saw an Ernie languishing on a shelf there, I had to rescue him from his lonely life as a mere commodity. When I came to the age where I could choose my own purchases and had a modest amount of my own spending money, there were more Ernies on the shelves than there are today, but they still were pretty rare. Each Wal-Mart and Target Ernie often sat alone among sixteen Elmos and the odd Furbie. He was subjected to the fleeting admiration of thousands of shoppers. Maybe one in thirty picked him up and gave him hope that he might get a home that day, but more often he was put back on the shelf to wait out the lonely nights until I walked down his aisle.

Mild poverty and reason limited my rescue efforts somewhat; I could only save one Ernie of every kind. As the years went by, the selection of Ernies dwindled, and now it is a rare thing to find one on the shelf of any store. Luckily (and dangerously), we now have the interwebs, which allow for a more comprehensive Amnesty-International-for-Ernies-type program. Frankly, the great internet Ernie search has been a little taxing on my 700 square-foot apartment, but it has not ended.

Once rescued, each Ernie gets his second name to distinguish him from his fellows and to give him a sense of individuality in the sea of orange that is his new home. And so I introduce you to the newest member of the family: Ernie Friday.

Happy Thanksgiving

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone. Nothing makes me appreciate Thanksgiving more than being with my family after a ridiculously long drive through the rain and muck. And nothing makes me appreciate my family more that the fact that they understand me and appreciate my, um, more childlike qualities. Thanksgiving started off great for me with a surprise from my sister.

She found this hat in her closet. It was mine when I was a wee one. Thankfully, it still fits, so you know I can't wait until it gets cold enough to need to wear warm hats this winter. The best part about her finding it and returning it to be was the fact that no one blinked an eye when I wore it the rest of the night.

Also, the hat prompted my aunt to ask my little tiny cousin cousin to give me a special Christmas present.

I love these people. And vegetarian stuffing. Happy Tofurkey Day!

Today's Post is Brought to You by the Letter L

My niece, Lydia, is nearing the age of six. She's a full-fledged kindergartner, apparently with custody of the class stuffed frog for the weekend. I fear that she's approaching that period in her life where she's "too old" for Sesame Street.

"What period?" you ask in earnest shock. Alas, it is true: for a time, all kids leave Sesame behind. It even happened to me (well, for middle school, maybe). Little ones grow, and soon they are too cool to watch the kid's shows. They're always stretching to that next grade, reaching for the older-kids section in the library, rushing to the time when they can make their own decisions about what is cool and interesting. The stoop at 123 Sesame Street no longer holds their attention, and if it does, they can't let anyone know.

The one thing that puts me at ease about the journey away from Sesame that all kids take is that it is a circular path we tread. We all come back eventually, and like reading that novel fifteen years later, we come back with wisdom and a greater appreciation for what we thought we had left behind.

Lydia is lucky, I think. She has a younger brother. She has a lunatic aunt with what amounts to an Ernie shrine. And she has one of those big little-kid hearts that grows and grows when she makes that brother or aunt smile. Because of these things, I suspect that her Sesame-free years will be brief and somewhat forestalled. I hope they are, at least, because my office needs more Ernie and Bert-inspired artwork.