1. Hennaing one’s roots with Tiny Miles as an audience is delightful.
Miles: “Ewww, Mummy, you got some yucky on you ear!”
Me, deftly applying henna down my parting with a soup spoon: “It’s OK, I’ll wash it off.”
Miles: “Cause it’s yucky?”
Me: “Yes. It’s yucky on ears, but it’s OK on my hair.”
Miles: “Why do you want dat yucky on you hair?”
Me: “To make it red.” [Thinks: Ha! Did not say 'To make it pretty', implying a hierarchy of hair-colour beauty and setting him up for a life of casual misogyny and frosted tips]
Miles: “Why you want to make you hair red?”
Me: “Because look, most of it is red, but when my new hair grows here at the roo- at the top, it’s not so red, so I’m making it red like the rest, see?’
Miles, wisely: “Oh. Do your new hair not work any more?”
Me: “…No, it works. It’s just not red.”
Miles: “Mummy! You got scoop on you hands too!”
Me: “Scoop? Oh, goop. Heh. Yes. It’s OK. I’ll wash it off.”
Miles: “You gonna wash it off you head?”
Me: “Yes, later; after you’ve gone to bed. It takes a while for the red to work.”
The snortlepig, coming in unexpectedly: “Whoa! You’re surprisingly good at that.” [Leaves]
Miles, looking with mingled horror and longing at the henna mug: “I’m not gonna eat dat.”
Me: “No, it’s not for eating. It’s only for making hair pretty.” (DANGNABBIT!)
Miles: “I wouldn’t want dat scoop on my head.”
Me, still flummoxed: “No, but you don’t need to have henna on your head, because you have lovely blond hair.” (WHAT ARE YOU SAYING, HITLER?)
Miles: “Yeah.” [Pulls the top drawer halfway out of the chest of drawers and begins to climb into it in order to reach the top, on which the bathroom mirror is precariously perched]
Me: “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?”
Miles, surprised: “I’m just climbing like dis.”
Me: “No no no! That’s very dangerous. We Don’t Do That.”
Miles: “I’m jus’ climbing to get to da top. I show you.”
Me: “Don’t show me! No no. Push it back in. That’s not a good thing.”
Miles: “I jus’ want to look in da mirror.”
[Miles stretches on tiptoes, manages to catch a glimpse of himself and beams with unalloyed pleasure. I wrap my head in a plastic bag and retire to the living room to have a chat with Miles about sterilising the undesirables, having come this far.]
2. I weaned myself off Citalopram and now I keep getting really, really angry about misattributed Pinterest quotes.
3. There is a disembowelled, inside-out ex-hedgehog on our driveway. It may be Reggie the Hedgie, our resident garden porker. If so, he got over his prickle-baldness only to succumb to (presumably) cherry-picker squashage. If not, we have a sick hedgehog and a dead hedgehog on the premises. Neither of those scenarios is comforting.
4. If you were an actor on Star Trek, don’t you think you’d feel kind of cheated playing a human? I mean, being a Vulcan or a Klingon might be somewhat limiting after a while - a Trill, less so - but it’d be more fun, kind of. Deanna got to make up her own accent, and Kira had nifty nose-ridges. Plus you’d get nifty rituals and weapons and snatches of language and wedding traditions and an exotic homeworld and apparently, regardless of race, a ton of candles.
I asked George Takei about this once at a convention, and he not only misunderstood the question but answered the completely different question I hadn’t asked with a certain tired patience, as if I were a mouth-breathing moron who’d clawed her way out of the basement with a mighty mousing hand and three other atrophied limbs. Never liked him since.