Meet my son, Strawberry Shortcake. And my daughter, Richard Nixon. Why, what’s the matter? Oh, like YOUR kids never dressed themselves in strange outfits. . . . Oh yeah? Oh yeah? Well, I bet you never took them to the grocery store in them.

No, we don’t live in this tiny house any more.

That little B/W tv, by the way, was the only one we had for many, many years. Frankly, if it were up to me, we’d probably still have it. I don’t watch tv. Not because I am an intellectual snob, no, nothing as lofty as that. I just hate the quality of the writing and acting, the values, the incessant whining (not everybody loves Raymond) and the inconvenience of remembering when a show comes on, what with all the rearranging. And we don’t have the budget for any new-fangled devices that let us treat broadcast television like a vcr. Heck, I haven’t mastered THAT yet. Don’t rush me.

That teeny tv was hooked to a giant tower antenna, on which the retarded woodpeckers * dulled their peckers for years. (insert innuendo here) It was very, very loud. And very, very early in the morning, too.

No tv for me. I get my kicks from Route 66 my computer, and my lovely kitchen tv/vcr/dvd, on which I can pick and choose and ALWAYS find something.

See that yellow thing under the tv cart? Can anyone tell me what that is? We still have it. It still works.

It’s an antique now, though. Just like me.

* Don’t yell at ME. I didn’t give them that particular name. A little visiting boy used it and my kids picked it up and never let it go. See, kids? That’s how labels start.