Bi-Mart

if you don't know what a polly pocket is.

What about Barbie?

What about Barbie meets Twilight?

What more can I say?  There's no getting away from the fact that any time we take our children out of the cocoon of our own little created existence, they are exposed, to, well, the REST of the stuff that is out there in the other world.  It creeps into every crevice of our experience when we are on the road.  Today, for example, my mother turned on the noontime news, nothing unusual for a conservative Oregon couple, but of course, Ashby was riveted by the news of a woman who apparently murdered both of her young sons.  Alas, what's a person to do?  A trip to bi-mart is no more safe than anything else.  I happened to glance at the magazine stand after I endured the marathon crap-toy buying session. The Globe has a picture of our president, claiming that he has a "hidden african family" and a fake social security.  I need to go back to my isolation tank--too--much--for me to handle.

And Why was I in Bi-mart?   I was renting a Rug Doctor.  Oh gods of the Rug Doctor universe, serenity now!  This is as good as it gets, hours and hours of car-vacuuming later.