So the other night I discovered, to my shock and horror, not just that I had seven billion children, but that I also had not one single copy of any of the myriad collections of Gary Larson's The Far Side in the entire house. Seven billion to zero is a ratio wildly out of whack.
This was insanity. This was horrifying. This Would Not Do.
Stunned at how terrible Top Management and I clearly are as parents (read: me), I immediately went to Amazon. And then quickly shuttered that idea and went to our library system where I found dozens, scores, hundreds of thousands of copies of various Far Side collections...almost all of which were checked out.
But! Not absolutely all of them. A little baksheesh may have greased the computer system's virtual palm, and mere days later, I get a notice that the first two galleries are in.
I rush to the library like a bat outta heck, grab the books, make a run for the car, get tackled by the librarian who must run the 100m in under 10, go back inside, check them out like the good law-abiding citizen I am, run back to the car, drive home in a safe and secure manner, come into the house, and casually say to the first child I see (which just happens to be The Bean), "hey, here you go—you might find this mildly amusing."
I observe her silently reading for two, five, ten minutes: no smiles, no chuckles, just page solemnly turned after page. Finally, I can stand it no longer.
"So," I say, as casual as all get-out,"How is it?'
She takes a long moment to look up, her eyes finally focusing. "It's awesome."
She pauses. "It's very odd," she adds. "And he's very fond of cows."
But then, paydirt. Five minutes later, she suddenly yells, "Hey! Ginger!"
I look up, confused.
She turns the book around to show me the page, an enormous grin lighting up her face, and one of our family's most quoted pop culture moments clearly on display.
Okay. Maybe we (read: Top Management) haven't done absolutely everything wrong.