Tiny Bubbles

When I think about childhood, I think about springtime -- it's probably that whole sprouting and flattering sunlight and bunnies thing (well, before kids learn that bunnies do other things besides hop around and leave plastic eggs all over the place). And of course when I think of springtime, I think about daffodils and ... bubbles.

I still love bubbles. Back when I worked at the insurance company, before I was a "team leader" and didn't need to be a role model for future generations of overworked, underpaid, overstressed, underappreciated cubicle drones everywhere, I used to keep a toy box on my desk. No, really -- it was a 4"x6" index card box with a Post-It note taped to the front that said "TOYS" in magic marker.

And in that box, I kept all sorts of wonderful things (in this way, I was not entirely unlike Batman). I had Tonka trucks, and Happy Meal prizes, and random knick-knacks I found around the office, and a bottle of bubbles. Always a bottle of bubbles. When things got really bad at work, when we got behind on paperwork or overwhelmed with ennui, I'd bust out those bubbles right in the middle of the day. Five minutes and some iridescent soap, and all was right in the world.

I'm feeling a little under the weather today -- not sick, but a touch unhappy, and I could use some sparkle therapy. So if the weather holds, and it doesn't start raining the second we get in the car, G and I are going to stop at a drugstore on our way to pick up the Cupcake from school, and we're going to find a park, and we're going to blow the shit out of some bubbles.