Main Entry: 1snot·a·lanche
Etymology: Bradstein, from Mama dialect (Mama-Provençal) snotlavantse, snotlantse
1 : a large mass of snot, mucus, boogers, or other sinus dredgings in swift motion out of a child’s nose and down a top lip, capable of washing away small animals, people, and, in extreme cases, vehicles and buildings, also capable of spreading virulence similar to that which laid waste to humans and brought about the final conflict between good and evil, often smeared from ear to ear, across cheek and jowl with back of hand by hosting child
(see also: ropes of mucus, lung butter, day care)
What did you do with your long weekend? Here at the Bradstein Household, we celebrated by getting a cold. Yes, all of us. It was lovely, as I’m sure many of you know, since it’s going around.
Between Ricolatinis, we managed to get a few things done, including sifting through my “baby book,” which is nothing more than an empty baby book still in its box, with a thin stack of miscellaneous papers underneath it. This is all you get when you’re the sixth child. Or, in 3B’s case, when you’re the first child, since we haven’t been able to get it together to assemble any of the half dozen baby books we were given to record his history. Things aren’t looking good for his younger-sibling-to-be. They’ll be lucky if they have a book, although what says, “We love you.” more than a hand-me-down baby book, right?
But anyway, this is all about me, so let’s get on with what sparse memorabilia we have before this NyQuiltini drops the hammer on my head.
When Mom sent me my baby book, just before 3B was born, she included copies of what she called (with tongue firmly in cheek, I’m sure) “the important” notes on scraps of paper from her “blue spiral binder,” which she didn’t include. I’m guessing that means that it includes notes about my siblings as well, but I’ll have to wait until we uncover it to see for sure. In the meantime, here’s one of those important notes:
No wonder I always loved Chinatown. Mom and I used to walk through after seeing shows to get to City Lights, which we would wander through on our way to Vesuvio, where we would sometimes sit upstairs on the thin balcony and people watch. I always loved Chinatown late at night–the narrow streets and alleyways emptied of people; the jam packed shops waiting to burst out in the morning and spread their goods again across the sidewalks; and the occasional vehicle, like the tractor-trailer sitting silent, driver absent, filling the width of the street from curb to curb, the long trailer stacked to the second-story balconies with wire crates stuffed with clucking chickens.
And no wonder I’m going to crush all the other smack talkers in fantasy football–check out that score from my first Stanford football game (and let’s ignore that it was against SJ State, OK?). Is that a good omen or what?
Y’all are going down like the wall in Berlin, like Alice into the rabbit hole, like a snotalanche–and like a snotalanche, you’ll be wiped off the face of the league. That is, if I can stay awake long enough to set my roster for this week.
(Yeah, we sat in the end zone–good cheap seats. I’m still not sure how Mom and Dad got themselves and all six of us kids in on this plan–“2 adults and 3 minor children”–but hey, maybe those Stanford ticket takers aren’t so good at math.)