The tiki gods appear to be put out with us.
Spent the day at the Children's Hospital. What is it about holidays that makes kids throw themselves out of trees, down stairs, in front of runaway trikes or, in Smoochie's case, out of the crib? Broken clavicle. Sigh. Meant to spend the day composing haiku to cranberry sauce or to Big Rock (oh, like you've never heard of beer haiku), but spent it instead wrangling a screaming toddler in and out of examination rooms, chin straps, x-ray restraint devices, and the superman costume that he will probably be wearing for at least the next two weeks if his shrieks of protest about two hours ago are any indication of what we're in for until the stupid bone sets itself.

We in the voodoo bungalow are unsure of how we've angered the angry tiki gods, but tomorrow morning we're going over there with a vat of gin to see if we can't bargain our way out of this.