apple, tree. tree, apple.

KR sings Broadway-style in the kitchen: "Chemical spill. It's a chemical spiiiill."
moi von der bedroom, opera chorus-style: "What kind of chemical has been spilled?"
KR: "Not a good kind." Then, more stoccato, "There are NO good kinds." [beat] "I'm cleaning up the chemical spill."

Via phone, The Mother describing her morning dream -
"...we were in this lounge-y bar with these special seats that had infrared sensor-type things, so the chair would glow in particular colors to indicate what kind of drink you wanted [yay for Mom's subconscious mind!]...then a bunch of us were walking but having A Time of it because we all had on very high heels, the kind I just would never wear...and got off this escalator and there was a grave there. Parsley was growing out of the grave and I knew that was Mom (laughing) somehow, so I reached down and touched the parsley a bit of course, but she didn't even grow parsley."

Note: a few years ago Mom thought I was weird for threatening that if she were to have herself cremated then I'd make tea and drink her. (I have a theory about cremation, energy, and decomposition.) She has since, of her own accord, decided against the cremation. (And we are a blissful, oblivious lot - completely un-Nordic and free of Stoicism or forethought/methodical planning.)

Eyes dried after having seen Babel at long last -
If the news were half so human I would watch it again, at least sometimes. That's some damned fine film-making.