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The office

Have I shown you Charlie's office?  There's a nook in his room where we've placed a desk, a chair, and a set of drawers for his supplies.  It was he who called it an office; I'd have been inclined to call it The Place Where Seriously Kid You Have Got to Stop Uncoiling Paper Clips and Using the Wire to Make Brother Traps.  It's where...he does stuff like that.  And a lot of cutting and gluing.  He comes up with these excellent contraptions, these highly sophisticated papercrafts that leave us laughing, incredulous, at his inventiveness.

Aaaaand then he makes stuff like this:


What unnerves me here is that the tag came unmoored from the actual kit, whatever that might be, which I have yet to find.

I looked.  And in cleaning up his office I found some great stuff.  Here, do you need one of these?


And then there was this plan...

...which I think is for an unstoppable killing machine to rid the earth of the earwig, Charlie's most hated bug...

...on whose pincery graves we will...dance?  Leer?  Be perforated?  Whatever.

I also found proof of something I hadn't known: temporary tattoos can be removed with Scotch tape.


And also proof that if you ever come to my house, you should...just...you know, be careful:


And finally, proof that my sense of humor is no more highly developed than my six-year-old's proofreading skills:


I was telling my friend T. about the things I've found.  "Charlie," she said, "is so fantastically weird."

And she's right.  He is fantastic, and he is weird, and it's the kind of weird I dig.