Holographic Nutcracker.

I don't know what that is, but there was a piece of the box for it blowing around the neighborhood this morning. It seems a little like that's what we've got for weather this week, in fact: There's a 60% chance of pieces of an odd box blowing by.

I once gave the Hot Wheels Car Wash racetrack away to Fred the Diaper Man, who collected toys on his route and did something with them, gave them to needy children, gave them to his church, something. Perhaps he had a room in his own house full of partially used toys and he'd go home after his route and play with them. It doesn't matter. My mother wanted me, I think, to learn how to give things away, wanted me to learn how to part with things. The car wash had never worked right, anyway, had never worked like it did on TV. Still, after he pulled away in his white panel van, I stood in the window and cried. I'd had to talk my mother into letting me give it away. She'd been surprised. I think she was expecting me to give up something else.

That must have been a strange day for her. I wasn't in diapers at the time, incidentally. My brothers were. Twins. Now I'm also remembering special trips to the mall for lunch, for crepes at The Magic Pan. All of this is wrapped up in cold sunny December days. I had to give toys away every Christmas to make room for the new ones. Santa, Fred the Diaper Man, The Magic Pan, my brothers in their tandem stroller, Northlake Mall. We didn't go to Northlake Mall for Santa, though. We went to Perimeter Mall. The Santa at Perimeter was the real Santa, my parents said. But what about the Northlake Santa? He's one of Santa's helpers. But the one at Perimeter Mall, with the short beard, a real beard, trimmed close — he's the real one.

Today I am going through the house and dumping every single Hot Wheels Car Wash that doesn't work right. I need to winnow. The house is too full. It's like we've got a holographic nutcracker in every closet. I may need a panel van to take all of this stuff away. I've got to make room.