I have never been a fan of zombie movies. As a rule, in fact, I avoid horror movies of any kind. Zombie books are acceptable, as are most horror books.
I love logic, though, in all its forms. There are few things better than seeing a dirty bowl in the sink, noting that it once contained cereal and milk, further observing that the cereal box was left on the high right counter instead of the lower left one, realizing that sticky remains of honey, which the older son slurps up by the quart and to which the younger daughter is allergic, are clinging to the spoon, and concluding—logically—that the older son rather than the younger daughter needed to get his act together and wash that bowl. Accusations, protestations of innocence, and anger erupt, staining the limpid early morning light.
It turns out that the friend of the daughter (which friend had stayed over without my ever having seen her enter the house) loves honey, is tall, and prefers cereal over all other breakfasts—over all other meals—I learn at the end of the difficult morning.
Though specifically fictitious, this kind of scene happened with regularity in my house, a testament to my unfailing (but misguided) belief that I could think myself through anything.
We all are older now. Some have moved out, others remain. For my part, logic still plays a significant role in my life, but I have learned to temper the steel of logic with the feathers of uncertainty.
