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One of my favorite things about the holidays is visiting what my kids years ago nicknamed the "Magic Village," that cul-de-sac at the end of Bennington Road in northwest Greensboro with the killer light display. Every house on the cul-de-sac participates, with a couple literally decorating every inch of the house and yard.

We drove through last night and it looked better than ever -- more lights dripping from the trees, more blinking Santas, stars and trains and a couple of those huge snow globes. I can't imagine those folks' power bills, but to them, my kids and I say thank you.

"You know, if the Magic Village weren't there, it would be a real loss for Greensboro," my 10-year-old daughter remarked thoughtfully. It would indeed.

Here's some video she shot last night.

I was driving down Church Street today and found myself behind a teenager on a bicycle. He was riding along "with no hands," as we called it when we were kids. Not holding the handlebars at all.

For awhile, both his arms were up in air, as if he were celebrating something, then one came down and scratched the back of his head while the other hung by his side. He pedaled with no hands for at least a block, supremely confident and oblivious to me behind him.

I wondered: At what age do we stop believing in no hands and start holding on?

While Jennifer and other brave News & Record staffers carried "Scoop" down the parade route, I sat with my kids and some friends on the corner of Greene St. and Friendly enjoying the sun and sights. As always, we came equipped with plastic bags -- to collect candy, of course.

The candy throwing started off slowly, and it was heavy on the mints. I could tell the kids were worried. Then it happened -- a Christmas miracle. A kid with a big bucket of fruit chewies spilled the whole thing right in front of us! Candy all over the street! They dashed out and grabbed a handful, then scampered back behind the rope.

By the time Santa arrived, their bags were full and we headed home happy. I think they enjoyed the parade, too.

So John isn't impressed when he sees a few lone treeballs in someone's yard? Well, he's obviously never hung one, has he?

I put up a few modest ones in the trees in my front yard recently, and with all the cords and the coordination needed, it was no small feat. The kids loved them, and were even more excited when, a few days later, a couple neighbors got inspired and hung their own. Now it's a treat to drive home at night.

We say, watch out Ridgeway!

Bumper sticker seen while waiting in the school drop-off line this morning:

"What if the Hokey Pokey IS really what it's all about?"

If you don't know the Hokey Pokey, here's a handy instructional video.

Is it just me or is the world of printers and ink cartridges evil?

I spent a good hour at Staples yesterday trying to identify the correct Dell ink cartridge for my printer. This is after having gone to Office Depot a few weeks ago ("we don't carry Dell") and then to Ink Restore, who managed to lose my cartridges ("sorry, call the manager.") But finally the book report had to be printed, so we went to Staples, which for some reason is the only place you can buy Dell cartridges.

But which one? No, it couldn't be as simple as reading the package. It's top secret information, apparently. A similiarly befuddled woman and I stood there staring at the display, trying to figure out which would work in our 924 printer. We had some choice words for Dell about this time. We waited some more and had some choice words for Staples. Finally, the nice store manager looked it up for us and we got our cartridges. We're Series 5, as it turns out.

So feeling very proud of myself, I went to install the cartridge and triumphantly print out my daughter's book report. It seemed to fit, but I can't say for sure because the printer decided to stop working. I tried a variety of fixes, including turning it off and on and jiggling it, to no avail. I was on the verge of throwing it across the room when my daughters stopped me. After all, we had the cartridges now!

I was amused at Christmas at how my kids handled the issue of the big man -- Santa, that is. They are 10 and 8, and that's plenty old enough to have doubts. But it's also young enough not to want to voice them, just in case.

So we did a little dance. They insisted on checking out the NORAD site that tracks Santa as we do every year, but they couldn't resist discussing how it looks fakey, and suggested that maybe their younger cousins would be better viewers. They insisted on leaving out milk and cookies, while at the same time marveling at the possiblity of Santa fitting down our chimney, in that wink-wink kind of way. And the next morning, when I asked if they'd heard any sleigh bells or thuds on the roof, they allowed that, yes, perhaps they had.

Some people say that kids act like this because they don't want to risk not getting presents. I don't know. I'd like to believe that my kids want to hold onto the magic -- and to their childhood -- for as long as possible. I'm all for it.

If you order take-out from a nice restaurant, are you supposed to tip the person who delivers your food? If so, how much?

I've never known the answers to those questions, so when I picked up some Asian food at a nice place on Friday night I went ahead and asked. The waiter said that some folks tip the full 15 percent, while many tip nothing at all. He suggested that he'd be happy with a buck or two, which seemed reasonable.

So that's my plan from now on. (Except if it's a freezing cold night and someone delivers a warm dinner right to my car -- they'll get more.)

The scene: The school playground at recess
The temperature: Freezing
My role: Prevent chaos and injury

We're almost through the 30-minute recess and so far, so good. No skinned knees, no broken bones, no whiners who can't take the cold. Then, the dreaded thing happens -- a little girl runs toward me, breathlessly reporting that her friend is crying. I get pulled to the other side of the playground where the girl is hunched up in a ball, sobbing, surrounded by three classmates.

"Are you hurt?" I ask worriedly. She's not talking, but her friends assure me the answer is no. It's her feelings that are hurt, they explain.

Uh oh. One of those.

It's tough to figure out what happened because the little girl is still balled up, not talking. The friends take over.

Friend #1, to me: "She thinks I said something mean but I didn't know what I was saying."
Friend #2, to her: "She didn't mean to hurt your feelings."
Friend #3: "I know, we can be your waiters! What would make you feel better?"
Friend #1: "I can scratch your back."
Friend #2: "Would you like some ice cream?"

At that, the girl with the hurt feelings rallies, stands up and wipes her eyes. They run off to find some pretend ice cream on the other side of the playground. The wind chill hovers at 32.

"Who says water cannot flow uphill?" That's the title of my 5th-grade daughter's science project -- about siphons -- and the reason we spent most of Saturday at High Point University. She was one of a dozen students selected from her school to compete at the county non-public science fair, which was a grand -- and lengthy -- event. (Parents who've been there, you know what I mean.)

The projects were amazingly creative, answering questions you never even knew you wondered about. For example, what kind of bird seed do birds prefer, and what time of day do they eat the most? Can you clone a cabbage? Does exercise increase recall about chores? Does the type of music affect a person's blood pressure?

A highlight of the day was a physics and chemistry demonstration by two High Point University professors, who entertained the crowd with experiments that had liquids turning colors and hair standing on end. The kids loved it, and some future scientists were probably born.

At the end of the long day my daughter won an honorable mention, but wasn't chosen to compete at the next level. You've never seen such a happy kid. And I must admit I was happy about the outcome too.

Against my better judgment, I adopted a cat last weekend. We had gone a year and a half with no pets, and I must admit, it had been nice not to have to change cat litter and vacuum up fur and pay vet bills for awhile. But I had promised my daughters we would eventually get a cat, and after locating just the right one on petfinder.com, I had to make good.

We brought Lisa, a large tabby with a persistent meow, home from the shelter on Sunday. (Of course, this was after dropping a hundred bucks at Petsmart.) She meticulously explored the house, looking in every closet and in every drawer to make sure there was no danger, then made herself comfortable. She lazed on the rug while we ate dinner, followed us up to the playroom to do homework, and then climbed on my youngest daughter's bed while I was tucking her in and snuggled up. "This is what I've been dreaming of ever since we've been in this house," my nine-year-old said. "Thank you, Mom."

It doesn't get any better than that.

At the Brassfield Cinema on Saturday, I tried to order a small popcorn with no butter for my daugthers to share. The clerk came back with a bag of popcorn that clearly said "medium" on the side. When I pointed out that I had ordered a small, she explained that the medium is now the small.

When I said I didn't want that much popcorn, she was mystfied, but finally suggested that I order the "junior" size, which is the new small. She threw away the first order, filled up the "junior" container and then squirted butter all over it. I reminded her I didn't want butter, so she threw it out and started all over again.

And we wonder why childhood obesity is such a problem ...