Shut Your Porthole

Last night Pegs and I were reading in bed, and I started rubbing her head in that special way she likes. It's sort of like a massage for her scalp, but to the uninformed observer it would probably look eerily similar to one chimpanzee picking fleas off of another. Anyway, I was rubbing her scalp while she was reading The Elegant Universe, and I came across a little bump. I inexplicably started to pick at it (again, think chimps, but with slightly less poo flinging and way more back hair), but she immediately knocked my hand away.

Pegs: "Ow! Don't do that. That's my porthole."

Me: "Your what?"

Pegs: "My porthole."

Me: "...."

Pegs: "You know, like in that movie with the guy and the filing cabinets."

Me: "...."

Pegs (slightly exasperated): "And they can go into his brain...."

Me: "Being John Malkovich?"

Pegs: "Yeah, that's the one. They found a porthole into his brain."

Me: "You mean a portal?"

Pegs: "Oh.... Yeah."

I don't know what's scarier: the fact that Pegs couldn't remember the difference between portal and porthole, or that I immediately knew what movie she was talking about when she said that it was about a guy and some filing cabinets.