On a lovely day in September, 2.0 turned to me and asked, “Is today my sister’s anniversary?”
I patiently replied with, “Well, she got married on your birthday.”
He stood there staring at me until I further clarified with, “TODAY’S NOT YOUR BIRTHDAY, HONEY.”
Rosie Beaucoup likes to lecture her adult children about all sorts of obvious things, and recently made the mistake of lecturing my brother about Christmas tree safety. Naturally, I spent the next afternoon carefully decorating my tree just for her.
2.0 has a flip phone for work that looks like it’s from 1996. When it went on the fritz just before the holidays, 2.0 was told that his company will probably give him a smartphone to replace it. When he found out he said, “Just wait until I get my ephone honey! It’ll be the best!” So now the man who doesn’t know how to send a webpage via email will be in possession of a handheld computer. I think we all know how this is going to work out.
Kitty update: Effie is still alive. (I don’t know how, okay? Stop asking.) Dorey and Niles have been hanging out in the basement together and no one has sustained any injuries or hurt feelings. So, Christmas miracles all round.
Though I’m quite sweary in real life, I have managed to avoid cursing in front of my students for 25 years. Then, three weeks ago, it happened. The studio floor was slippery in places and two of my most pure and innocent students advised me to avoid the area. I meant to respond to their warning with: yes, there are some really slippery patches there! But instead I said: yah, there are some real slippery bitches in here. WHYYYYYYYY?
Bad news: someone already published a book called I Love You With All My Butt. Even badder news: it was written by little children. Now I don’t know if I should write my memoir. I mean, what would I even call it? (I’m actually asking. Please advise.)
My neighbours (Dawn and Joan) and I witnessed an altercation in front of our houses which involved one asshole trying to kill another asshole. (Awkward sentence much?) At first it seemed like a road rage situation, but it became apparent that they knew each other and had tried to kill one another on more than one occasion. As we stood in the street, Joan insisted that I call 911 because I guess she believes assholes should be allowed to live long lives just like the rest of us.
I called 911 and the operator started asking me A LOT of questions. I responded with helpful information like:
- I dunno.
- A Ford? No, Toyota. A Chevy? It might be a Chevy. Or a Nissan?
- Brown. No, wait! Blonde.
- Big. He’s very big.
The 911 operator was on his 74th question when the extra violent dude drove off and I said, “Oh! Oh! The man in the truck is driving away!”
And the operator asked, “Which way?”
So I said, “Down the hill!”
And the operator asked, “North? South? I need a direction.”
And I said: “Really? Come on, guy. Look at your computer screen! Google map my location. YOU TELL ME THE DIRECTION!”
Do people generally know these things in an emergency? Coordinates and cardinal directions? I felt like he wanted me to say, “46 degrees, 39 minutes, 27 seconds north and 67 degrees, 38 minutes, 10 seconds west, sir.”
I’ve gotta start carrying a compass.
And finally, 2.0 gave me a ukulele for Christmas. I’ve offered to play at a couple of family gatherings but so far I’ve been asked to leave my miniature guitar at home.