I haven’t been able to drink anything peach flavoured since 1990 because one weekend I polished off an impressively large bottle of Dr. McGillicuddy’s Peach Schnapps and… well, you know how that goes. Guys? I don’t think Dr. McGillicuddy was a legit doctor.
Niles the Cat had an eye infection (yes, most of my life is now dedicated to our geriatric cats), and when I was at the veterinary clinic someone asked if I’d named him after Niles Crane. And the answer was yes, of course, because Niles Crane is one of the best men ever invented.
When teaching teeny-tiny children, some dance teachers employ a strategy aimed at reducing story-telling in class. This is because little children will tell you EVERYTHING about their lives and their parent’s divorce and it makes it really hard to get anything done. So at the beginning of class, we often sit for a moment and exchange any big news that we might have, thus purging the child’s system of scandals and new-puppy tales. A colleague told me this strategy was working very well for her until a three-year-old put up her hand and said, “I had the chickenpox and I had them so much that I even had the chickenpoxes in my vagina. IN MY VAGINA!” And then all the other kids started talking about their vaginas and they had to stop doing story-time in class forever.
Last week my neighbour Joan sent me a few text messages from Las Vegas which involved updates about the heat, the Stanley Cup, and beer. That’s when I realized that Joan is my drunk dialer. Some people send inappropriate messages to their exes when drinking. Not Joan. She gets in touch with her friend from across the street. And thank goodness because she tends to send gems like this:
Yesterday I witnessed a car accident. An older gentleman drove his car straight into oncoming traffic. He hit a woman’s car which spun 360 degrees before stopping on the sidewalk. When the woman driving the car got out — still alive — she yelled, “You drove through that stop sign! You had a stop sign! YOU DROVE RIGHT THROUGH A STOP SIGN!” The gentleman calmly lifted his index finger and said, “No. No, I stopped at the sign before I drove through it.” And all of us other humans just stood there collectively thinking: the stopping isn’t enough, dumbass, you gotta look for cars too.
I finished up my teaching year last weekend, so naturally, I made my annual Completely Realistic and Achievable Summer Goal List which includes writing a book. When I mentioned this to my friend Christine she said, “A book? With chapters? All of the chapters? AN ENTIRE BOOK?” I feel like when you’ve known people for too long they are very realistic about how unlikely you are to actually do what you say you’re going to do.
At last weekend’s dance recitals a kid punched me in the nose (accidentally) (probably accidentally), and for a brief period of time, I thought it was broken. When I turned to one of my students and said, “My god, I think my nose is swelling,” she replied with, “Nope. It’s as big as it usually is.”
Quick question: what’s up with people who set the gear on their bicycles so they are pedalling really, really fast but are moving very, very slowly? Is this a cyclist thing or an idiot thing?
And finally, I’m completely obsessed with Tig Notaro. I wouldn’t love-murder her or anything, but I’d definitely move into her basement if she asked me to. If you’d like to listen to a story-time that involves no chickenpox in vaginas, give this a listen. I think you’ll enjoy it.