‘Tis the season for festive gatherings, eating candy for breakfast, telling people everything I know about the Golden State Killer over eggnog, and going blind as I write about Ginger entries for a week straight.
I survived NaNoWriMo! Over 50,000 words of a first draft written, most of them utter crap. If I had to describe my… let’s call it a book? I’d say it’s one of those humorous essay collections written by someone that makes you feel less alone and better about aging except that most of it isn’t very funny and you definitely should do everything you can to stop time as soon as possible.
The other day 2.0 turned to me and said, “Do you remember that message we got about the car?”
2.0: You know, the one about trading it in because we have low mileage?
movita: No, I guess I didn’t see that. Do you mean an email or a letter?
movita: I didn’t see either of those.
2.0: Yes you did! We traded the car in!
movita: ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT THE LETTER WE GOT FIVE YEARS AGO?
movita: You know that a five-year pause in a conversation is an awfully long time, right?
2.0: But you remember, right?
movita: Yes, honey. Did they send another one?
movita: I’m not sure what’s happening here.
2.0: I just wanted to know if you remembered.
2.0: Also they just sent me a letter like that about my truck.
movita: You probably could have just started there.
Sometimes people do things that make me want to throw a toilet and then I’m forced into some seriously passive-aggressive-fake-smile behaviour. When I told my pal Kate about it she responded with: my preferred term for passive aggression is quietly manipulative. It is totally ok to be quietly manipulative.
I AM NOW BEING QUIETLY MANIPULATIVE 18 OUT OF EVERY 24 HOURS PER DAY.
When I visit my parents I always try to take a trip to The Blue Bathroom because the toilet is very high and it’s exactly like sitting on a throne. You hardly have to bend your knees to sit! It’s low-effort waste evacuation at its best. When I tried to use The Blue Bathroom during one of my last visits it was occupied, so my mother convinced me to use their en suite bathroom claiming that the toilet there was “exactly the same.” It was not.
The next day Rosie emailed to say:
You are right. Blue bathroom toilet is one whole inch taller than ensuite toilet. That accounts for your strong sensation upon sitting on the one inch lower one. God!
Despite believing the difference was more like 10 inches, I responded with:
NEVER DOUBT MY TOILET ABILITIES.
Because one should never doubt my toilet abilities.
2.0 has taken to emailing me when I’m in the bathroom. If I’ve got my phone tucked into a pocket I might receive a message like:
Are you doing a number 2 a second time?
Which allows me to respond with an update like:
I’d classify this as one large pooping session with multiple flushes.
And then he’ll send along helpful advice like:
Some air freshener might not be a bad idea.
Sometimes I think I could write an entire book about bathrooms and bathroom-related activities. Interested publishers should contact me ASAP because there will probably be a bidding war.
After six weeks off, I went back to teaching on December 3rd. I’m still struggling with my injury but I can walk, stand, and lie very still, so that’s something. My very supportive boss suggested that we build a stretcher to keep me upright in the studio – like Hannibal Lecter’s. At first I was all: not necessary! But hindsight has me thinking: #FRACKYEAH
When you have an injury and don’t feel like getting into all the convoluted and frustrating details with people, rumours start. (I guess people don’t feel like gossiping about Jennifer Aniston anymore.) As a result, people have been saying things like, “Sorry to hear about your accident.” Initially I would correct people because it’s not like I was in a fiery car crash. But now I just let people think whatever they want and say stuff like, “I’m just glad I got out in time!” Or, “Thank goodness that off-duty cop was there.” Or my new favourite, “I hear the dog is going to get a special medal!”
The other night 2.0 crawled into bed with me and said, “I’m sorry I said you were furry,” because he doesn’t think we should go to bed angry. Unfortunately I had already forgotten about the furry comment so I ended up going to bed feeling a bit like a salty badger. A very furry, salty badger.