I’ve never been a very graceful person. I can’t rollerskate. I’m capable of tripping on dust bunnies. If I had a daughter, she would have been enrolled in ballet in an attempt to stem the genetic tide. But after talking to my dad on the phone this afternoon, it occurs to me that rollerskate rinks and dust bunnies are the least of my worries.
He fell off the toilet again yesterday.
I saw this T-shirt in Signals catalog:
I’m spending my evening drinking a nasty solution that endeavors to make me as clean as a whistle. (Are whistles clean? How clean?) Tomorrow I’ll be the
hapless victim helpless participant in a “procedure.” The last time I had a “procedure” was 11 years ago, and I ended up hospitalized for 5 days. This is a different procedure, and supposedly, no sharp instruments are being used — or so my husband tells me.