Dallas-bound, coming to you live from the Philadelphia airport, where it's a million degrees Celsius and the pinot noir is dreadfully overpriced. I am on my way to a conference, so I am not sure how much I will be able to chat with you this week. In case we don't speak, let me tell you the story of how I nearly killed J yesterday. And not intentionally!
It happened during an innocent shower, one in which J covered himself in soap (eyes shut tight to avoid bubbles in eyes). In order to rinse, J needed me to move out of the way, which I did most unsuccessfully. I slipped, just a bit, and knocked into him.
The rest happened as if in slow motion. J (eyes shut tightly as he is covered in soap), wobbled once to the right. Then, he lurched slightly to the left. Then he completely lost his footing, and fell backwards out of the tub, onto the floor, at which point he landed in a seated position, and then twirled around once for good measure.
J, disoriented: "Whoa. Babe."
"Oh my God! Oh my God! Are you alright? I am so sorry! J, please, are you okay?"
"You tried to kill me."
With this accusation, I exhale. And then I start laughing unroariously, because J is sprawled on the floor, naked as a jaybird, covered in vanilla sugar body wash.
These are the days, folks.