My brilliant niece

 My niece tells me she brings me up in her college interviews. I think I also made an appearance in one of her college essays.

So maybe it was payback that she had to pick me up off the bathroom floor one morning last week and pull up my pants (thankfully, just the back).

Except ...

She could talk about Dr. Who or Supernatural, and she'd still get in to the college. She'd find a way to make it fascinating and insightful, for one thing, and colleges won't care. When they look at her record, they must salivate. The interview is a formality. She is smarter than I was in high school, which I will deny if her mom brings it up, definitely more athletic and well-rounded, more disciplined and self-assured, and ridiculously kind. 

Also, no child should have to pick their uncle up as she and her brother do on a distressingly frequent basis.  I should be paying them.

Topless telework

 Any of the people who walk their dogs on the street by my windows might have wondered the other day why some guy is diligently working at his desk without a shirt. I did have a fleece around me, but it was falling off.

The answer, as usual, involves freaking Friedreich's ataxia.

I use a bidet, which sounds luxurious but saves me from trying to stand and clean myself off.

Unfortunately, I also feel very poorly. Water shooting onto me (unless it is cold, which causes other problems. Consider it, icy water hitting your rear?) or my foot slipping forward, for instance.

So there I was: using the bidet when my foot starts slipping forward. I didn't notice the bidet wasn't hitting the right spot until I glanced down and saw my foot had slid forward till my leg was almost straight.

The bidet, instead of doing its job, soaked my shirts.

I managed to remove them and dry my back.

I pulled my foot back.

Then I got back in my chair, washed hands and chose a new shirt to put on.

Instead of putting it on, though, my arms got all tangled up and pulled the shirt inside out.

At this point I decided topless was better.

Speechless

 One year when I was young, my uncle was having dinner with us around Christmas (I figure it was around Christmas because there was a nutcracker on the table, but I suppose it's possible it was there just because we were having walnuts).

Anyway, he asked me to pass it to him (I can still remember where we were sitting),  and he told me to put my finger in the nutcracker. I did for some reason, and he started squeezing. It hurt so bad I couldn't tell him to stop, so he kept squeezing. Finally, someone, maybe his friend, pointed out I was crying, and he stopped.

I am reminded of this incident not infrequently because the story is part of the lore of my family, much like how my little sister took a big drink of red vinegar (the same uncle was involved in that, too; he was awesome).

It has also been on my mind because I sometimes back up and my arm catches on whatever I am backing past, but I can't stop fast enough, then it hurts so bad I can't call for help. 

Sometimes, my arm gets trapped so I can't stop at all. I'm back at the dinner table, but no one is around to see my tears.