Mr. Matt goes to seventh grade

I went to my niece's class yesterday to talk about FA! It went OK, I guess.

It's exhausting and somewhat depressing to talk about FA. I am sitting there telling the kids that it's not like breaking your arm because you fell out of tree. With a genetic disease the only reason is  you are. That is the hardest thing for me, I told them, and it weighed on me yesterday.

But whatever, it was worth it, even if the teacher was nearer in age to my almost-13-year-old niece than me. She also asked if I wanted to be called Mr. Matt, which my niece wished I had agreed on. I said Matt was fine.

My niece seemed pleased, although no one apparently told her how lucky she is to have such an awesome uncle.

Smooth sailing

I came into work today and did a double take. They fixed the curb cut!

The curb cut  I use is  at the confluence of four levels of pavement: the curb cut and gutter, the road, the crosswalk and the crosswalk border.

This has meant that for a year or more, I look like the milkman riding into work.

I occasionally would try to get up on the gutter and stay on it. But I could never do it.

It's pretty annoying but low on the problems I need fixing.

Now, though: Smooth sailing.

Why indeed?

Why are you talking like that, the first-grader asked me.

I was playing with  Fame in the backyard and she was playing on our swings. Granted, I was talking kind of silly to keep Fame entertained, but I am fairly certain she meant the slurring and general fuzziness of my speech.

I decided to play dumb. I was in my own backyard; I can talk however I damn well please, girlie  

How am I talking, I replied. Giving lip to someone more than 35 years younger --  nice, huh?

But she didn't  hear and didn't ask again. Alternately, the slightly older neighbor might have hushed her up.

It is a good question, though, one I plan to ask certain higher beings when I die.

P.S.: You might think I dislike this precocious pre-pre-teen. Normally, you'd be right, but not here.  I am not getting nicer. It's just that the day before this girl was marching through the yard with a light saber, singing/humming "The Imperial March."

I don't care

I went back to work last Monday. I was sick or on telework then for February, March and six days in   April. Except for maybe 10 of those days, I wore sweatpants, sleeping pants or shorts.

I know Jerry and my older brother would disagree, but I am not telling the world that I give up.

I am telling it that I have more important things to worry about.

'I have returned'

On Monday, I finally stopped my goldbricking and after two months started back in the office full time.

Before I did, I told my bosses about the embarrassing incident when someone was in the bathroom stall when I needed even though they weren't in a chair. I never thought I'd use "urine-soaked" in a work email but I did.

One of my bosses responded that they have put up signs. I said OK but was skeptical that would help ... until I got in to  work,