Astronaut

At risk of having turned these entries into a national touring version of “Kids Say the Darnedest Things”, I feel obliged today to write about something other than Mathilda. It’s time to roll out the adult stories, to share some sexy anecdotes of life on the road for the over-18 (month old) set. With twenty attractive dancers from New York City touring alongside of us, who wouldn’t expect tales of debauchery, obscenity, drunken self-indulgence and casual polymorphous perversity?

It seems, however, that I’ve missed them all. Mathilda and I are Eng and Cheng-like in our daily routine; from morning until bedtime, we’re rarely separated by more than a stride, alternately charming and wearying each other. She accompanies me on every errand, regardless of how inconsequential (once I left her in the car with Molly while I ran to Blockbuster to slide the DVD into the return slot, and Mathilda burst into tears, stunned by the betrayal.)

As a consequence, I have almost no opportunity to witness anything wonderfully filthy. And unless a friend calls me while Mathilda is napping, there’s a good chance that I will spend the entire day engaged in conversations that involve:

a) puppies
b) kittens
c) ponies
d) unicorns
e) all of the above, frolicking together in a chocolate forest

So when it comes to entertaining, ribald indignities–pantless nights at a gay bar, counting cards at the casino–I have to confess to coming up short. All I have to offer is a true story about a female dancer in the ensemble who drank so much cheap drugstore wine on the ride up to the ski slopes that she crapped her pants while on the mountain–and then (my favorite part) proceeded to keep right on skiing for the rest of the day.

But then again, upon reflection, that’s really not so different from a toddler story.