A few years ago, finishing up story time, a co-worker said, “Oh, I could hear your heavenly voice, soaring through the library!” I had been singing 5 Little Ducks, the chorus of which goes, “QUACK QUACK QUACK QUACK.” I suspected she was making fun of me, but she was a sweetheart and had love in her eyes, so I just said “thank you”. I can carry a tune, but I sound like a man with a reedy voice. I can sing along to Black Sabbath, the Decemberists, and the Muppets. I’m fine with this, it gets me through storytime and bedtime songs. Then last week, it happened again. I quacked along to 5 Little Ducks, and one of the adorable young moms in my toddler group said, “Oh, you have such a lovely voice! I got chills.” What is happening? Maybe I am some sort of barnyard song siren. Then the nice woman came back to the library yesterday and said, “These painkillers I’ve been on are making me kind of loopy.” AH HA. MYSTERY SOLVED. It was not love in my co-worker’s eyes all those years ago, it was drugs. Damn.
On Memorial Day I saw a man peeing in the grocery store parking lot – just holding his flabby pale penis over the top of his surf shorts, cool as could be, next to his fancy truck full of kids. I honked my horn and gestured in a manner that I hope conveyed disgust, and not applause. Gross.
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