To my abiding shame, I’ve found Saturday Night Live funny recently, so long as I was looking at one Lindsey Buckingham at a time.
Two more miracles and I’m set for eternity.
Fourteen hours later, Pete and I return from our weekly golf clapping at the health food store where the produce is so beautiful it looks like Vermeer painted it during one of those periods when he didn’t doubt his own existence, and found a car parked with its bumper blocking our driveway. Pete started swearing.
Pete: Rassin frassin pix atuny hibbity bapf!
Tata: Do you know whose car that is?
Pete: It’s the rassin frassin kids’ next door.
Still swearing, Pete got out of the car, walked to the end of the driveway, looked at the bumper and marched across the lawn.
Pete: Pakka bibblix quobboparep bu bu bu flibbit!
I gathered grocery bags, let myself into the house and from the living room, heard him standing on the neighbor’s porch, swearing.
Pete: Kekka woo bob wrokkup pibbiloque!
I threw the bags on the floor and realized the reason I couldn’t breathe was that I was laughing hysterically. Pete threw open the front door, found me draped over the kitchen island, gasping for air. Still swearing, he stomped up the stairs, where I could hear him marching from room to room, swearing.
Pete: Dappa vitchiy gik pooder mos libberdiffy poodicles!
My knees buckled. He stomped down the stairs again to the spot on the floor where I lay, howling.
Pete: Whatcha doin’, sweetie?
I finally took a breath.
And howled for another ten minutes.