You're soaking in it.

No, I didn't relieve myself in my Dickies; though I remember it being really nice and warm for the first minute or so. Crassitude aside, I also remember there was a cheesy advertisement (is there any other kind) on the TV years ago for a dish soap: palmolive. One of the traits of the soap they were selling was the notion that it was so wonderful that a manicurist might dare to soak her clients' hands in it before she got down to the dirty work. After suggesting to her thoroughly unsuspecting television hand-soakers that they might do something so preposterous, "Madge" gently shattered their universes with the horrid news that: yes, you're soaking in it! Aha, what to do but accept this daring foray into unorthodoxy?

Well, the other day ago, I had that annual event in my house occur where the PT and OT and any other T who has T time in her (aren't they all women?) agenda come visit our little home to see how kosher we can be with therapeutical interactive conjunctivitis mechano-troublesome-equipment stuff. Well as a 'devotee' of conductive education, I tend to be allergic to the accoutrements and more rabidly fascinated in the organic machinery that arrived with Blue: namely him.
So, anyways, I showed 'em how we stand up, walk with Dad in front and in back, use large rice-filled denim legs for positioning and such, how to use the you-walk-I-steer method and what not; and before the time was T'd up everyone seemed happy and that was that. I didn't say the "C" word once, nor the "E" word either. Why bother? Nobody wants to make a wheel when there are already so many people trying to reinvent the square. So, I squared up with them, but I took a page from Madge and soaked them in it.