Dr. Strangemom (or, how I learned to stop worrying and love the blog)

Hope? Nope.

Clearly, it is just a myth that if you get enough sleep, eat a healthy diet, get daily exercise and think noble thoughts, you will wake up each morning at the crack of dawn, bound out of bed and face the new day with a smile and a toned pelvic floor.

Not that I'd know anything about that. My lifestyle runs a bit more to the, I don't know, pre-suicidal.

I suffer a sweaty, fitful night's sleep, wake up at the crack of noon, carb-load like I am going to run the fucking Boston marathon, buy new underwear each month to avoid the exertion of going downstairs to the washing machine, and keep my head filled with bitter, poisonous envy of the good fortune of anyone I know.

Still, this lifestyle is not as awesome as you'd think. I wake up every morning with a headache and lurch to the bathroom to spit out my bite guard before I gag on it. I chew down my Prozac with an Advil, lurch to the kitchen to hit the "on" button on the coffee maker, lurch back to the bathroom to measure my facial moles and recalculate the day of my death from melanoma, remember that I did not put coffee or water into the machine last night, lurch quickly back to the kitchen to turn off the coffee maker before I burn the empty carafe (again), eat one of the bajillion things I will regret eating that day, bask in self-loathing and then return to the computer to remind myself that I am a hack and nobody thinks I am funny.

Maybe I should get more fiber. I seem to have lost my joie de vivre.

I'm in a bad way. You see, there is a slight possibility of good news.

Living here on the bottom, it's pretty hard to hurt yourself when you fall down a few notches. Disappointment? Yeah, I'm already there. Rejection? Got it. Bad news? Puhleese. Like I know from anything else in this vale of tears. Allowing myself to rise up, to even glimpse the shiny underbelly of hope, well, that is just asking for trouble. I come from a people who knows that unexpected news is never good. I mean, after the third time Nazi's show up uninvited to your door and it's NOT because they are bringing you a bundt cake to welcome you to the neighborhood, well, you learn to hide behind the bookcase.

So I just live behind the bookcase now and rarely come out unless the cake thing is an absolute  certainty.

Claire said to me, "you would rather fail immediately than ever wait and have a chance at success?"

I love how Claire gets me.  And, duh.  Nazis rarely come to the doors of my people with the sole (or even adjunct) intention of bringing cake. Well, maybe German chocolate cake. Which, I bet, they would force us to watch them eat and not offer us any. Those sick fucks. Thank God we defeated them.

Great. Now I want cake.

 

 

Have We Met?

I could not remember the word "table" the other day. This is the second time I have forgotten that particular word. This can't be good.

In general, I am not unduly freaked by what my brain does in this post-menopausal veil of tears. I have managed to get by for the past 57 years on what the Lord gave me to fill my noggin. True, I cannot calculate gratuities in restaurants (or even see the bill in a poorly lit joint) and so I pretty much just give the waitperson ten dollars, walk into a wall and say goodbye to the coat rack. And true, when I am standing in my bedroom wearing only my pajama bottoms I often cannot remember if I am in the middle of taking them off or putting them on, oh, and I often introduce myself to people I have met only moments earlier, sometimes introducing myself to them over and over again at one event, but, you know, whatev.  That kind of shit happens to me every day. You deal with it. No big whoop.

Still, not being able to retrieve the word "table" was troubling. Especially since I was at a restaurant and my friends were waiting for met at a corner table and I was trying to tell the person seating me that my friends were already there, waiting for me over there, at that...uh....er....shit...fuck...

Thankfully, the word did come to me. On my drive home. TABLE! Fuck. I wanted to call my friends to tell them that I finally remembered the word but I couldn't remember where I put my phone. Fuck. (It was in my hand. Fuuuuck.)

Maybe the brain has a limit of words it can retain. I have been endeavoring to increase my vocabulary lately; perhaps my brain had to delete some words that have been in there since 1954. "Table" would certainly be one of them. As in kitchen table. The words "more" and "more food!" and "are you going to finish that?" have probably been in my rotation since my verbal beginning, as well. Food words. Learned them early, used them often. Served me well.

I grew up with a mother who took after her mother who ate lunch from the backyard garden. Nasturtiums, herbs, whatever was edible and grown in the soil of her West LA apartment, that's what was for lunch. No Fritos or Wonder Bread for the Browns. I foraged and sowed my meals there, managing still to eat myself sick. Truly, the tastiest thing in Grandma Esther's house was the box of Aspirgum, which Karen and I devoured each time we were there. If you were born after 1954, you will not know what this is, so I will tell you: aspirin in chewing gum form with a candy coating. I know, right? Why, you ask? And, delicious, is my answer. Also, I never had even one headache as a child. Although I have about a gajillion stomach ulcers.

My point is, I will eat anything, evidently. Also, on an unrelated topic, all my underpants are shrinking. Cheap cotton is my guess.

Wait, no. My point is, why can't I remember the word "table"?

Well, as the old words leave my brain, leaving room for the new arrivals ("osteoarthritis", "thinning vaginal wall" and "Xanax refill"), I suppose I will have to make do with hand gestures, nodding and a smattering of Esperanto.

I better hold on to "nice to meet you", however.  You know, for when I say hello to the coat rack for the third time.

 

 

 

(Don't bother) Seek(ing because) Ye Shall (never) Find (it, anyway)

The following is a list of shit I can't find and have made numerous attempts to find but life is short so I have given up and I will either buy a new one or live without it:

1. My yakisoba pillow. It held and caressed my face like a lover. A gentle lover. A gentle, macho lover. Who rides a Harley. And bakes cinnamon rolls. A gentle, macho, swashbuckling lover who kisses me with the perfect balance of burning desire and superior aloofness. A lover who considers it his honor to work three jobs in order to support me financially so I can write my blog, refill the Sangria and work on my tan. A lover who pines for me and worries I am out of his league.  And who thinks of me when he sees a Paul Gauguin painting. Or a Paul Klee, when he is stoned. God, I miss that pillow.

2. My blue Mephisto sandal, left foot. Last seen in New York, August, 2010. And until I actually meet the man in the parable who has no feet, I will continue to feel sorry for myself for having only one Mephisto sandal.

3. Directions to the laser hair removal place that people keep recommending to me (note to self: WTF? Just how obvious IS my facial hair that after schmoozing with me for a few minutes, people casually mention a great hair removal place?)

4. The deed to Robin's and my burial plot. Also, I can't remember if we are getting buried or cremated because I wasn't fully paying attention when we voted. I  know we are sharing a plot with Karen and Craig.  (How FUN is that going to be? I want to be put next to my sister so we can stay up late in Eternity and watch PROJECT RUNWAY.) Oh, wait, I remember: we are getting cremated because Karen hates to be cold. This is a huge sacrifice on my part because I hate to be hot. Maybe I can be cremated on "low". Or "cold smoke". Robin is pretty handy with his Traeger smoker, he could DIY and save a few shekels. Buy himself that rotisserie attachment. Or a trophy wife.

5. The piece of paper onto which I write my weight when I weigh myself. Also the box with the electric combination lock and exploding Anthrax into which I put the piece of paper. Also, the fireproof vault into which I put the box. Also, the two guards in front of the vault.

6. The bag of baby artichokes that I KNOW for sure I put in the crisper a few months ago and I KNOW for sure I did not cook and eat. As God is my witness, I will not buy another bag of baby artichokes until I find that one.

7. Robin's DNR paperwork from his surgery last year. I want to do something creative with it for Valentine's Day, like a decoupage paperweight or something.

8. The Ziplock bag of 200 wooden chopsticks that I stole from some restaurant in the late 1980's and have kept in a kitchen drawer in case I ever find myself faced with an impromptu sushi party for a crowd. I currently only know three Japanese people but I want to be prepared. In case they bring friends.

9. Lyrics to a song I started in 1970, during my Joni Mitchell dulcimer period. I don't want to finish the song so much as burn the lyrics. When one is so full of hubris and marijuana as to rhyme "psychedelic poodle" with "do do do doodle" (or with anything, really), one must take care to leave no evidence behind.

10. The scathing letter I wrote to Dick Cheney a few years back, telling him that if I ever meet him I am going to do everything I can to punch in the face. Where IS that letter? I wonder if I mailed it. Hunh. You know, the Dick has been laying low lately. Maybe he got my letter. I might look all old and squishy and shit, but I honestly believe if I was face to face with the Dick, I could totally kick his ass. I have deep anger from which to draw upon.

11. My notes with numbers 11-20 that I wanted to include in this blog post. Shit.

 

 

See G Spot Run

What ever happened to the G-spot? Was it merely a passing fancy, a lark, the artichoke pesto of sexual pleasure? No one ever talks about it anymore.

Maybe it's been replaced by the new and improved H-spot. Or the low- carb G spot or something. Or HARRY'S LAW on Wednesday nights at 10.

Frankly, I'm happy to see it go. It was a lot of work. Rooting around looking for it, pretending to have found it, thinking up superlatives to describe it - I don't have time for that kind of nonsense. I have a job and kids. And a serious Facebook habit.

Anyway, I do not abide the whole "take responsibility for your own orgasm" movement. I have enough responsibility as it is, thank you very much, what with taking out the recycling and keeping up with tweezing. As far as I am concerned, responsibility for my orgasm was implied in the agreement Robin made almost 32 years ago when we invited 300 people for carrot cake and later returned all the La Creuset cookware they gave us so we could pay our rent and buy pot. I promised to make his lunch every day and he promised to do all the driving and always be wrong about everything. And then we went to Hawaii for a week.

And furthermore, if I am going to have to take responsibility for my own orgasm, then it's only fair that I get to delegate out some other responsibility to Robin, right? I mean, it's hardly like his "to do" list is full these days. For fuck's sake, the man fishes every weekend and plays twenty hours of online poker a day.

You know what? Let my orgasm take responsibility for its own damn self. If me and my G-spot are, say, walking around the mall and we see a beautiful, muscled man slowly eating a pomegranate, well, godspeed to my O, you know? It can do its thang all by itself. While I try on new Dansko clogs and get a Jamba Juice. Win win.

On the other hand, what if O goes all to hell and starts wigging out during, I don't know, silent meditation at Shabbat services. Oy. Can't take that kind of risk.

So, here's the deal:

I will take responsibility for my own orgasm. And Robin will keep up with the laundry.

Perfect. Because neither one of us is gonna do it.

 

 

 

In Which I Regret Not Sleeping With Andy and Freddy When I Had The Chance

You think YOU feel like a loser? You have no idea.

I am close personal friends with not one but two heroes.  Andy Lipkis (http://www.treepeople.org) and Freddy Mednick (http://teacherswithoutborders.org) are doing nothing less than saving the world every day. And, as you can imagine, this makes it very difficult to feel good about myself when, after hearing about their disease-resistant, union-run, eldercare, fat-free watershed project in Ethiopia or something (I have no idea), all I can add is that I spent Christmas break working on my abs. Which, of course, I didn't even.

Is close, personal proximity to greatness enough to get me into Heaven? I really should have slept with them when I had the chance forty years ago. Maybe they could have thrown me a karma bone. As far as I can recall, no one I ever slept with is now in a position to elevate my karmic, professional or financial station in life. God, I was so young and stupid.

Now Robin, however, once slept with a woman who we think is pretty wealthy now but I don't think she is going to give us any money because, well, she blocked our calls.

I am pretty much the good deeds version of being the fat girl hanging out with super models. Sadly, I am also pretty much the original version, as well. Odd man in, that's me.

I need to do something. Something meaningful. And I need to do it this weekend.  And it's already Sunday. Late afternoon Sunday. AND I want to watch MOB WIVES at 9, so there really isn't much time to get this together. Honestly, I have no idea how Andy and Freddy do it. Maybe they have TIVO so they can record MOB WIVES or something. Freddy and Andy have all the damn luck. I don't have TIVO so it really isn't fair.

So far, all I have is a list of all the broken shit on my stove that needs to be replaced. Well, not the whole list, exactly; I have a piece of paper right here and a pen that isn't leaking.

I also have a lot of meaningful ideas.

Okay, you got me. No I don't.

Fuck.

Wait! I DID do something meaningful today. Oh. Wait. No, I didn't. That was yesterday. And it wasn't meaningful. And I didn't do it.

Okay, I've got it! You know what I am going to do? I am going to get some less awesome friends.

Really fat ones.

Where I'm @

Now that we are out of Iraq, I can focus on the rest of the shit going wrong in America.

Specifically, how everyone is using the @ sign on keyboards. It will be our country's next downfall.

Granted, @ carries with it some interesting global factitude  (it's called "the snail" in French, "the strudel" in Hebrew, "the dog" in Russian, "the cat" in  Finnish and "the spider monkey" in German because I imagine that "the hook nosed money grubbing rabid infectious Jew dog" was too long to say in German) but a soupcon of interest isn't gonna save its ass from my crosshairs.

It just seems....I don't know, bullshit and entitled.... to type @ when all you have to do to type the actual word, "at", is add one fucking letter. In fact, if you count having to hit the "shift" button before hitting the "2", it is the same effort as writing "at". So using "@" isn't even a time-saver. It's such an American fat cat thing to do. Just tweaking shit just to make it different, to make it ours.  Spraying our stinky urine @ everyone. No wonder the terrorists hate us. I can barely look at us.

There is, however and happily, an antidote to our bullshit.  We can reduce our language footprint and regain our humility.

The antidote is eliminating "ness" from all words. Any child can do it.

I am a new convert to this revolution, having been recently inducted by my friend Elizabeth, who must be right because she was An English Major In College. (I, an ethnology of non western music and dance major in college, and a writer, stand in awe and reverence of English Majors In College so I capitalize Them whenever I see Them.)

Happiness. Restlessness. Horniness. The 'ness' is unnecessary; Elizabeth is right.  In fact, ness is actually quite annoying, as well, now that I see the light and have embraced the downsized, simple abundance, way of life. "Ness" is a leech, a slacker; it catches a free ride on the back of the truly hardworking words, leaving less room for words like "justice" and "solidarity" and "bite my fat ass, you hypocritical piece of shit, Newt Gringrich". "Ness" is the @ of words.  And Newt is the "ness" of the universe.

Ness is the obsequious friend that echoes everything you say and tries to make it his own statement. You know, you say to someone at a party, "Trini Lopez? He sang, 'Lemon Tree', right?" and the friend chimes in on the "opez" of "Lopez"  and vigorously agrees with the fact the he sang "Lemon Tree", like he was the one all along who said it.

Or, someone asks you about your major in college and when you answer, "Ethnology of Non-Western Music and Dance Performance", the friend says, "Oh, I was going to be an Ethnology of Non-Western Music And Dance Performance major, too, but I already knew everything about it."

And you silently scream, oh, shut the fuck up, you unnecessary passive repeater.

So let's just pitch it into the pile of useless shit with, I don't know, emoticons, St. John's Wort, Sara Lee bagels,  Moroccan Hair Oil, people who say "no problemo", scrapbookers, Nazi memorabilia collectors, suburban track mansion dwellers, the whole lot of those fucking Kardashians and all other superfluous ephemera that takes up space in the world.

Space that could be used for hating Newt, fighting Communism and storing all my Dansko clogs.

 

Targeting The Revolution

Don't despair, there is hope for the world.  I met her. She is two and a half years old, and we can expect  great things from her in the future.

The little girl, whom we will call The Little Girl, made her stand at Target last Wednesday. After an hour of "I want that!"  "No, we are not buying that today!"  "But I WANT THAT!"  what her parents wanted was  to leave the damn store. She, however, wanted to stay, finding a screaming match with her parents at Target on a rainy Wednesday afternoon to be a capital idea.

Negotiations proved unfruitful. Cajoling proved embarrassing (if you've ever had a two year old roll his eyes at your desperate high-pitched, smiley-faced declaration that it is FUN to leave the toy aisle at a store and SUPER FUN to get back into the car and go home for a nap - as I experienced many times with my kids - you know how embarrassing cajoling can be. Your kid looks at you with the same pity disgust that the salesgirls at Forever 21 look at me when I take a pair of size 6 jeans into the dressing room. No one is fooling anyone. My ass cannot Occupy those jeans.) Bribes were laughable. Threats were pathetic. Tension was palpable.

So, The Little Girl, taking her cue from Zuccotti Park, Rosa Parks and Trey Arrow, strapped herself into the cart. She Occupied that fucking cart.

Remember that moment, all of you parents out there, when the light comes into your child's eyes with the sudden realization that "you can't make me" is actually true? For me, that was the moment I discovered that my children were growing up. Also, that mixing alcohol and painkillers - for all of us - nicely takes the sting out of raising kids. Also, that there is a direct correlation between your kids defying you and the sudden loss of libido for your own husband. As well as the sudden desire to eat a large hot dog while doing naked jumping jacks in front of Armand Assante.

Where was I? Oh, Target. Right.

What happened next doesn't matter. Well, at least, not to me. It wasn't my kid, so the relevant part of the story is over. I imagine the parents worked it out. I will be at Target next week, however, and if they are still there I'll blog more about it.

What does matter, what the relevant part of the story is, is that we keep the spirit of unreasonable, contrarian protest alive. We are all way too compliant.

Okay, well, not all of us are too compliant. There are courageous people out there who are Occupying their corner of the world (shout-out to Karin Lightstone), refusing to be marginalized. And I suppose I could join them. But in my defense, so many of them are unattractive.

(PS to Karin: Bubbele, you are gorgous. So gorgeous that what the hell are you doing protesting in a park when you could totally bag yourself a rich man?)

But the middle aged woman without a brassiere? Occupy your boobs, honey. Occupy them right now.  With strong underwire.

In addition to being unattractive, the Occupiers misuse grammar on their placards, which is the real dealbreaker for me. I mean, for fuck's sake, WERE NOT GOING ANYWHERE is not gonna get you a ticket into my revolution. But add an apostrophe (and a sturdy bra) and maybe I'm listening.

Now, let's strap ourselves into our carts and get going.

 

 

 

 

 

Shit That Doesn't Count, part 2

There are certain things that I know for sure, too. Sister Oprah isn't the only one who can make that claim.

And here is one of the things I know for sure: in this world, some shit counts and some doesn't. It's not all fair and square in the universe.

Do you know what I mean? Like when the bagger at Safeway accidentally puts a party size bag of Cool Ranch Doritos in your bag instead of the bag of the person in front of you in line and you weren't planning to eat Cool Ranch Doritos, you'd never in a million years actually buy Cool Ranch Doritos, but there they are in your bag and the other person has already left the store - well, not so much left the store as that she has taken four steps towards the door - so, really, what else can you do but sit in your car in the parking lot and eat the entire bag?

You know, like that. You gotta surrender to the universe and eat the chips because They Were Meant To Be. And calories do not count if you didn't actually intend to buy the food you wound up eating.

Yes, it is so true. It's one of the immutable facts of life. Like, whatever you eat on an airplane doesn't count as calories. Unless it's during take-off or landing. Because of the altitude, I believe.

Or, eating two oversize bagels in the morning does not count as calories if you eat them only because you might have the nervous stomach runs later in the day when you have to go to the doctor to get that suspicious mole checked. Those bagels are proactive medicine. Ergo, no calories.

Or, if you are tasting food for, say, clinical research, you know, to correct the seasoning or decide if you want to eat an entire bowl of it, those calories do not count. 

And this immutable law is not just about calories, either.

Sex at Jewish summer camp in the mountains does not count as sex. A person re-virginizes upon re-entry to the city. Again, it has something to do with altitude. And getting the bends.

Also, sex with an old boyfriend does not count as cheating on a spouse. It's just, I don't know, like finishing up, but a lot of years later.

Conversely, sex with your spouse does count as sex even if you are asleep during the entire thing and dreaming that you are a Habitat For Humanity townhouse and Jimmy Carter is nailing your floorboards to your foundation.

Sex with your spouse also counts even if you fake your orgasm and you practice finger crocheting on his back hair during his orgasm.

And sex with your spouse while visiting the Jewish summer camp in the mountains where you lost your virginity will result in a great story later. Especially if your spouse threatens to take your old boyfriend to the exact spot where it happened, put your old boyfriend's nose in the spot, hit him on snout and say, "no! Bad!"

In parenting, there are a couple of "Don't Count"s that you may want to note:

Saying "motherfucker cocksucking goddamn me in a pile of shit" does not count as swearing in front of your kids if one of them ate the last Skinny Cow chocolate mint ice cream sandwich and all that's left are the gross peanut butter ones.

Telling your kid, "Your teacher sucks" doesn't count as bad parenting if his teacher did not let you cut in line in front of her the previous week to get tickets for James Taylor. Or if she can wear a belly shirt.

And,

Giving your kids Nyquil even though they haven't been sick in over a year, but you really need them to take a nap because Carrie Fisher is on The View and you want to see if she's gained the weight back yet, does not count as bad parenting. It's just good sense.

What does count, and I cannot stress this enough, is taking six and a half hours to finish a post on your blog when you told your husband that you had very very very important PAID work to do in your office today and he needs to totally clean the house, make dinner and leave you alone.

 

 

 

When In Peloponnesia...

I just started reading what I think is going to be an odd little book. THE UNCOUPLING, by Meg Wolitzer, so far, appears to be a story about a town where the women all lose their desire to have sex as a result of attending the local high school's production of LYSISTRATA. I could be all wrong, of course; the book could turn out to be about, I don't know, Matt Damon buying a zoo, or shoes, but I don't think so.

Now it seems completely plausible to me that seeing a play about women withholding sex could influence the females in the audience to give the idea a whirl. I mean, since time immemorial, I have used sex as currency in my relationships. Sexual favors once got me a tune-up on my Chevy Nova. And a ride from Santa Cruz to Berkeley in a VW bug that had two untethered  lawn chairs as its back seat. Which, at the time, seemed to me to be a major score but as I recount the tale tonight, I wonder if I might have set my sights higher. Like, for a real back seat.

Although, granted, the older and fatter I get, it would probably carry more cache if I'd promise to not have sex with a person from whom I wanted a favor these days.

Judge: Madam, you have stolen from the poor and mistreated baby animals. I sentence you to ten years in prison.

Me: How about if I sleep with you?

Judge: Oh. Well, then, following your ten year sentence, you will be hanged. And then, shot.

I am trying to remember the last time I withheld sex from Robin to get something I wanted. Well, there was that one time, from 1986 to 1995, but that was really mostly because I was just so damn tired and pissy from raising kids. I was a sex camel in those days - one night of humping and I was good for a year or two. Our sexual hiatus was also due to Robin and I being stuck in a birth control method standoff that only ended with the onset of my menopause a few years ago. Which did take care of the pesky little problem of fertility but brought with it the new ones of sprouting walrus whiskers on my chin and growing into a silhouette that implies I am pregnant with a hydrocephalic bison or two.

I don't know of anyone else who is reading THE UNCOUPLING. I hate it when my friends don't read the same book I am reading because then I have no idea if I like the book or not. I count on my friends to keep me sounding smart and erudite, and how can I pull that off if I can't parrot their opinions?

I especially hate it when my super smart and erudite friends all LOVE a book that I didn't love. Or worse, a book that I could barely get through without falling into various distracting and prurient reveries which might feature myself in a foursome with Stanley Tucci, Oliver Platt and Tony Shalhoub. Sometimes my reveries are so vivid that they mix with the book's plot and I wind up saying shit to people like, "I was totally into the part where Dorothea and Celia were sitting naked on the potter's wheel and Mr. Monk was the wet clay."  That's usually when I have to feign a stroke or crash into something to cover up my blunder.

And even then, I know people are whispering about me as I limp away.

 

 

The Other Bucket List

Mom broke her pelvis in October. Yeah, I guess there wasn't enough shit flying around our family this year so the universe pushed her down while she was gardening and broke her. Which means that now they have to buy her.

A friend with a mother my mom's age assured me, however, that strong people in their 80's can do just fine despite these kinds of injuries. She said, "last year, my mom broke her arm in two places and she could still work at her loom for hours and hours."  So that's encouraging, right? I guess it means that even with a broken pelvis, my mom will be able to....oh, wait. I do not want to even think about what my mom does with her pelvis, much less for hours and hours.

It's too weird to think about your parents and sex and stuff. In fact, just writing the word "pelvis" makes me feel a little woozy.

Plus, it's not a very audially pleasing word is it?  Pelvis. It sounds so...dry and creaky. Like what's left after a windstorm or something. The storm left in its wake a pelvis of rubble. Or it could be Eastern European currency. In world news, the pelvis dropped sixteen points today; a new low. And post menopausal women everywhere would shake their heads in knowing commiseration.

Pelvis. It has no business being the term for the area of...er...business.

The derivation of the word is "empty basin or bucket", for fuck's sake. That image does not put a person in a sexy mood. "I feel a tingling in my empty bucket when I see your penis". I'll try that on Robin tonight, see where it takes us.

Although, it does add some interest to the term, "kick the bucket."

I rarely talk about my own pelvis and I like it that way just fine.  But since the accident, I have to say the word "pelvis" all the fucking time. And it always accompanies the words "my mom's".

My mom's pelvis.  

My mom's pelvis. My mom's pelvis. My mom's pelvis. Say it three times to summon the devil.  And then the rivers flow backwards and your spleen catches fire.

Thankfully, Mom is healing quickly so her pelvis won't have to be on my mind for much longer.

But she also broke her clavicle. Which sounds a little nasty, too.