Or,

PLEASE.  It’s Friday. Like You Have Anything Better To Do.

And finally,

This Story Is Probably Not Worth The Wait.

But when has THAT stopped me in the past?  That’s right smarty bears:  NEVAH!

                                                 ***   ***   ***   ***

To be fair, my Mom talked me into her latest evil plot by saying, "he’s a great body worker and I think he could really help your back pain."

Sounds harmless enough, right?

NOT.

I had called my sister a few days before the appointment, whining, "I don’t wanna…"

"You don’t want to what?" she asked.

"I don’t want to go to another one of Mom’s crazy healer friend types and be told AGAIN to stand on one foot for fourteen hours straight and then drink forty frillion gallons of unpasteurized goat’s milk and then, and only THEN, will I get pregnant!"

"Then DON’T GO," she shouted, as if that was the most obvious answer in the world.

But then what the hell would I have to blog about? "But what if he can help my back?" I asked.

"THEN GO," she said snippily, clearly her patience with me was waning.

"Ok, I’ll go, but I swear if he’s a crackpot I am sending Mom straight to Shady Pines!"   

                                                 ***     ***    ***    ***

A few days later (a couple of Sundays ago), I arrived at my parents’ house and this <bunny ears> body worker is setting up a massage table in my Father’s office.  He looks normal enough, pretty friendly.  Not like a deranged psycho killer with crazy eyes and drool running down his chin, not like he was going to start pulling chicken pieces out of my abdomen, you know, all the things you DON’T want to see in your body worker.

That level of comfort was quickly replaced by abject terror.

I knew immediately things were going terribly wrong when my Mom left the room saying, "there’s no one else home and I’ll shut the door so you can scream as loud as you want when it hurts."

WHA??

My head shot up off the table so fast I thought it would fly right off my neck and hurl itself out the door passed my Mom. And down the hall where the evil cats would start pawing it back and forth.  But luckily this didn’t happen. I just stared at her with that deer-in-the-headlights, what the fuck are you talking about woman and if when this goes terribly awry I swear I will get you for this  kind of look.

But she just laughed, and shut the door behind her, leaving me alone with Willis, the gigantic body worker that I just recently learned caused his clients so much pain they might feel an overwhelming urge to scream.

I was expecting a one hour-long massage sort of thing, which would leave me refreshed and relaxed and thrilled that, for once, my Mom had steered me in the right direction.

Instead?

Instead I was subjected to almost THREE HOURS of horrific pain and a grilling not unlike the Spanish Inquisition and the Salem Witch Trials all jumbled together in one long macabre nightmarish afternoon.

Willis would use his substantial heft to press on certain spots on my back, legs, hips and feet. And HOLY HANNAH THE FEET.  It was like he could zero in on a specific location that, when pressed, was so sore and tender it literally brought tears to my eyes.

And as if this was not already a pleasant enough way to spend an afternoon, he grilled me about everything. I guess it was an attempt to figure out why all of these pressure points hurt so badly. (Because you’re like over six feet tall and weigh a thousand pounds and you’re pressing on my joints and tendons and muscles with the force of King Kong??  Could THAT be it, jackass?)

No.  It was all emotional, he claimed.  He proceeded to question me about the last few years: why was I so stressed out, why didn’t I release the stress, what was I holding on to for such a long time?  Why couldn’t I get pregnant and on and on…

"Are you a stuffer?" he asked.  My mind shot to the rather large bagel, egg and turkey bacon sandwich I had crammed down my gullet earlier that morning…WAS I stuffer? I asked myself.

"OH!  You mean emotionally….No. I am not a stuffer." I answered.

"Do you take a long time making decisions?" 

"No."  (I said very quickly to help illustrate my point.)

"How are your bowel movements?"

"Errrrrrr…do you want like a description or just a general overview?  If you picture, say, soft-serve frozen yo–"

" –Just the frequency, do you go two or three times a day at least?"

I was dumbfounded by this question.  Do people DO that?!  I mean, I have a full time job!  I wasn’t quite sure how I’d balance that busy schedule of working AND defecating and as I was trying to formulate what I hoped would be an acceptable answer, he continued on and on and on…like a crazed, question-asking, pressure point pushing, pain-inducing MEANY. 

I was very quickly deciding that I hated this man.

In order to distract myself from the searing pain, I would try to answer his questions in between shouts of "OW" and "HOLY GOD" and "GEEZ that hurts."

(And yes, I did resist the almost overwhelming urge to bust out the "Watchu talkin’ about, Willis?")

He persisted with the inquisition:  Why did we cancel our wedding five years ago?  Wasn’t it my choice to do so? Why was I still angry about that?

"I’m not OW still OUCH angry about that…but you asked when I started to feel anxiety and HOLY CRAP that hurts and that was a OW difficult time," I stuttered.

Finally he got to the whole getting pregnant thing and he was definitely in the ‘just relax and it will happen camp.’ And to me there is nothing more irritating than that.  I could put up with the pressing and the screaming and the questions and even the judging, but that was IT.

"Why do you want to have kids?" he asked me, as if attempting to pry deep into my psyche and uncover some deep-seeded reason I was not already pregnant.

"For the tax deduction, obviously…" I responded cooly.

I managed to get a look at the clock and that’s when I realized it had been OVER TWO hours. Holy crap.  Time flies when you’re being assaulted by someone your own Mother hired to torture you.

I was a good sport up until then.  I played along with his theory of how our bodies hold on to stress and I tried to answer his inane questions, and then I just had enough.

I glanced at the clock and said I was done, I had to be somewhere very soon and that was the end of  my massage (HA!  Term used very loosely) and I made a freaking beeline for the door.

My Mom had been leisurely reading a mystery this whole time, I’m sure gloating over the sound of my screams coming from the office. (Even those ass clown cats were outside the door, just waiting for a limb to become detached. Furry little bastards.)

I called her the next day and she asked, "Did you like Willis?  Did he help you?"

"Um, NO." I answered.  "No he did not help me and NO, I did not like him.  In fact, I HATED HIM."

"Oh.  Then I assume you don’t want to come back next weekend?"

"That would be correct," I said bitterly.

Bitter that she claimed he would help my back and bitter that once again I was such a sucker I spent a Sunday afternoon being battered and bruised by a so-called holistic healer type.  Bitter that I didn’t leave sooner…just BIT. TER.

But not so bitter that I wouldn’t treat you to a little photographic evidence of my latest exploits into the world of alternative medicine.

Don’t say I never give you nothin’:

Speaking of asking your husband to take a photo of your (unfortunately-for-everyone-very) lower back and emphasizing that he freakin’ better avoid the CRACK, well, have YOU ever tried this stunt at home?  My back is just an expanse of white flesh, like a large frozen tundra of blinding whiteness punctuated only by a tattoo and, now, a very large black, blue and green bruise courtesy of Willis.

But it’s ALL ABOUT THE  SCALE, people. (She says still regretting the fact that this photo exists and will soon be projected on a blog for ALL to see. There goes her career in politics…)

If, for example, I told you that tattoo was the size of a dinner plate, why then you’d remark on what a lovely and dainty, small-sized lower back region I had.

But if I told you the tattoo was the size of a dime, then you might say MY GAWD, it’s like she’s a gigantic, hairless YETI or some other horrible creature and you might run shrieking from your computer screen clawing your own eyes out with a dull pencil, fearful of ever reading another blog ever again.

So let’s just say it’s somewhere in the middle and leave it at that, ‘kay?

And in the end?  Turns out the standing on one foot and drinking goat’s milk routine would not have been so bad…

 

    *** WITH AP-DATES *** BELOW *** DOWN THERE, AT THE BOTTOM ***

So I went to see a psychic healer last Sunday.

And I know. I KNOW.

You hear this crap so often from me, it’s like someone else saying, "I walked upright last weekend" or "I exhaled earlier today."

But what can I say?  It’s the norm in my crazy family.

Speaking of crazy, my Mom broached the subject of me seeing this particular healer (as opposed to the infamous Master Cha or the Russian healer who convinced her to place a photo (a photo!) of him on her head after she fell and cracked her skull open) by prefacing the conversation with these words:

"He’s a little out there…"

WHA??

Do you realize what THAT means coming from my MOTHER??

"Oh. MY. GOD. Does he have three heads and sacrifice small woodland creatures before the healing session begins?" I asked.

"No."

"Does he speak in tongues and coax snakes from a basket with a pan flute and then make you eat the snakes.  WHILE THEY’RE STILL ALIVE??"

"No."

"Does he teleport himself into the room and put you in a trance and use a prob and — "

"—NO. Will you stop this Watson, for crisssakes let me finish!"

"Well, what then?  Your definition of ‘out there’ is scaring me, given what you think is normal," I said. 

I was thinking of the time in junior high school when she dragged me to this not-so-nice part of town to see a Filipino healer who supposedly did psychic surgery.  That is, surgery with just his hands.  HIS BARE HANDS. No medical instruments of any kind.  No anesthesia.  And this really isn’t the time to get into it, but let’s just say that although I’m far from convinced this a real thing, I did see the "doctor" produce some slimy bits of gobbley-gook that he claimed came from my Mother’s stomach.

(GAWD.  How often do you get to write a sentence like that??)

Moving on. 

Or have you stopped reading?  Have I finally crossed The Line?  The Line I have skated so perilously close to, so many times? The Line that separates a somewhat entertaining story from a total crap load of bullshit?

For those two or three of you still reading, I swear I only write the truth. I know it sounds inconceivable (which is not an infertility pun, by the way) but everything I write about here actually happened…

Back to my story:

"Humppff," my Mom snorted.  "No, he doesn’t have three heads or snakes or probes.  He just uses these machines he invented and then takes a reading of your energy and heals you with these crystals."

"Cool.  Sign me up.  As long as there are no live snakes involved, I’m in."

(Does that mean I would have been up for the probe?  Maybe.  I guess depending on what kind of weekend I was having…)

I arrive at this woman’s house and a very normal-looking man answers the door. He’s so normal, in fact, that I mistake him for the home owner’s husband and it takes me a few minutes to clue in to the fact that he is the healer.

I have been asked to take my shoes off at the front door, and offered some slippers that are sitting in pairs by the steps.  I have very small feet and so as I clumsily put a pair on my feet, I look like I’m wearing clown shoes and I slip and slid down the hall to the room that has been set up.

The guy, Gary (see!  Even a normal name!)  sort of waves his hands in front of me and asks what health issues I have.

"Well," I start, "I’ve been trying to get pregnant for like FOUR years now…"

He interrupts me to say that I have an issue with my fallopian tubes.  (I swear if I had nickel for EVERY TIME a psychic healer told me that, I’d be a rich woman.)  He says almost the exact same thing another person told me a couple of months ago, that although I ovulate regularly, there’s something (fluid, scar tissue, paste?) that creates an obstacle for the egg and by the time it gets anywhere, it’s too late.

Remember how I told you that my eggs like to take trips to Tijuana and bargain for cheap serapes and go to the mall?  Remember?!  Well, that is exactly what’s happening, according to this guy.  My eggs start out heading to, let’s say school, but then get all distracted and decide to catch a matinee instead and by the time they saunter over near the uterus, BeBop’s spermies have just given up and gone home.  Or died, as the case may be.

So anyway, he proceeds to tell me that IVF will work (YAY!) but that after his miraculous healing I should probably wait and just try naturally for a few more months (BOO!).

The funniest part was when he was waving his hands in front of me, taking a reading of some sort.

Healer Dude: "Okay, blahblah, ooolamamoo, liver, kidney…" he mumbles. "Okay, that looks good.  I’m clearing the energy there and healing your organs."

Me: "Okay, errr…thanks?"

He looks to the side, and keeps waving his hands in a circular motion.  He then looks past me, over my left shoulder.

Him: "I need some help with this one, guys" he says to someone or something.

Me: [crickets]

Him: "I don’t care…no, you decide.  Who wants to help me?" (He’s still staring off into the distance, apparently talking to the someone, or the something, that has joined us in the room.) 

"Okay," he continues.  "Oh!  All of you want to help? Thanks, that sounds good."

Me:  "————-"

Then he turned on this little machine that had a crystal on the top and some funky flashing lights.  And he held it over my open palms and

VOILA!

I AM HEALED.

Or, at least that’s what he said.

Honestly, I don’t know what my Mom was talking about. In the scheme of things, he wasn’t ‘out there’ at all.  The talking to the angels thing was a little weird, but nothing like speaking in tongues or some guy yanking a disgusting, gooey GLOB out of my Mother’s stomach while I sat in the corner and watched.

That, my friends, THAT was weird.  And I should know.

——————————————-

What the FRICK is an Ap-date, Watson?? You might be asking, and rightly so.

Well, it’s a combination APOLOGY and UPDATE.

First things first, I want to apologize to Tigger, who commented that my crack about speaking in tongues could be interpreted by some as offensive.  I so didn’t mean it that way.  My GOD, I am the last person who would be judgmental about another person’s choice for religion, practice, spiritual pursuits, etc. etc. etc.

I mean, have you READ my posts?? Have you read what I write about my own family and the craziness that ensues??  Which includes, but is not limited to, staying in an ashram in India, getting whacked in the head with a peacock feather by an Indian saint, seeing healers and <quote/unquote> psychic surgeons in sketchy parts of town and using adhesive tape to attach ‘magic crystals’ to various parts of our bodies for healing purposes and being hooked up to electrodes while the UPS delivery guy looks on and having the Patron Saint of Infertility watch over our sexy-time for good luck??

And that was all in the LAST WEEK. 

(BAH DUH BUM.)

Anyhoo, I think some of us not familiar with the Pentecostal Christian church might call it ‘out there,’ in terms of it being very different from our own experiences.  But different isn’t bad, it’s just different.  And if my comment sounded lame and ignorant and offensive in any way, I’m sorry. 

And as soon as a snake charmer comments that I have offended him or her,  I will apologize for that too. And a pan flute player. (Okay. I probably won’t apologize for that.)

Anyway. What I’m really trying to say is that I’m sorry and I only meant to poke fun, mostly at myself. And my Mother, of course.

Moving on…many of you asked what our reproductive plans are in light of the fact that after seeing Magic Hands Gary, I AM HEALED.

Are we going to try naturally for a couple of months, you asked?

How can I express this in a dignified and mature manner, like the delicate flower that I am…

FUCKING HELL TO THE NO.  ARE YOU PEOPLE FREAKING KIDDING ME? 

Like I have said a million times, there is nothing ‘natural’ about covering the dog with a smelly blanket trapping him at the end of the bed while I complain about how it’s a Thursday night and I’d much rather be watching Grey’s Anatomy than BeBop’s anatomy and I have to get up early for work and WHY OH WHY did you drink that second beer because HOLY CRAP light some candles and not for the romance you jack ass!!!!!

So, NO.  No, we are not trying naturally. 

We are moving ahead with The Plan.  BCPs start next week, followed by the rest of all that stuff that I’m still not very familiar with (but I know includes lots of needles) and that is why I am depending on you lovely people to help me through it.

And that my friends, THAT, is an AP-DATE.

Or, Why I Should Never, Ever, Under Any Circumstances, Answer The Phone When Caller ID Shows It’s My Mother Calling.

But, like a MORON, I did indeed answer the phone last night. 

DURING UGLY BETTY.

What is wrong with me?!?

My Mother, per usual, had plenty of annoying and irritating helpful and constructive suggestions for me.

Had I seen The Key Master lately? she inquired.

"He reminded me the other day about your cold womb and thinks it would help if you came once a week," she offered helpfully.

"Uh, Mom?  Between the doctor’s appointments and the acupuncture and boiling that tea and seeing the chiropractor and now doing physical therapy for my repetitive stress injury, I just don’t have time to see him every week."

"Hhhmmppff," she answered, clearly not pleased.  "Well, maybe you can go Saturday mornings?" she suggested.

What I thought:  Why yes, that sounds just great!  After working a long week the FIRST thing I feel like doing on a Saturday morning is being groped by a tiny Korean man with his tiny fingers and tiny hands and all that belching.

SUPER FUN!

What I said:  "Why yes, maybe I could try that…"

And then she asked me, for the seventeenth MILLION time, "are you sure you drank those three bottles of herbs that Sadie the Haitian psychic recommended?"

"Yes, I drank them months ago," I reassured her.  To be more specific, I did in fact drink some of this concoction before I regained my tenuous grasp on reality and asked myself what in the frigging hell was I doing?!?

Apparently, my Mom spoke with this psychic who of course came very highly recommended (she gave a GREAT reading to one of her best friends, warning that her new husband could be extremely dangerous because he was a spy or some crazy thing!) and this woman told my Mom that both my sister and I had cold wombs.  Of course, this is about the gazillionth time I’ve heard this.

This woman Sadie has a daughter living in Brooklyn and she had to purchase this tincture for us, sending it to California.  Supposedly, this was a magical elixir and had worked for HUNDREDS of women producing HUNDREDS of babies over the years!

What was this tincture, you ask?  I have no idea.  It had some herbs in it, preserved in this dark brown liquid of an alcoholic nature that was about 100 proof.  It turned into a thick, brown sludge and tasted like the strongest shot of JagerMeister you’d ever had in your life.  It was vile.

But I did, in fact, try it because there are times I’m desperate and figure, well why not?  If it’s a somewhat natural substance (herbs, people, herbs are natural!) then why not?

Then, of course, good sense wormed its way back into my tiny brain and forced me to reconsider this plan.  I drank part of one bottle and dumped the rest, gagging at the nuclear waste-like sludge collecting at the bottom of the glass bottles.

But I lied and said I drank all of it, and so did my sister who was included in this little experiment because, according to Sadie, she has a cold womb too.

But this has come back to haunt me, because last night my Mother reminded me that my sister drank the herbs (which she didn’t) and now SHE is pregnant (which she is).

And I, obviously, am not.

Which was super fun to be reminded about, as you can imagine. 

Because I had forgotten. 

I had completely forgotten that I am not pregnant.  Just slipped my mind. I guess even though I had cramps and was expecting my period any second, I got so caught up in last night’s Ugly Betty storyline, what with her Marlo Thomas, That Girl attitude and comical braces and exaggerated bushy eye brows and that kicky poncho she sports, well, I had just completely and totally FORGOTTEN that I am not pregnant.

Thankfully, my Mother was right there to remind me.

Bitter? 

Me? 

Bitter as that vile herbal tincture I obviously should have ingested, because if I had I’d probably have twelve little brats running screaming through the kitchen about now…

..If You Look Hard Enough.

As some of you may know, I have a crazed, crazy, crazy-ass an interesting Mother.  Over the last few years, she has meddled, stuck her goddamn nose in our business kindly offered her advice on many, many occasions when it comes to infertility.

Let’s see…there are the countless herbs and tinctures and supplements which she has mandated that I buy.

There’s the small statue of the Patron Saint of Fertility, also known as Saint Antony of Padua, that she purchased God knows where and told us to put by our bedside.  And I’m sorry, but it’s just creepy to hear your Mom say, "put this by your bedside."  Ewwwww.

Apparently, Antony of Padua (or A TO THE P! as we like to call him) is the Patron Saint  in charge of the following:  starving animals, barrenness, boatmen, Brazil, domestic animals, elderly people, expectant mothers, Italy, fishermen, harvests, Lisbon, oppressed people, poor people, Portugal, pregnant women, seekers of lost articles, shipwrecks, sterility, travel hostesses, and travelers.

Now, I can multi-task like a mother fucker, but please!  Is one Saint really supposed to be able to care for Italy, Portugal (and I guess Lisbon gets a special shout-out all its own), animals (both starving AND domestic), the oppressed, old and poor people plus fishermen AND the barren and sterile?  Isn’t that just too much to ask of one man, errr Saint?? 

(I personally think fishermen should get a Patron Saint all to themselves, what with the waves and seasickness and yellow rubbery hats and all.  But I guess that’s just me.)

(Sidenote: We did in fact put the small plastic statue near our bedside.  An old, sopping wet, very skinny Portuguese dog DID appear out of nowhere the following day but I’m sure that was just a weird coinky-dink.)

Anyhoo, my Mom has been known to consult a Haitian psychic about my fertility issues and order three small bottles of ‘tonic’ that I was supposed to drink each morning.  You could say I was an agreeable, compliant daughter, but really I just can’t take her whining so I am usually up for these little exercises in futility.  (FU-tility, not FER-tility, just to be clear.) 

So I drank the vile brown liquid as recommended, and the stuff was preserved in so much alcohol it was like doing a shot of Jager before work every morning.  I’m lucky I didn’t end up with a DUI on my way to work.

I’ve seen the infamous Key Master and also tried the upside down martini glass thing and let’s not forget a session with Whirley Gig Joe.

This was years ago, when we first started trying, and Joe used his dowsing rod to discover what was interfering with my getting pregnant.  Apparently I had some traumatic experiences with having children in past lives (and really, who hasn’t?) and so in this life I’m petrified to have kids because I might have to sell them or eat them or something.  I think it might also have something to do with a horse but I can’t quite remember.

There was also the time my Mom had me come to her office and get hooked up to the Machine.  My Mom always has a new Machine which will cure anything that ails you.  So she hooked me up to this machine (hey, it was better than being at work!) and I looked like I was 1) taking a lie detector test and 2) facing my own imminent execution. 

Wires, electrodes, the whole nine yards. 

The Machine is taking some kind of reading when there’s a knock at the door.  Of course, I assumed that since I looked like something that just Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, she wouldn’t open the door.  Once again, I greatly underestimated my Mom and her tolerance for humiliating her children.

The door flew open and there was the Fed Ex guy with a delivery. I guess it goes to the fact that he had clearly seen some weird shit in my Mom’s office before, because he simply said, "Oh, hello" and asked for a signature without blinking an eye, as if seeing a woman strapped to a beeping, blinking Machine with electrodes taped to her head was perfectly normal. 

These little anecdotes are just some examples of how my Mom has tried to drive me insane help me in the past.  But there is one item that she has lorded over me for the last few years…an item so reviled, so feared that both my sister and I speak of it in hushed tones…it’s like a totem of evilness so frightening, we do not like to acknowledge that it exists.  Since we’ve never actually seen it, we liken it to the legends of Bigfoot or the Loch Ness Monster or how Katie (oh excuse me, Kate) got pregnant and by whom.

And yet, it does exist.  It is real.  And this terrifying object is called…

DUHN

DUHN

DUHN…

THE BABY FILE.

[Cue screaming.]

Yes, the Baby File is a collection of articles and newsletters and conference notes that my Mother has collected over the last several years. She has threatened promised us for years that whomever becomes pregnant first will be the proud recipient of this file.

This file contains articles about supplements we must take (they will SAVE the baby!), supplements we must never take (they will KILL the baby!), tests we must do, tests we must avoid, vaccinations, autism, birth defects, eating disorders, mercury poisoning, the dangers of microwave ovens, the healing powers of certain crystals, the impact of high tension wires and the critical importance of fish oil.

And that’s just the first 20 pages!

This file would be the most horrific, anxiety-producing reading material ever compiled.  Yet in my Mother’s mind, it is her gift to the daughter who gets pregnant first.

She has faxed my sister seventeen pages from the File in the last week alone. 

Since she is pregnant first, SHE is the proud keeper of the Baby File.

And that my friends, THAT, is a frigging bright side if I’ve ever seen one.

So this is CD2, and you know what THAT means.  Yesterday was CD1 which means, of course, that I am not pregnant and that the nightmare continues. 

But!  Thankfully my Mother stepped in with some very helpful advice to help me through this difficult time. (Do I even have to indicate the sarcasm here?  No? Good.)

We went over to my folks’ house this weekend for a BBQ, and my Mom met us there after spending the last day and-a-half at a conspiracy conference. 

She was in rare form.

Now I can’t go into detail about some of the "information" that my Mom imparted to us, because THEY will find out and shut down my blog and hunt me down like the scared little bunny rabbit that I am.

But there were some tidbits that probably won’t bring on the black helicopters and so, because I’m just a giver, I will share some of these details with you:

*There are major earth changes coming, and boy do they sound impressive. I wrote a little about this here.  There’s lots of death and destruction and doom and gloom coming our way and my Mom is frantically trying to talk my Dad into buying property inland. Like, waaayyy inland.  Think Colorado. Or?  A very big raft.  And after my half-hour swimming lesson with the seven year olds last weekend, you’d think I would feel more prepared, but honestly I am scouring the internet for the world’s largest water wings.  You know, just in case.

*There was a whole discussion about aliens but I’ve managed to block out most of it.  OR DID I???  Duhn Duhn Duhn. Now that I think about it, there WAS an odd lizard-like creature at my bedroom window the other night and also, I think, a probe of some kind, but the details are kind of sketchy.  Oh well. Probably not that important. Moving on.

*Now I’m not sure why someone talking about earth changes also knows about this, but as I’ve mentioned my Mom is not big on the details.  Apparently, when you change your name you totally fuck up your entire life.  Your name, supposedly, carries a lot of energy from the time of your birth and when you change it for any reason (marriage, just because you want a new name, that kind of thing) you change this energy pattern and all hell breaks loose.

So this information brought forth a tirade that lasted on and off for the entire meal.

Her:  "I think you should go back to using your other last name and just add it to your new last name."

Me:  "BUT THAT’S NOT MY NAME ANYMORE."

Her:  "Oh who will notice?  No one pays attention to those things. And, you should also use your middle name too."

Me:  "But I gave up my middle name, dropped my last name and took on BeBop’s name when we got married.  Where were you five years ago when this could have helped me?"

The more I protested that I would not be reclaiming my former last name and middle name and creating an entirely new combination of odd monikers, the more suggestions she had for somehow including every name I’ve ever had into one long pain-in-the-ass name.   Finally, I just took my sister’s advice which is to sigh and agree to whatever she is saying, just to get her to stop talking.

*Then, my Mother presented me with a "present" purchased at this conference.  Was it something useful, like the aforementioned water wings? Or an off-shore bank account?  No.  This "present" consisted of two parts:  one was a sheet of paper, laminated, with a drawing of a human figure and a bunch of colors over him/her.  My Mom explained that these were the correct chakra colors, not the ones we’ve been using all these years.  Now this, this…item can redirect bad energy and so I need to hang it in a prominent place in my house to protect me from negative energy and, I think, electromagnetic waves.  And also?  Guarantee that my friends think I’m crazy (and with zero decorating ability) when they come over and see this thing displayed in my living room.

"But Mommmmmm….[whining and eye-rolling like a thirteen-year-old in the throes of puberty] I don’t WANNA hang this up.  It’s ugly and weird and I already have that pyramid thing you gave me for Christmas last year!!!"

"Oh good!  That will help. But this is really powerful so JUST HANG IT UP.  I didn’t spend ten bucks for nothing!!"

The second half of this "present" was a little card, also laminated.  It had a picture of, like, an upside martini glass thing on it, as well as the word "pregnancy" and you can see where this is going.

My Mom proudly handed the card to me and announced, "This will help you!  One woman thought that if one was good then three would be great, and she had TRIPLETS so watch out!  I only bought you one and I really think it will help."

More sighing and whining and eye-rolling. "This is ridiculous, Mother.  What the hell am I supposed to do with THIS?  It looks like a martini glass."

"Oh, you imagine that in your womb."  [At this point I notice my Father is very pale and sweating profusely, trying to focus on the grill and NOT on the discussion about his daughter’s womb.]

"I imagine an upside down martini glass in my womb and that will help me get pregnant?"

"YES." 

At this point, people, I am almost desperate enough to try it.  Almost. 

I think I’ll start with a few real martini glasses and go from there…

We had a minor earthquake Chez Watson & BeBop the other night. 

And by ‘minor earthquake’ I mean we actually had an earthquake, not that BeBop and I got into an argument or anything.  And by ‘argument’ I would normally mean that I was screaming and yelling and he was calm and composed in his Happy Place not hearing a word I was saying but since that didn’t happen that’s neither here nor there.

[And THAT should give you an idea of what it’s like to hang out with me:  I am furiously using air quotes and back tracking and blathering on and on and aren’t you SO glad we’re blog friends and I can’t call you up and beg you to meet me at Starbuck’s?  Aren’t you?  I know you are.]

So…this earthquake.  It was a little startling.  My biggest fear is that I will feel a relatively small shake, then relax and think it’s over but soon realize with horror that it was only a pre-shock and BLAM, down goes the house around us, and BeBop and Bosco and I are left standing in a door jam in our bare feet (and bare paws).

But thankfully, this was only a small quake and not a pre-shock.  And most normal people in this situation would, oh, perhaps recollect other earthquakes they’ve experienced while living in California.  Most normal people would, for example, remember that while in college, the huge 7.1 Loma Prieta quake hit and terrified anyone within a 500 radius of the epicenter.  They might think of how traumatic it was that a portion of the Bay Bridge collapsed or that a huge piece of a freeway overpass fell on several cars, killing several people just trying to get home from work that day. Or, how weird it was that the A’s and the Giants were playing in the World Series that year and how the quake sent thousands of fans scurrying from the ballpark.  But those would be the thoughts of a NORMAL person.

When I realized we were having an earthquake, I immediately thought of one of my Mother’s friends, I’ll call him Mack.  According to my Mother, Mack invented a machine years ago which could predict earthquakes.  I can’t tell you what kind of machine this was, because my Mother is notoriously scant on the details of these kinds of things:

Me:  Well, what does it do exactly?

Her: Oh, I don’t know…reads the sound waves in the ground or something.

Me:  The wha….??

Her:  Well what do you CARE as long as he’s right?

Me:  But he’s NOT right.  He predicts earthquakes all the time, and you make us take down all the paintings and tape the cabinets closed and then nothing happens.

Her:  Well, YOU JUST WAIT. One of these days he’ll be right on and then you’ll ALL be happy we saved the furniture.

My Dad piping in:  As long as he keeps predicting quakes each week, he’s bound to be right at some point!

Her:  SHUT UP. All of you.

So, anyway, Mack did indeed predict earthquakes about once a week.  And, because we live in California for crissakes, sometimes he would be right.  And we spent hours taking artwork off the walls, making sure the glassware was secured and re-filling the ginormous barrels of water my Mother keeps in the garage for just this purpose.  Along with the regulation Army meals which can apparently last for decades.  And the generator, which she finally convinced my Father to buy her just before Y2K when she was POSITIVE all hell would break loose and we’d have to live ‘off the grid.’

Me:  GREAT.  We’re going to be known as the Branch Dividians in the neighborhood.  All we need is an FBI raid on our bunker and we’ll be all set.

Her:  SHUT UP.  All of you.

Where was I?  Oh yeah, Mack and his miraculous earthQUACK machine.

Her:  Don’t call it THAT. One day you’ll thank GOD he gave us fair warning.  We’ll be prepared while the rest of our friends are starving and dehydrated.

Me:  That’s a delightful thought.

This story took an odd turn a few years ago. 

WAIT.  We thought it started OUT weird, Watson.  You mean it gets weirder? Oh yes, my little chickadees. Hang on to your hardhats.

Mack was sent to jail.  For predicting earthquakes, you ask?  No, silly bear, for some kind of molestation charge.  YES.  How charming.

But. My Mother was convinced that the charges were trumped up!  Because he could predict earthquakes and THEY didn’t want US to have that information.  So THEY drummed up false charges and he was sent to jail because THEY didn’t want US to have access to this important knowledge. He was INNOCENT and this was a TRAVESTY of justice!!!

Despite the somewhat gruesome nature of this case, my Mother continued to support him and believed that it was all part of a CONSPIRACY.  And get THIS:  he called her — from jail — all of the time, to warn her about earthquakes!  Because somehow, despite all the odds, his machine was still working and someone on the outside could take the readings (or whatever they were) and he could analyze these readings, from JAIL!  He would not be beaten down by The Man!

We would routinely get collect calls from the prison.  My Dad and I would roll our eyes and, through clenched teeth, accept the charges so that my Mom could talk to Mack and hear about this and that conspiracy against him and oh yeah, how there will definitely be an earthquake in the next two weeks.

And as if THIS was not bad enough?  My Mom would make up care packages and send them to Mack.  In PRISON!  She would go to Costco and stock up on items that were apparently quite popular with the incarcerated, and put together a huge box to send to him.

I would gnash my teeth and complain how she never sent ME care packages when I was in college, for crissakes.  But she would just laugh and ask me to pass the cartons of cigarettes, since she was running late for UPS.

And THAT, my friends, that is the sort of thing that the abnormal among us think of when the little earthquakes come.

A quick phone conversation between me and my sister today:

Her: "Why are you running out of the office?  What are you doing?"

Me:  "I have an appointment with my shrink."

Her:  "SHRINK?  You see a shrink??"

Me:  "Ummmmm..HAVE YOU MET OUR PARENTS??!!"

                                                                                                           

Edited later to add this update:

My Mother calls me at work and once again (and it must have been the crank I snorted on my lunch break) I pick up the call.

Her:  "Oh, hellloooo honey. How are you?  [No pause for answer] I saw the little chee last night and he said you should come back soon."

Me:  "The who?  The what?  What is a ‘little chee’ and why are you talking to it about me??"

"Oh you know…the baby chee.  The younger one!"

"Okkkaaayyyy…well, THAT clears it all up.  Seriously Mother, WHAT are you talking about?"

"You know — the healer!  The older Korean man was Old Master Chee and I just call the younger one the Little Chee."

"Oh."

"Well, he asked me about you and he said he knew you were trying to get pregnant. He KNEW !  Isn’t that amazing?"

"Well, no, not really.  I TOLD HIM THAT."

[not listening]

"Anyway, he said to me that you had a cold womb.  He gestured to his tummy and said ‘too cold, baby go brrrrrrrrrrrr and not wanting to come.’ Isn’t that a riot?" [Laughing]

"Ummmmm…a riot?  No. No, not really. It’s decidedly not a riot that The Little Chee, who’s name actually is  Master Cha, told you I had a cold womb."

"Oh. Well.  He seems to know what he’s talking about and I think you should go back again and see him for a healing."

"Okay. I’ll go back and see if he can turn my frozen tundra of a uterus into a fricking steam room.  Or a New York City subway car in August. Or like the white hot heat of a thousand suns.  How would that be?  And while he’s at it, he can do some tidying up down there too.  Like spring cleaning. It will be just like that show While You Were Out, where when one person leaves the other one totally redecorates and adds such awesome-ness you barely recognize the place.  I’ll have a white hot, inviting womb with a view by the time he’s done with me! We’ll go with a Shabby Chic decor I think."

[Sarcasm is lost]

"Alright, honey.  That sounds great. See you later!"

OH BOY. 

And I actually want to pass this insanity down to future generations?!?