I’ve been trying to come up with ways to put it back in. It’s unfair really, that if one’s back goes out, one can get someone else to put it back in. But if your wack goes out, you’ve got to try to do it yourself, without professional training.
Does that make sense to any of you? I thought so. I think we’re all onboard that we should have professional Whacktors. That way, after a long work week, we can get a Saturday morning mani/pedi, see our Whacktitioner, and be all fun and good looking again.
After some thoughtful review, in which I tried to figure out why my Whack was out (which resulted in me finishing all the to-do lists, waxing the house ceiling to floor, and trying to learn to cook again), I came to the conclusion I was blaming the victim. I thought my shortcomings were the problem (I’m so self-centered).
Would we say to someone else, “JOHN! You idiot. You let that silly fender-bender throw out your back, now go fix the car!” No. Of course not. We’d drag John onto an old door, heft it into the back of the pick up, and take him to the chiropractor.
I began to search for Whacktitioners. Turns out there are TONS in California.
Problem: none are licensed, and half are really creepy. I am not going to pretend to crawl back into my mother’s womb:
- Mom would brandish a baseball bat and say “Are you on DRUGS?”.
Excuse me, but I think a stranger scrubbing one’s Chakras is a little personal? I’ll do my own, thank you. Same with colon cleansing.
I’d also rather not have my energy aligned by a stranger sticking needles into my naked body (even if he IS licensed). I tried the homeopathic drops (Rescue Remedy), but apparently I’m too far gone to be rescued. That or my Chakras are too grimy for the remedy to work. Dang. WalMart shopping list: eggs, milk, batteries, Chakra cleaner.
The light wheel was fun (Ooooooo….look at all the pretty colors!) for about five minutes. 45 minutes of whirling color later I had the distinct inner urge to drive to the Golden Gate Bridge. That’s a pretty color too.
I meet Daisy for coffee. “It’s not our fault”, she said, when I told her I was whacked out, “let’s talk about semen.”
Aside: Barbie is on her second try with AI. Apparently sperm can meet egg and create something called a vesicle. The next step is the fully fertilized vesicle magically starts growing into an embryo. We sang to the vesicle. We prayed for the vesicle, we talked to the vesicle, we encouraged the vesicle to grow. But alas, it didn’t turn into an embryo. So she’s getting AI again. Not uncommon with a maiden mare.
When you’re a lesbian, talking about semen sounds like a good way to start laughing. I’m onboard with the subject matter. I have nothing against semen. It’s cute. Amend that. It’s cute on a slide under a microscope: sperm look like little guppies on speed. (No offense, but that’s as close as I can handle.) We go into a long talk about pregnancy, semen, behavior of eggs and ovulation, hormone therapy, etc etc. In Starbucks. Without ever using the word “horse”. Why would we? We know who we’re talking about.
When I’m around Daisy, I use the same royal “We” she uses. As in, “So on Wednesday, we’re going to have the semen thawed out by 6 am, and get impregnated by…what time, do you think?”
Finally, Daisy yawns and says “I gotta get going soon.” I look at my watch. Me too. But wait! We haven’t designed my (human) niece’s wedding dress. Daisy sent me some drawings, and I had some additions.
“Hang on!” I say, digging around in my purse. I whip out a pen. “The wedding dress!”
“Oh crap”, says Daisy, putting her purse back down. “Hand me a napkin.” We draw and chat, completely immersed in the dress. All done. My niece will never see it, because she doesn’t know Daisy or ask for my input, and neither of has a clue how to design a dress. So what? I love Daisy’s color block idea. Killer. We start packing up.
When we look up to stand, we both realize we’ve disregarded the first rule of coffee-house chat: Don’t Say Anything You Can’t Live With Six People Overhearing. Neither of us care that we were overheard. But wow, the people sure cared. 3 tables are completely still, ears tuned like satellites in our direction.
Daisy whispers drily, “They must think we lead really interesting lives.”
Conclusion: my whack felt a little better. A little more aligned. So if friendship, goofiness, and laughter helped, how can I help put my own Whack back in, when Daisy isn’t available to talk about semen?
Trial and error.
What happened to it never rains in California? Everything’s a soggy mess. We had a sunny day. Then we had another sunny day. I could weed the garden finally. Shaun had downloaded a Robin Williams comedy album from iTunes. I put it on my iPod, grabbed the garden stuff and hit play.
I laughed for HOURS. I got more dang weeding done than I’ve gotten done all spring. Eensy little drawback. Laughing uncontrollably, helplessly, and throwing up one’s hands while weeding in 50 rose bushes left me looking as if I’d been attacked by a pride of tiger cubs. Deep scratches and welts. Don’t care, but it’s inconvenient to repeat explain that I was not mugged at knife point. That, uh, it was sort of self-inflicted. And no, I don’t need an intervention. Um, I laughed too hard.
Riiiiiiiight. No, I am not going to sue Robin Williams for making me laugh. (I would kiss him.) I thought I would DIE laughing when he said (paraphrasing) “China is getting revenge on the US by adopting all the Lesbians.”
(Sorry Mr. Williams, it was much funnier when you said it.)
My whack isn’t completely adjusted, but it’s much better.
What do you do to get your whack back in?