This is the joint that connects your leg to your butt and lets you swing said leg all about.
It is apparently a VERY IMPORTANT joint to have healthy if you want to do stuff like SIT or WALK or NOT BE IN AGONY.
Actual grumpy dialog that happened yesterday:
Lydia: You borked your sacroiliac joint? How did you do that?!
Me: I sat down in a chair. Yes, I did. It is a dangerous sport, sitting down in chairs, but I am a devil may care type. I’ll do anything for that adrenaline high, you know? I have to catch that wave of ecstasy that sitting down in chairs gives me, and I have to ride, ride, ride it .
Me: You wish you were me.
Actually it is probably because I spent my teens and early 20′s falling off horses, so there is some weakness there, and I sat in the exact wrong chair exactly WRONG. I am grumpy because I can’t do yoga. I have only been practicing regularly for a little over a year, but now I am VERY IMPOSSIBLE TO LIVE WITH when I can’t do yoga, we have all discovered.
I tried to go to Yoga yesterday and ended up just lying on the mat and feeling SORREEE FOR MEEEEE while everyone else got their sweat-n-med on.
TRIP: I fly to South Dakota tomorrow and plan to gimp around peering blearily at a state I have never visited while talking about the maddening craft of writing and A GROWN-UP KIND OF PRETTY to Dakoteritess? Dakotaners? Dakotians.
BECAUSE IT IS FRESH OUT IN PAPERBACK DID I TELL YOU? I may have mentioned. ANYWAY, Today’s AGUKOP link is to SHE KNOWS, where it is a September book pick. Booyah!
He is our only cat. RIP, He Who Must Not Be Named. Yeah, I know. A lot of you liked him, vicariously. I’m sorry to tell you, and I am mostly sad for Sam. You know my feelings toward him were mixed at best. But yeah…Sam really dug him, and he dug Sam right back.
The phantom poohead smells may well have been harbingers. There were other signs, but because Bog and I were never close, I missed them. For example, when Karen was here, we took to sitting on the siofa near the laundry room (cat box territory). This sofa is DOG territory. I never sit there. When she and I were chatting, we more than once GROKKED A WRONGNESS in our smellingparts. I would call Sam to attend to the box, and he would say, GEEZ MOM I JUST DID THAT, but I assumed that was teenageryness answering, and “just” meant “four days ago.”
But no, it meant JUST, and it also meant intestinal lymphoma. Make no mistake, this was a genuinely awful cat: demon infested, snotty, psychotic. But he was an efficient and ruthless murderer of house-vermin…and he was a good friend to my oldest kid. It’s the Sam parts of his resume that MAY just squeak him into heaven.
A house with no cat is a sad place. Hence, Mango. He has been here less than a week and has already claimed the built in desk in the office as his territory. I thought it was for working on, but I am foolish. He stands in front of my monitor when I am writing and informs me that, ahem, I should be petting the cat.
He sleeps next to me on the open pages of my Sacred Paper Calendar, and he has magic CALENDAR READING SKIN. He can FEEL through his skin when petting-the-cat time is scheduled. He also drools a little.
He is not as helpful a personal assistant as you might think, EVEN THOUGH HE REACHES DOWN WITH ONE FOOT AND HELPS ME TYPE, but I think he is going to be an excellent cat.
Tomorrow: THE MANGO REPORT, or, How My Family Fell For a Puffball on the Interwebs.