Yes, right, anyway.
When I leaned over the other day, my sister let out a shriek of horror, much like that of the girl in King Kong, which led me, of course, to consider the idea that extremely overgrown primates were invading. Alternately, that she was being killed right behind me. Frankly, the primates sounded more fun, but when I didn't see any, I turned around anyway, at which time Sister pushed me *back* around.
"WHAT DID YOU DO TO YOUR BACK?"
Frankly, I was kind of surprised--far as I knew, which wasn't that far, I mean, how often do you check out your own *back*-it was fine.
For that amount of drama, I was thinking that I'd been skinned or possibly, great pustules had erupted. Color me surprised to see nothing, until she pointed out a little mound of scar tissue at the small of my back.
My family. I love them. I do. They are a good family. But as far as observation skills go, we have a genetic predisposition not to know and/or remember anything useful about each other.
"Do you want shrimp, Jenn?"
(Slowly but surely, I've been breaking people into calling me Jenn. It's just less confusing in the long run.)
*resigned* "I can't stand shrimp, mom."
*shocked* "Since when?"
"Age eight or so."
We have this conversation pretty much ten or fifteen times a year, ever year, for two decades. More when I was growing up and shrimp was on sale. Sometimes, we'd have it once a week.
Anyway, sister demanded when I'd scarred up my back. I pointed out that, while dramatic and rather a cool way to start a conversation, my back wasn't *scarred up* and an inch and a half square barely qualified as noticeable.
But it happened about eight years ago. And it's *not* much, but it *is* funny, as I was working fast food at the time and was leaning over to pick up something. The thingamagiggie that you open the windows with to hand food to customers--we had one that opened when you pushed against it with your hips--well, it was broken with an exposed screw. A *remote* exposed screw, that under normal, sane circumstances, couldn't possibly be brushed up against, which just strengthens my argument that our assistant manager was the antichrist.
Anyway, I ripped open the small of my back in a clean, scrapey line that bled copiously. Being surrounded by comedians never helps--my boss, doubtless seeing lawsuits dancing in his head, took me to the back, where I leaned over a counter with my shirt pulled up under my arms and my jeans undone so he could clean, sterilize, and stitch--well, no, he didn't stitch, but God, did it hurt, and damn, did it bleed. Everyone made amused comments, which frankly, were probably justified.
It didn't scar that badly, but it's the same general place they put the much adored, frequently worshipped, and deeply, deeply appreciated epidural when my son was born. Which might have contributed toward the entire scar thing, and that was *seven years ago*.
In far more interesting news, got an email from a chick I knew in Voyager, who somehow stumbled across me again, and *very cool*. Very excited, too--we lost touch after I switched fandoms. Multi-fandom-catching up is just surreal.
I'm so easy to make happy. *g*
I need something new to read.