Couple of years ago, I had some hand surgery, and the surgeon made these funny little zig zag cuts. Three of them. A student asked what they were, and out of NOWHERE my brain  replied that the cuts were from an initiation into a native American tribe, representing the mountains, the river, and the snake.

Where did this come from? Who knows? It just came out of my mouth. But it came from a teacher. And no one has these weird zig zag cuts. So they believed me.

Then I needed surgery on the other hand, but it was a different surgeon. I told him I wanted identical scars. He was like, ” I can make straight invisible scars.”

I’m like: ” I want matching zig zag scars. Really.”     We can only imagine what he thought.

So then I had two sets of matching zig zag scars. I could tell anyone anything.  The power went to my head.

There are innumerable people out there who believe I underwent ritual cicatrization ( cutting) to become a member of an unnamed tribe. For no other reason that they couldn’t come up with another explanation.

The problem arose when I had a student who desperately, desperately, wanted to join the tribe. I had to tell him he was  unworthy.

There are those daughters who spend  time complaining about interaction with their mothers.  My daughter just posts my conversations or texts directly to Twitter as authentic mother/daughter communications.  Or entertains her friends at the bar.  Recent posts to Twitter:

At Christmas:   ” They sold out of the five foot inflatable sock monkeys EVERYWHERE.  And the pig requires assembly.”

” Do you know how many places sell inflatable pterodactyls?  A LOT.”

” I understand. No time to call your mother who carried you 12 days past your due date. Its ok. I’ll just sit here watching reality tv.  And drinking cheap beer.  It was really  more like 16 days.”

I’ve been texting my daughter. She called me today because, and I quote:

” You’re having entirely too much fun trying to make me feel guilty.”

Mothers, if you want tips, I charge a  modest consulting fee.