So the acupuncturist is flummoxed by my "slippery qi". Yep, you heard me right--slippery qi. Now that there's some sexy!
And so I found myself being spoken to, sternly, about the necessity of taking all my herbs, dammit (except the acupuncturist doesn't say "dammit", she just gives me the patented Disappointed Alternative Healer look) and--worst of all!--deprived of Yellow Blankie. Bummer. Instead, I got poked in the back this time, meaning not only no Blankie, but I had to get nekked from the waist up and lie face down with my head in one of those funky massage-bed head-holding thingies. Not to get too technical.
Well, I thought to myself, look on the bright side. I usually can't really fall asleep because she has me flat on my back and I end up starting to snore (yes, I'm my own Gramma) and wake myself up. No snoring with my head in a yoke like this! Snoozies all around!
So there I was, in the nice little room with the nice little candles and the little CD player playing little chanty-shmanty music, and I'd dropped off into a nice peaceful slumber, when something sort of intruded on the edge of consciousness. A voice...far off, and yet...awfully...rednecky.
What's that? my brain sort of thought about thinking, Something about a horse? There's a tack shop next door. That sounds like a radio. Does she have a repairperson in another room? And why does Hugh Jackman still have his clothes on, dammit? When suddenly, directly behind me, a voice blared out:
BLAYECK STALLION! COMIN' THROUGH TOWN, Y'ALL, AH'M ON THE RODE NOW, INEEBODEE GOT A WERD FER BLAAAAAAYECK STAAAALLION?!
Have you ever seen a half-naked pincushion scream and levitate 3" off of a massage table? Well.
Somehow, the CD player picked up some CB transmission from the highway. And she thought my qi was slippery before.