It was one of those delicious mornings - you know, I was laying in bed basking in the drowsy-still-hazy-from-the- booze-and-lot's-o-lovin' feeling. Fatso was telling me how great my everything was, specifically the way my back felt. He seemed to have trouble coming up with the exact word to express this particular attribute, so after listening to the definition, I decided to help him out.

"You mean I'm sturdy?" I asked.

"Well, yes," he said.

I stabbed myself in the heart 16-18 times.

None of the wounds turned out to be fatal, however, in fact, after my botched attempt to off myself I did some research and surprisingly I could not find documented proof of even one successful suicide carried out with an imaginary knife. So, since I didn't manage to end it all afterall, here I am, sturdily recounting this story to you.

If I had been successful at putting an end to it all you would have had to read about it on Fatso's blog and I'm sure his memory of the fateful events leading up to the tragedy would be similar yet greatly different than mine. I imagine he'd pull the old "This was a terrible misunderstanding! In my country Angelina Jolie is often referred to as sturdy" routine. He'd probably look shocked as he wrote about it, but you wouldn't know - you know, because all our photos are minus our heads and stuff.

You know I have more than once been referred to as "strong." You're a strong woman. You show great strength. Whoo that's a tad bit strong - when's the last time you bathed? It's all been said to me at least once, if not daily. And it's never really bothered me. In fact, these comments are generally meant as compliments, except perhaps the last example.

But sturdy? NEVER sturdy. Sturdy woman wear sensible shoes. (Pumps would make them wobbly and I do believe that wobbly qualifies as an antonym for sturdy, therefore I'm thinking that people in Fatso's country have no business called Angelina Jolie sturdy. That chick lives in 6" heels.) Sturdy women own ski jackets and hiking boots. At least a pair of Nikes. They hoist all 10 bags of groceries from the car to the house in one trip. They don't own a Wonder Wheeler. Sturdy women do not get pedicures - they use the heels of their feet to sharpen their carving knives and their hatchets - the ones they use to chop wood for the winter. They wear flannel. Drink beer. Drive a pick-up truck. Assembly things

I am so not sturdy.

I do however have wrist cancer. I noticed the tumor this morning after Fatso pointed it out. He had just completed his complete body scan/cavity search and was just about to hand me a clean bill of health when I heard him say..."hmmmm."

"What is it doc?" I asked.

"You have something here. Something on your wrist."

I suggested that it might be a pimple or maybe some food that got stuck to my hand last night at dinner. But to both suggestions he shook his head solemnly. That's when I began my own intensive probing and squeezing and after a very long two minutes broke the news to him as gently as I could.

"It's wrist cancer,"I said. I nodded and made direct eye contact just like the guys on ER do.

But I do suspect that wrist cancer is one of those slow moving cancers. It could be years before it actually kills me. If it ever does. It looks pretty contained so if I get it whacked off pretty darn soon it may not have had time to spread to my brain yet. So really, this doesn't necessarily mean the end of my blog. If it is, then feel free to comment about the irony of my blog title and speculate that on some level I must have known my days were numbered.

If I don't write as regularly as usual though - don't worry - it's not that I'm feeling ill but more the location of the tumor itself. It's on the left side of my wrist (palm up) right at the spot where my wrist hits my laptop as I type and so it makes it very diffic - oh.

Yeah.

never mind.

-LM

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