About eight years ago, my car, Huey—an aging Toyota Corolla of mid-80s vintage, my first car ever—was stolen out from between a Lexus and a BMW on E. 20th Street in NYC.
I loved that damn car. Adding insult to injury was the fact that the trunk was filled with David’s interview wear (nice suit, shirts, shoes) as well as two huge bags of premium dog food. We were nearly out of an apartment at that point (having given notice but then having the new apartment not work out as planned), broke, underemployed, and with a hungry canine mouth to feed.
I was hysterical. I am not prone to fits of public hysteria. I save my desperate sobbing jags for the shower, as most of us introverted souls do, worried as we are that we are already tedious enough company. But when we discovered Huey missing that night (the night before we needed to drive to Philly to catch a flight to Minneapolis for a wedding), I lost it. I mean I lost my freakin’ poo.
Bawling my eyes out, I called my brother, who was then in med school. I wept bitter tears, I gasped, I wailed, I managed to squeak out the tale of the hijacked Huey to Joe. After spewing the woeful tale at great length, I finally shuddered to a halt and waited for the soothing verbal balm I knew my kind-hearted brother would provide.
After a moment of silence (I assumed we were sharing a moment of silence for Huey), my brother said, “I saw a patient today who was just a sack of organs below the ribcage. No legs. No pelvis.”
“Yeah,” I said, “but what does he drive?”
There was a sigh then over the long-distance line, and Joe made his final comment on the subject:
“Look at it this way—at least you have a pelvis.”
It was supremely unhelpful wisdom at the time (and led to another crying jag the minute I hung up the phone—I sat there feeling guilty for taking my pelvis for granted—a sack of organs, for God’s sake!) but with each passing year, I find the sentiment more and more soothing.
This year in particular. It’s become my mantra. I know you are worried about me and my Sylvia Plath habit, but I am sharing this so you know that I have other methods of coping.
I have a pelvis. I have a pelvis. I have a pelvis. Try it. It really helps. Unless, of course, you’re the guy my brother treated back in med school, in which case I hope you bought my stolen car and had it rigged with special driving controls and maybe a hammock for your sack of organs.
{ 24 comments }
omg. “…and maybe a hammock for your sack of organs.” best line evah.
i swear.
I am not worried about you…..altho i would reccomend more wine, baths and deep breathing. I get it….it is overwhelming sometimes.
You not only have your pelvis you have your funny bone!
Thanks for taking time to come by and say hi, your comment made the most ever on my whole blog!!
The deepest chakra, the purple seat of wisdom, is located down in the bowel area … poo and pelvis.
So glad your gut is still functioning :>) Love you.
I hate to be a negative Nelly but Elvis was particularly known for his pelvis and things didn’t exactly go swimmingly for him…
Ummm… honey… are you okay? I am a little worried, now.
*wandering off clutching my pelvis thankfully*
Well, at least you still know how to be grateful! Cyberhug girlie. Sounds like you might need it. And seriously, if you’re worried about stuff? You have still kept your sense of humor fully intact.
It always shocks me that people find it so acceptable to completely negate someone’s feelings with the old “I’ve seen worse” and “be glad you have a pelvis” lines.
My belated sympathies for the loss of Huey. and my congratulations on the securing of a pelvis in uetero.
you know I still feel bad about that. Never seek solace from somebody who had a 120 hour work week and had not slept in 36 hours.
If Huey had to go to somebody, I think that would have been the guy (maybe a gang of hungry orphans would be on par).
Sounds like I may need to come up with some new horror story to help maintain your fragile state if this one starts to wear thin……
Well, dang…now that you mention it, life’s pretty good with a pelvis.
Gosh, if you were thankful for your skinny little pelvis 8 years ago, you must be at least twice as thankful today.
When was the last time you got out by yourself? A book(not Sylvia), or magazine with pretty pictures, a latte and a corner all to oneself at the local indie coffeehouse will work wonders. But you know that. So, for the sake or your pelvis and all other vital parts — just go.
Well then.. we apparently have a DOCTOR brother in common, don’t we? Nothing like the doctors (mine is director of our local ER) to put things annoyingly in perspective.
-PHOOEY!
I have to say, having one’s sole means of transport (and possible future domicile) stolen is not a small thing. It’s not like you were complaining about the bad manicure you got or something.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m thankful for my pelvis (as is my husband), but it is not the end-all, be-all of my happiness.
I guess what I’m sayin’ is, sure, be thankful for the ole pelvis, just not to the exclusion of everything else. Don’t let your pelvis become your everything!
Also, Elvis was King. Thank you. Thank you very much.
Being married to an oncologist has pretty much dammed me to a life of “… at least I’m not THAT guy!” Most of the time I’m grateful for the in-your-face You Ain’t Gonna Die Soon…LIKE THAT GUY!, but every now and then I’d like to be the star of my own little drama, you know?
Don’t you love those little moments that seem to stick in your brain and give such rich and alternative context to your point-of-view?
On the other hand, we all need girlfriends who can be understanding. All you needed was acknowledgment of your situation.
Maybe that is why Bill Clinton was so appealing. He just could say “I feel your pain” in a way that most men maybe can’t.
So next time you start to say something to your brother, give him the response line ahead of time, “I feel your pain.” Then state your situation. You’ll feel better. He’ll have a new little memory that will give him a different perspective!!!!
Are you kidding, my brother feels my pain on a regular basis. He was the one I kept calling during labor with H. I caught him at a bad three-days-on-call-no-sleep moment.
Besides, I stole all his good Star Wars figures and bossed him around nonstop for 10 years. I deserve whatever he wants to dish out.
Not to mention the head bashing on the rec room floor.
At least you didn’t hit him in the pelvis.
There was a guy whe I was in college who was very much drawn to shadows. He was twenty years older than most of us and you could tell he had been an awesomely hip bad boy in the 60′s. I remember sitting in the coutryard one day watching him rehearse. He muttered some negative things about himself and I sat forward and called out, “At least you don’t have worms.”
He looked at me with a combination of confusion, shock and the tiniest bit of something that looked liked delight. I was aghast but had no control over myself,”I had to assist my puppy in passing worms from her anus last night.” He looked at me, flipped his shaggy hair out of his eye and said in this smoke and whiskey voice, “You’re all right Amanda…worms, that’s great.” So,when all else fails, you can breathe easy that you don’t have worms… or that you aren’t in a courtyard with my foolish self.
If I would have had a brother, I would have (wanted to steal his star wars figures, and also) wanted him to say something so rad to me. “At least you have a pelvis.” Indeed. : )
It is sad but true that “Well, at least you have a pelvis” is now a part of our lexicon when one of us has had a particularly sh*tty thing happen.
The Jenn Mattern Dictionary of Useful Words And Phrases
Available now from the Oxford University Press! $14.95, trade paperback.
Actually, you’re rather lucky. All your brother did was give you an (ill-advised, to be sure, but well intended) reminder just how luck you are. You have a pelvis, all is right in the world, that kinda thing.
Every one of my four brothers would have immediately started asking me where it got stolen, given me grief if had been in any part of town they’ve deemed to be less than exemplary, then asked if I’d left the keys in it.
In between bouts of being thankful for your pelvis, you should spend some time thanking God (and your Mama) that you only have one brother. Seriously.
“In between bouts of being thankful for your pelvis, you should spend some time thanking God (and your Mama) that you only have one brother. Seriously.”
Hey Contrary, a second one was planned … “Matt Mattern”, future fullback … but my pelvis didn’t cooperate. Seriously.
I’m sorry Mater. I was being flippant (because my brothers really do drive me nuts), and never considered I might put my foot it in. I apologize. Seriously (and sincerely).
Having met said brother in person, I can say that he can be a Sensitive New Age Guy with the best of them. Any moments when he wasn’t sympathetic to Jenn were probably synapses misfiring due to head bashing on the rec room floor.
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