My kids go to Kentucky to visit my folks in the summer. My daughters always bring back some new obsession. My mom is kind of an autodidact and tends to flit from one obsession to another, so sometimes it’s knitting, sometimes beading, Estonian lace, reflexology, Malaysian knife throwing (that’s fucking true).
This year it was folk remedies. My oldest returned ready to fix all problems with ginger and olive oil. She was a shaman. The problem was, we’re all fine. She missed the impetigo by a week.
She was pissed. She got a book out of the library, and has nobody to use it on.
In the car, she’ll read down the table of contents:
Her: Do you have Acne?
Her: Sleep Apnea?
Me: Hell no.
Even if I did, there’s no way I’m letting my ten-year-old daughter look at, diagnose, and treat my asshole.
Me: Fibromyalgia? No.
I asked her last night how the home remedies were coming, and she got pissed.
Her: Everyone’s healthy.
Me: You’re pissed because your family is healthy?
Her: I can’t do anything if everyone’s fine.
Me: That’s kind of a fucked-up attitude.
Her: That’s how doctors think too, I bet.
My middle daughter felt sorry for her and faked a bad back, letting my oldest rub a foul poultice of ginger, cumin, red-pepper flakes, and Crisco just above her asscrack. My son felt left out, so he said his stomach hurt. My oldest fed him cinnamon and baking soda mixed with Seven-up. When he spit it out and ran from the room, she yelled “Cured!”
Hopefully she’s losing interest, because she told me that she’s planning to knock my middle daughter off her bike, so she can treat the wounds.
Paging Dr. Mengele.