I Am a Woman, Not a Frankenstein's Monster!

I have a new body part! Indeed, I have one more body part than any of you. Not that I'm gloating, of course. I'm not doing the Snoopy happy dance. Nor the Eddie Murphy you ain't got no ice cream dance. Val is not that kind of gal. I'm simply stating a fact: I have a new body part.

Oh, my new body part is not synthetic. It's 100% all Val. And it's not a new butt cheek, like when you kind of have an inkling you might have put on an ounce or two, because when you close the door behind you, it hits you in the...place people always caution you not to let the door hit on your way out. No. Val's new body part is not silicone, stainless steel, titanium, plastic, or nylon mesh. It does not come from a human donor, nor a pig, baboon, or cadaver. It's just Val.

Surely that's not possible, you say. Because folks are sometimes reluctant to take Val's words at face value. Like she's got some trick up her sleeve. A regular David Blaine with words is she. A prime candidate for a law career if she ever gives up her first love of summers off. I assure you. New body parts are possible.

Why, just a couple weeks ago scientists discovered a new human body part. Yep. In the knee. A new ligament. Which makes me call shenanigans. How could anybody miss this thing? Seriously. Orthopedic surgeons have been carving on people for years. Do you not think that just one time, during the millions of operations, a particular Dr. Sawbones might have shouted, "Eureka! I've found the anterolateral ligament!" Look at it! That thing is as big as a world record nightcrawler. And it's right there beside the famous lateral collateral ligament. How could this have been missed? Somebody call Gray, stat! We need abridged editions of Gray's Anatomy. The book, of course. Not the TV series.

But enough about new knee parts to tear and have repaired. Let's get back to Val. No stranger to knee surgeries, having endured two lateral meniscectomies her own self. And on the same knee, no less. Quite a feat.

I HAVE A NEW KNUCKLE!

It's fairly small, as knuckles go. But it's real. And it's spectacular. All purpley and puffy. Like a California raisin, but without sunglasses, and silent instead of belting out Heard It Through the Grapevine. My 11th Knuckle is on my right hand, between the pinky finger knuckle, and the ring finger knuckle. If it were vocal, it would not be singing. My 11th Knuckle would be cursing a blue streak, lambasting me for daring to interfere with Frig's ice-making organ.

I am not a doctor. Nor do I play one on TV. But for some reason, I think I can perform a coldesystectomy on my beloved Frig every couple of weeks. Tonight, it backfired. There I was, jabbing the patient's innards with a butter knife, when I whacked my hand on the unforgiving edge of the organ itself. Twice. The pain was immediate. The swelling and discoloration followed at the speed of a hummingbird's heartbeat. I could not have crushed that cute blue vein any better with a mortar and pestle. Blood cells surged out of that vein and under my skin like third-graders through a push-bar door onto a playground.

It smarts. It has a little heartbeat of its own. I call it My 11th Knuckle, but in fact I appear to have only nine now. The pinky and ring kind of ran together, with this purple connector. Of course this buttercup has toughened up in order to bring you the Val news of the day. And this is it.

I have an owie.