I had a Revelations-level, I'm-seeing-stars-and-my-butt-feels-like-a Futurama Brain Slug Squishy Toy hip-joint pop the other day, this time doing nothing more complicated than what this awesome bikini-clad yoga babe is aiming at. You know when, if your knuckle feels a little swinky and a crack puts it right? Well, ratchet that up to a chiropractor's-wet-dream, ball-joint-with-the-density-of-osmium*, underground-Nevada-test-site ka-POOMP and you'll come close to imagining the crack heard round the room and the accompanying stupefied stares as ten sweaty yogis held themselves in mid-air to watch me try not to laugh and cry at the same time.

*If you're going to name a heavy metal band, the periodic table is a fantastic place to start. "No one will ever forget Sex Gods From Planet Metal."

I managed to finish my practice and limp to Lucky's for a chilled Stoli gimlet, but for some reason -- and I'm willing to accept that this may be a coincidence -- I haven't been able to shut up since. I mean, I stop talking when I sleep, but otherwise I am a nonstop source of meaningless narrative chatter. I link the two events because it's such a very giddy, yoga-subverts-your-cranky-Western-mind thing to do, to yoke opening your hip to opening your mouth. But last night while we ate dinner Jack tried to stopper his ears with two chicken drumsticks, and later, as I was playing with Jackson and his new Halloween costume (knight's helmet, breastplate, shield, and gleaming plastic saber -- a little green face paint and he'll make a nice Shrek), he lifted the visor on his helmet and said quite evenly, "Mommy, stop talking."