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"She threw her head back and laughed like a hyena. The hairs on her hunched back were raised and her talon sharp nails glowed on the ends of her bony, arched, fingers as she dipped his manhood into impermeable acid."

Annoyed that it wasn't me who had thought of such a marvelous piece of foreplay with my men, I rushed her to continue. "Yeah, yeah. I get the picture. So she was angry. It's about time she doubled up and acted like myself and me! Did she go anyway?"

My mother shook her head affirming a negative response.

I exploded. "And why the hell not?" Hissing, I snaked, "What right does that faulty "Y" Chromosome have to prevent her from going to a women's Sweat Lodge retreat?"

Sweat Lodge! I was on fire! Every multifaceted part of me; me, myself AND I, burned with the systemic perpetration of the abuse of men against women. My Irish ancestry glowed green in my veins: toxic with hatred for the whining, pathetic, waste of male symbolism storied to me by my mother.

My mother looked at me with that evil eye twinkle begotten of her gypsy father's crystal balls. She folded her hands innocently on her linen lap, yawned a pretend bout of boredom, and retorted, "The Yogi suggested that your brother-in-law facilitate a Yoga session for the women at the lodge. He surely didn't want them to know he was married to your sister because that would curb his horizontal positions. He instructed that she stay home like the good little woman she's supposed to be."

I seethed. Faulty "Y" Chromosome had never spurred me to sweetness and light, but this seething took the cake. I conjured my sister's ancient gypsy revenge. It would have been sudden, unexpected and delivered with covert precision of attack. Becoming more like me and myself with my appalling opinion of men, covert would have turned overt, with the sinking of her petite stilettoed heel into his forehead while the other crushed the juice from his Italian grapes. He'd stepped over the line this time. That faulty "Y" Chromosome was castrated for sure.

"So to which part of his body did her venomous fangs and treacherous talons strike first?"

"Oh no, dear," my mother sweetly battered. "She's not like you and yourself. She would never openly revenge. She takes more after me, myself and I, dear: homely and forgiving of mere men."

"Oh yeah. This'll be good. Go on, how did she do it?"

Leaning forward, sneaking a look over her shoulder lest she be overheard, my mother's crystal ball inheritance sparkled their blue life mischievously at me.

"Well, you know that washing powder that he's allergic to...she simply washed all his "Y" fronts in it."

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