Yesterday Jack and I experienced the miracle of both of us being at home alone forty-five minutes before we had to pick up Jackson from school. And you know what that means!
Jack (walking in the door): What the hell are you doing with your clothes still on?
But I was still in the grip of a gentle undertow of paranoia about my aching liver [Ed: What, we all have Alzheimer's?] at that point. So we're lying in bed and I'm waffling between hepatitis and early cirrhosis -- you know, just thinking out loud -- and at the same time I'm sort of unconsciously trying to lift up my ribs and get my hand underneath so I can massage my liver. You know, to make it feel better. And Jack watches this for a minute, and knowing how I like to act like a witless ninny before sex [Ed.: Stop it! Stop it!] he goes, "Yeah, I think I have BALL CANCER, can you rub that out for me?"