On July 3rd we head down to my in-laws cottage for fireworks and a ring of fire on the lake. (Yep, we celebrate July 4th on the 3rd, don’t hate). We even let our 8 month daughter hold a bottle rocket and launch it. Don’t worry…she had on gloves. Once the last firework had exploded in the night sky it was time to pack up the little engine that could and head home. Now the cottage is about 45 minutes away and we have to get through traffic to head home, so there was a little drive ahead of us.
This called for some sort of entertainment! Pole-dancing and ghost-riding-the-whip were ruled out and in the end a more low-key form of entertainment was chosen and we stumbled upon the topic of tonsils. Little did I know this would turn into another anatomy lesson, complete with illustrated diagrams.
Our friend quickly declared that her tonsils had been removed as a child. She was all, “I had my tonsils removed so I don’t have a hangy ball”. (For those of you who require a more anatomically correct term, the hangy ball is also known as the Uvula). Confusion spread across my tired face as it registered what she said. I was all “listen lady, the Uvula is not the same thing as your tonsils”. Adamant as a stubborn donkey, she insisted that I was wrong. Tonsils were clearly the thing hanging in the back of your throat. After quite the debate, I needed closure. So we pulled out the trusty iphone and did a little wiki search.
Low and behold:
The hangy ball IS NOT the tonsils. Now, I’m not sure about others, but if it’s on the wiki then it must be true. And if the wiki has a picture then it’s a pretty much an open and shut case; a pull up your panties and head home kind of night.
Now, this is not the first anatomy class that I’ve given and you would think that people would eventually believe that I knew a thing or two about physiology. So there I am… 11:45 at night, shoved between an infant car seat and my uvula-less friend, and I’m lighting up the back of her throat with a LED flashlight. This is the point where she tried to point a camera into her mouth and take a picture as though there was still some sort of disbelief.
Sometimes I just give up.