READ ME!
What is this all about? Maybe you should read the READ ME READ ME.
july 9, 1996: bonding with the spatulum.(kinda)
Yesterday I went to the HMO to go under the metal. And
I met a kid before aluminum hit epidermus.
There comes a time in a woman's year when she absolutely positively cannot
put off going to see the gynecologist any longer. This is a dark, dark day.
Usually, a trip to the Sorceress of Speculae requires at least 3 hours
and involves pain and humiliation, but this time something different
happened. This time, I met a kid.
I arrived at the parking structure outside of the building that houses my
HMO relatively on time -- 3 pm. Then, after waiting in line at the
information desk, and then for the elevator, and then for the receptionist's
desk, I finally reached my grandest destination -- the Waiting Room. It was
in that Waiting Room that I experienced the Cute Child.
Understand, I do not get to hang out with many kids. I stay at my apartment
approximately 90 percent of my existence, and no kids live in my apartment.
There is a porno producer, and a porno-producer's partner, and a hair
dresser, and an aerobics instructor, and a couple of writersnobs who Do Not
Use The Internet Because They Read, but no kids. A few weeks ago, I had the
pleasure of shootin the shit with a truly AdorableAndBrilliant
sparkly little
gerl, but since then, my cat and rabbit have been pretty much my only
company that is that much smaller than me, fractionally speaking.
Anyway, this kid distracted me because he was siting on the floor in front
of a magazine and foot-stool table, playing with his three miniature toy
cars, ramming them into each other, making loud exploding sounds, tossing
the cars into the air, and singing unrecognizable tunes as plastic met
plastic. "Can't a woman pay her overdue credit card bills in peace? " I
asked myself, glaring and squinting my eyes in discurtitude.
Then I noticed that the kid was pretty damn cute.
Once again leaping into the ranks of "if-you-can't-beat-them-join-them"
apologists, I plunked myself onto the floor, picked up the
pink-with-purple-stripes convertible, and announced that this was the best
car.
"I know" said the kid. "This one's good too" (pointing at the cop car).
"What's your name?"
"Joseph. But I have a thousand names."
"A thousand! Can you count that high?"
"Yeah. I can count to a hundred!"
"Hm. Well how old are you?"
"Six."
"How old do I look?"
"Old. I'd say at least fifteen."
"Fifteen! Cool. Hey, kid, you're my pal."
"How old are you? Where's your kid?"
"I am 28. I don't have a kid."
"Why not?"
"Because I am a kid!"
"Okay."
To prove myself an honest adult, I spent the next 45 minutes taking the cars
on trips to the swimming pool, the arcade, the movies, and the treehouse, as
well as dancing the cars to Joey's favorite song, "Don't Go Chasing
Waterfalls" (a song I happen to like as well, fortunately.) He told me that
his favorite movie was "Mortal Kombat," and his favorite televison show was
"Casper the Ghost."
I dunno, I'm a sucker for kids when they are smart and they do not drool.
Keep your babies to yourself. I like the walking talking funny ones with
attitude.
"Where's your parent?"
"My ma's seeing the doctor. She is getting a shot."
"Oh?"
"Yeah, and you're gonna get a shot too!"
And just then I remembered that I promised my parents that I would get a
tetnus shot, so he was right, in fact. Smart kid!
Joey and I were arguing over who had the better Super-Shooter water gun
when I heard my name being called. I turned around to see six very
perplexed adults staring down their glasses from their seats on the waiting
room benches to me and Joey, crawling around the floor. I raised myself up
proudly and dusted the carpet lint off my tush.
Fuck it. Kids are cool. They have a certain honesty and
straightforwardness that more fully socialized humans lack. I would much
rather hang out with a kid than with any of the six pasty 30-somethings
lined up like the bridge club on the waiting room benches.
Proud of my epiphany, I saw the gyno experience in a whole new light.
Happily, I trotted into the doctor's office, stripped naked and slipped on
paper towel robes, had my tits poked around for lumps, underwent the
speculum and the spatula, had my body probed in uncomfortable ways, peed
into a cup, listened closely to a lecture on my smoking, heard the laundry
list of all of the ways in which my body is assymetrical and abnormal, and
had a huge needle overflowing with tetnus vaccine poked into my arm.
I was not really focussed on these discomforts, however, because I was
thinking about how fun it would be to be six and to play with cars all day.
Hangin with a homeKid has got to be good for the constitution. Hell, I even
had a shot without whining. Maybe I'll adopt. Maybe I watched "Mighty
Aphrodite" too many times over so-called Holiday Weekend.
Maybe I should just get a smart dog.
The point remains: What is the crime in crawling on the floor, singing TLC
songs, and tossing cars in the air? I would bet you five to one that this
very scene exists somewhere in alt.sex.fetish or something. It boggles me
that people insist on acting all stuffy and mature for absolutely no reason,
and then file all the fun stuff into a Sooper Sekrit anonymous remailer file
in their hard disk of public impression.
I personally would rather play with plastic cop cars and bug the fuck out of
the other people watching me jealously but lacking guts to crawl and sing
and toss themselves.
After all, life is a Mortal Kombat. And the gynecologist's office is no
place to squander away your brief opportunity at the pin ball machine. I
sure as hell didn't.Instead of boring you with my excuses
for why I have not written in a week -- which mainly involve the fact that I
was hanging out with
my sister,
obse
ssing over hip hop, setting up
Medusa, learning the intricacies of
ethernet networking, and, basically,
living in a
dream world -- here, instead, is a bonus reflection on my Groovy day
yesterday. Think of it, gentle reader, as a Happy Fun Meal Toy Surprise.
Can you dig it? Sigh, I thought not.
or, if you must, back to Rebecca's Revenge
Copyright 1996 Rebecca Eisenberg mars@bossanova.com All rights reserved.
