The Pinkeye Vortex

Somewhere out in the cosmic murk, there is a team of karma engineers – geeky and slightly imposing types cloaked in white lab coats and goggles, right out of a slick luxury car commercial – who test certain models for ability to stand up under strain... and/or impressively streaming clouds of sanitized white smoke.

I was really hanging in there for a while. I swear.

Some very aggravating stuff has been lobbed at me in the past few days, including but not limited to –

A computer virus that sent my laptop into blue screen followed by paroxysms of flying code, every line of which starts with the dreaded word “deleting”. Every contract, letter, photo, spreadsheet and so forth that I have created since August 2007 is gone, daddy gone.

But I was pretty cool about it.

My basement flooded. I didn’t lose any stuff, but I did lose many hours over the weekend shop-vac’ing up gallons upon gallons of water the color of a stiff café latte.

No prob, Bob!

Sink’s backed up.

I got it.

Disheveled man at the door telling me I owe him 20 bucks.

Color me cucumber.

The engineers decided to kick it up a notch.

"Throw some pink eye at her, Lars.”

“Ehhxcellent, Roderick. Even better, give it to the child”

Lars: “Roger that. Be sure to pack the drop-in clinic so they have to wait for three hours.”

Roderick (incredulous): “Lars!! Are you MAD!??”

Lars: “Listen, we have to know if this baby can take it”

Dolf Lundgren, Rocky IV: “I must break you”

Lars and Roderick (leaping out of their seats): “Hey, who let this guy in here??”


Do you know what the average four year old looks like after three hours at a drop in clinic?
Ha ha. No, I keed. Not about the three hours, unfortunately, but about E being out of his mind. He was actually ubercool about the whole thing. I kept looking at him, wide-eyed, and telling him how patient he was being and how much I appreciated it.

Nonetheless, I still firmly believe that leaving a mother and small child waiting for three hours should be a felony, punishable by some old Code of Hammurabi type death, or at least by being smitten (smited? smote? OK, pelted) with many small objects that really sting.

After we had run through every snack, toy, and coloring activity, and, to the great delight (not) of the fellow denizens of Sartre’s waiting-room, read several chapters of Alice in Wonderland aloud, they finally called E’s name.

E disappeared into the back of the clinic with the nurse as I hastily collected the vast pile of accoutrements that had spread itself across the northeast end of the waiting area. I then endeavored to catch up without dropping anything more than twice.

Of course, we were not yet to be granted our audience with Herr Docktor. We were directed to cool our heels in a little exam area and corralled by a hospital curtain. I quickly learned that a micrometer of fabric does nothing to muffle the noises of a four year old boy in the throes of activity.

And by “activity”, I mean that he had perched himself atop the rolling doctor’s stool and was flinging himself around the room, deliberately bouncing himself off the exam table, cabinets, etc.

I like to think that, normally, I would have stopped him. But these were extraordinary circumstances. Mommy was Out Of Gas.

Plus he was having SUCH a good time. (“giggle giggle” THWAP! “giggle giggle” BAM!)

It was clear to me, at this point, that the Karma Engineers were satisfied that they had found my breaking point and had turned their attention to the clinic staff.

For the record, the going rate for getting a 4 year old to let you stick a tube of ointment in his eyeball (cajoling not included) is one large marshmallow and three jelly beans.