Friday, February 22, 2013

"Sucks, Doesn't It?" A Memoir, Entry 16

Chapter 16 

At last! my appointment with Dr. Cuckoo has arrived. The fact I’m leaving two hours early when his office is only fifteen minutes away . . . well, is that really a problem? Psycho Voice thinks so. “For Chris’ sake, Dorothy, you have enough time to follow the yellow brick road, pick up the scarecrow, the tinman, the cowardly lion, AND douse the damn witch with a bucket of water!” Off to a damn good start with the voice doing a great imitation of an asshole. 
Standing on the doorstep, I begin to wobble like a crazed dirndl, mostly because I’m trying to decide between dashing back into the house, or nutting up and making my appointment with Dr. Cuckoo. Meantime, the sun seems hell bent on ruining my cornea’s. Well, it has been three weeks since we shared a cup of tea together.
A small jolt of reckless abandon hits me. I shuffle forward as if my two big toes were stapled together. Ouch. Some minutes later I reach the car. Then . . . another problem crops up. I can’t decide whether to ride in the front seat or the back. B asks me three times what I want to do. Damned if I know. Think hard, Liz. Five minutes later, B repeats his question. Blinking away the fuzziness, I reply oh so slowly, “I’ll ride in the back. I’m tired.” Like an elderly woman without the grace, I hoist myself in and fall face down onto the bench seat. I stay that way for the fifteen minutes it takes to get to Ellicott City.
When the car comes to a permanent stop, I sit up and take a quick look around. Dazzling little white cottages abound. Am I in Heaven? But some jerk driver leaning on his car horn quickly disabuses me of that notion when he tells my husband,“Yo pendejo, you drive like my blind grandmother. Move your ass, man.” 
Ok, so we’re not in Heaven. I cover my ears and look around for the miscreant as I exit the car. I’ll give him a piece of my mind. On second thought, he can have all of it. Serve him right.
I take a few halting steps before I’m blinded by a dazzling sun shimmering off the multitude of white buildings. Which storybook cottage does Dr. Cuckoo work in? I have at least twenty to choose from. And I can’t even count to one because I’m so focused on just staying me for the duration of this appointment. Hell, for the duration of walking into the office. Hell, for the duration of putting one foot in front of the other.
B finally spots the man’s name on a tiny rectangular sign in front of Snow White’s cottage and guides me in very carefully. Poor B, talk about one’s world being turned upside down. Talk about rock of Gibraltar. Well, I married it. But all is not totally lost for B. He’s been able to go back to work what with the kids in school full time. Of course, I’d hoped to be teaching once again, but clearly that had about as much chance of happening as Jesus paying a return visit and performing miracles. And even then, I’d so bully my way to the front of the line, I’d probably get booted to pitchfork city.
I don’t care. I’m pretty much pissed at God right now. He’s got some real explaining to do.
Good luck with that. 
Shhhh . . .