Unbagging the Cats 1

Unbagging the Cats 1

Sunday, June 5, 2011

And Now, the Rest of the Story

I mentioned that I made a visit to the optometrist Friday. And while sitting in the waiting room, I got the urge. That uncontrollable urge...to write. Believe me, it was worse than those dripping bladder pipe people driving in pipe cars, or the overly-distended balloon-bladder people at the class reunion. I could barely control it.

I started making up mind pictures. Then, like the eighth digit that would have broken the telephone number's back, an idea tried to take hold. My short-term memory cache was full. My mind overflowed like a toilet flushed by a want-ad handyman who had the other urge while breaking up a concrete porch slab. I searched for mental towels to sop up the runoff. The assistant called my name.

There I was, walked through the maze and into a darkened room, directed to sit here, put my chin there, lean my forehead thus, open my eye wide, grab the clicker, squeeze when I saw wavy lines, move to this chair, lean forward, look at the red barn at the end of the lane, don't move, wait here. My overflowing thoughts had suspended themselves. I couldn't dwell on them, what with a woman, man, and different assistant behind me in the dark, performing a different, unconfidential medical test. I ran through my mental picture gallery. At least it was intact.

My assistant (I like the sound of that) called me into the exam room. She directed me to a chair in the corner. After leafing through my folder, she motioned for me to sit in the exam chair. I got up, expecting her to leave and go about her business. She watched me. It was unnerving. Did she think I was incapable of striding three steps to the other seat? Did she expect me to trip? Fear that my gargantuan proportions would not fit between the armrests? Have a premonition that I would make an escape? Anticipate a monetary gratuity? She stared at me until I was ensconced in the hot seat. Then she left and closed the door.

I tried to be good. For all I knew, they had hidden cameras. I conjured up my story images plus overflow. Mistake. More ideas began to surge. The looming contraptions spoke to me. "I'm worth a lot of money. The doctor is still paying for me. Don't touch me. I know you want to. Your fingerprints can be traced. Look at me. My name is Phoroptor. I was deadly in the dinosaur days. I can be reanimated. NO! Look at ME! I'm Topcon. I am privy to state secrets. Maybe you've heard of my cousin, DEFCON. My relatives work deep inside Cheyenne Mountain. Can you keep a secret?"

I may just be channeling Danny in the topiary of the Overlook Hotel (Help me, Dick Halloran!) but I think I saw one of the shining metal monsters move. I turned way. I swung my feet down off the foot-holder platform. I leaned forward. This chair was not built for comfort. Who knew how much longer my wait would be? In the dark room, there had been a debate about who to call back first, the dude already in there who had a 2:45 appointment, or the dude who had a 2:15 appointment but got there at 2:35. They settled on Mr. 2:15. Sucked to be Mr. 2:45, all early-arrivin' for his time slot, taken back ahead of the prima donna belle of the ball, only to be sidelined for his royal majesty.

Normally, I am a goody-two-shoes, and follow directions to a T. Not anymore. My bad two shoes stepped down from that torture rack and walked over to my purse, from which I took my black-covered, $.79, flip-top, spiral mini-notebook. I furtively filled three pages with cryptic scribblage. I was afraid of being caught, of being assumed a secret shopper, of having my materials confiscated. And I don't even read mysteries.

Whew! I felt so much better after relieving myself of those ideas. I climbed back into the exam chair successfully, without supervision. The doctor came in, checked out the windows to my soul, and released me.

Heavy equipment for optometry office: astronomical.
Annual eye exam with insurance: five dollars.
Enough material for a week of blog posts: priceless.

4 comments:

Linda O'Connell said...

Hey, at least you had your clothes on. At my annual physical exam, I sat there in a paper dress crinkling everytime I shifted, sat there so long when the doc came in I had to peel the paper off the back of my legs.

Val Thevictorian said...

Linda,
Enough of your bragging on your cellulose sartorial flair! You should have known better than to wear a paper dress to a doctor's appointment. I'm surprised you didn't end up at the bookmobile instead. I will need to sort out the facts through Sioux, but rumor has it that you craftily designed your own paper dress from trees chopped down and milled by your granddaughter.

Linda O'Connell said...

You gals are a duo? :)

Val Thevictorian said...

Linda,
Not so much a duo. I have not discussed this conspiracy with Sioux, only mined her blog for information. I'm an opportunist. No scandalous tip is too small for me to blow up into a national news story. I'm waiting for the Globe or Enquirer to call about the true source of your unhidden talents.