Friday, January 15, 2010

Our lady of the rinse and spit.

Why the mother of the precocious child of Satan was crawling toward me on all fours was was incidental. The fact that she was French made what was about to happen, all the more fabulous.

But I am getting ahead of myself.

The average person spends approximately an hour a day waiting, which translates to 2 0r 3 years over a lifetime. What woman hasn't guzzled a litre of Baby Duck – staring at the phone before succumbing to the drink and dials? And while I refuse to line up for anything other than a chairlift, like most parents, I spend in inordinate amount of time waiting for my child in a rink, a parking lot, or like the other day, at the dentist.

Normally, waiting has me muttering like Rainman, frothing at the mouth and wrenching my neck to see what's taking so goddamn long. I usually calculate how much I charge an hour then suggest someone pay me for my time wasted, that is, when I finally get to wherever or whatever it was I was waiting for. But not the other day.

The U Weight Dextox has removed all traces of caffeine from my system, and I am as calm as a lobotomized dairy cow. Albeit, a flatulent one. Just before the little bastard jumped out of the car to run to his appointment he said, "Mom, don't ever complain about my hockey gear again."

Yes, the influx of whole foods into my system has been a lively experience. Toot. Sweet. The cabbage, broccoli, even the kale salad I gagged down, have created a veritable wind section in a silent, but deadly orchestra. Fortunately, Planet Organic on Quinpool make daily, Gandhi-portioned veggie mixtures that are affordable, and actually taste good (avoid the kale) adding to my arsenal of mass destruction.

Which takes me back to the waiting room.

In haste, I had forgotten my iPhone – my lifeline to the office – so after a second of panic I reached for the stack of magazines. While most medical offices have germ-infested National Geographics from 1972, my dentist has current magazines, art books and a variety of newspapers. There I was, far from the madding crowd, on a cozy couch surrounded by tasteful paintings – all the while allowing my nuclear bomb-dropping asshole to roam like a free range chicken.

I was happily farting and reading about the stereotypical gay couple with taste, a pug dog, and a million bucks – who transformed a whorehouse in Parkdale into a chic haven – when the little French she-devil was released from her check up. While the mother parlez vous-ed nonchalantly at the counter, the little bitch practically ripped the door off of the hinges, knocked over the magazine rack, and was running around like a fucking maniac even the Supernanny would have executed.

The cashmere-clad mother, being the wise, latte sucking woman that she apparently was, decided she could go on parlez-vous-ing if she just handed her petit démon the superball that the ADHD poster child had picked out of the dentist's treasure chest. Great fucking idea. And hand me a fucking fusil de chasse while you're at it, Maman, so I can take the little freak down while you keep talkin'.

In a flash, the once pleasantly soporific waiting room turned into a pin ball machine, as the new superball glanced off every wall, lamp and frosted window. Giving much credit to the little maniac, she didn't even miss a beat when I gave her my best squinty-eyed glare – the one that sends most children running for social services. Even my farts couldn't keep her from invading my space. I was just about to nonchalantly raise my crossed leg and kick her in the castor when the ball rolled under the couch upon which I was sitting, setting off a methane cloud that signaled the end of the world. Salmon, I think. Peace at last.

But oh no. The little Ritalin junkie runs and starts tugging on Maman's cashmere. Before I could reach for an Airwick, Celine Dion's distant cousin comes whooshing over asking me if I'd seen a leeettle ball?. I shook my head and gave her my best French waiter look of disgust, but before I could blink, she dropped to her knees like prayer time at the Hajj and started heading my way. Her gray roots were aiming straight for a cloud of gas so powerful, Jack Bauer from 24 would have been knocked back.

So what did I do? With a smirk and a chuckle, I licked my finger, flipped a page of the February 2010 House and Home, gently rocked over to one butt cheek and dropped the pièce de résistance.

The chick pea bomb.

Another surrender for the French, another successful day of U Weight Detox.