R Man had to go in to be scoped by our gastroenterologist (Have I mentioned due to our late middle age stuff, we have become tight with our g.e.? On first name basis in fact. “Jane, darling, wassup?” “Oh mrp, lookin’ good.” Carumba.) and I accompanied him because the drugs they give you in order to shove a camera down your throat tend to sort of wipe you out. Funny, huh? So after the procedure you need to have a rational person (or in this case, me) around to talk to the doctor and then make sure you actually get home and not go off staggering around downtown with your pants on your head.
While R was enjoying the thrill of semi-invasive medical hi-jinks, I went to lunch. Jane’s office is in a fashionable part of town called Laurel Heights. I despise it. It is to breeder Ladies of a certain age as the Castro is to queers; Ground Zero. Every stretch of sidewalk is commandeered by mommies striding along to yoga with whatever spawn they’ve managed to come up with, wearing unattractive sensible shoes.
I usually am ok with breeder people. I’m sure it’s not their fault, but there is something about these particular women who seem to emit a thrilled smugness about their own reproductive ability that just goes right up my nose. “Look,” they seem to be saying, “My uterus works. Revel in it.” Well, speaking of organs, my colon works, too, but I don’t feel the need to show off the results.
Mostly it’s the goddam strollers, the SUVs of the fecund, that work my nerves so.
Behemoths that function mainly to draw attention to their cargo, in this neighborhood they are traffic hazards everywhere. I had to ask one Lady to move hers so I could sit down at the only empty table and after she heaved a huge sigh indicating what a burden it was, she had to struggle to get the stupid thing to move six inches so I could squeeze past. I wanted to explain I was only in her ‘hood because I am a white slaver and I was casing out the joint for a raid, but her little precious was safe since I was not in the market for the obviously genetically defective, but I let it pass. You know why? Because I have manners, motherfucker.
When I finally got home, houseboy Gnut Arialdus had to lead me in a meditative chant for the better part of an hour to calm me down.