I'm stretched out on a leather couch, my shoes kicked off so my toes can wiggle, hoping my feet don't stink or my stomach doesn't growl. Or worse…(refer to earlier posts). Across from me, a gentleman sits, pad resting on his crossed knee, and his pen tapping ever so slightly and annoying against the paper.
"So, what seems to be the problem?" he asks, as if scripted.
"Life sucks." Mature…to the point.
"And why is that?"
"If I knew the answer, I wouldn't be lying here, picturing you naked to ease my nervousness, and paying you $100 an hour. For that price, the least you could do is work out. Hell, you can afford a gym pass. And splurge on a tan, too, would ya? My fantasy isn't working with you flabby and pasty white. Would it kill you to get hair plugs and contacts? Honestly, the glare from your oversized wire rims is competing with your enormous forehead."
At this point, the counselor hands me the pad of paper and pen. He eases back in his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose. "It's my parents' fault," he starts. "I must have been dropped on my head."
That might explain the premature baldness on his frontal lobe.
It all boils down to the follies of parents.
I believe my parents were brain damaged from riding in the back window of the family car on long road trips. They "baked." My mother is the hyper type, so she probably only hit medium rare, but my dad's pension for "naps" leads me to believe he may have not been turned enough to heat evenly.
If there wasn't room in the back window, they were placed in a pile of blankets on the floorboards in the back seat and their siblings were threatened with corporal punishment if they touched the baby. I believe my uncle held his stinky bare feet over my dad's nose until he cried. He's had a feet fetish his whole life.
Personally, I think issues start in infancy, when the subconscious is damaged by dark twisted nursery rhymes, stories, and lullabies. Think about it. What's the most famous (and I might add, dark) lullaby a baby is cooed to sleep with?
Rock-a-bye baby, in the tree tops
When the wind blows, the cradle will rock.
When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall,
And down will come baby, cradle and all.
Oh hel-lo. I picture a mother suffering from post-partum depression, having given birth to her twenty-eighth child, all under twelve. They're running, screaming, jumping on the furniture and teasing each other relentlessly. The baby can't sleep, probably suffering from colic, and mommy dearest is at her wits end. Of course she's nearing the end of her six-week reprieve and daddy's getting all hot and bothered again. She's rocking the baby to sleep for the hundredth time to avoid amorous dad, and this lovely tune pops in her head.
Bewitched by the melody, the unsuspecting child craves the song night after night, his brain soaking in the lyrics which are embedded in the core of his mind. He grows up thinking mommy fantasized about putting him in a tree, praying for a windstorm, or tornado, blowing him out the branches and crashing him to earth.
Dropping him on his head.
My kids thought "Green Eggs and Ham" would be a fantasy come true, and I'm sure a couple of babysitters re-enacted the book.
And the nursery rhymes? Our infamous ""Jack and Jill?" Sending two small children to traverse a hill for pails of water? What the hell did they do to deserve that punishment? Talk about child slave labor!
I picture myself using this threat on my cocky teenager:
"Son, if you sluff school one more time to play WarCraft, you will be dragging your sorry ass up that mountain with a bucket to search for water. Got that?"
Of course Junior has heard the nursery rhyme countless times, and scoffs. His horny teenage brain knows he won't go alone. He'll take "Jill."
What about "Five Little Monkeys Jumping on a Bed?" Think about it. "One fell off and broke his head?" Apparently, the chimp suffered severe brain trauma as the result of a massive skull fracture. The doctor, who we all told our little ones could heal all "boo-boos" can't do anything to save a poor monkey? How can he fix a broken arm or leg? He just left the semi-ape to die! And what of the other monkeys? It's obvious we have bully no one dares to stop until all his minions are eliminated. Then, it's a suicidal jump to avoid prosecution. (Wait? Is this symbolic of our schools?)
"Three Blind Mice?" Why isn't PETA all over this one? Cruelty to animals rates pretty high here. The wee ones singing this little rhyme have yet to process the words that account for a violent, premeditated murder. Carving knife? What frame of mind was this author in? A broom must have seemed weak and metal traps springing over nibbling rodents didn't seem cruel enough?
Is this where creative mastermind Stephen King goes when he needs to picture a gruesome scene to write? He just closes his eyes and starts singing an old childhood nursery rhyme. (Note: these "horror fables" were defined as "nursery" rhymes).
Next time you cradle a frightened or upset little one in your arms, think about the words you're going to use to soothe him or her. Little minds paint big pictures.
Thanks for letting me twist your brain a bit. Now you know why I think with a "limp!" Joelene
