The Children’s Museum of Manhattan (CMOM) is generally fantastic. But on a rainy day—and we’ve had a few lately—children and their parents and nannies pour in to it like rats into a garbage bag of chicken bones. Still, K-Pants and I headed down to CMOM on a recent wet day to avoid the mental atrophy that comes with being in the apartment for more than eight hours straight.
It had been raining since the morning, and—indeed—inside kids were picking the place apart piece-by-piece, ball-by-ball. We went straight up to the ball pit, hoping to find a spot to play. Though almost all the 500 balls had been ferreted off, there were no gangs of Big Kids ready to stomp on little fingers or use babies as cushions. Perfect! Go play, Mr. Pants! I will find you some more balls.
I like this kind of mundane task. I imagine God, the Menial Task Master, saying, “Evelyn, it will please me if you find the balls in all the corners of this place and put them back in the ball bin.” I, ever obedient, say, “Yes! Of course, God. I will do it!”
So it was in this frame of mind that I was buzzing from spot to spot, gathering balls and putting them back in the ball bin, when I cut off a woman and her son on their way to the Peek-a-Boo Machine.
She was wiry, with blonde, stringy hair; and in her mind, this was no accident. As I looked up at her, balls in arms, she unleashed the laser death-beams from her eyes and sawed me in half. I tried to whisper, “Sorry,” as my two halves fell to the floor, children screaming, balls rolling everywhere….
I did say, “Sorry!” But Real Me was still intact, and used its whole self to take this plumber’s crack revenge photo. Eurotrash.