This Post Has No Title

The reason this post has no title is because it is about my son, the eMpTy Boy, who defies all attempts at categorization or description.  Even the color of his hair changes every month.  The only three things that can definitively be said about him are that he’s very intelligent, he’s very good-looking, and he takes after me.  J

The eMpTy Boy has his own blog, which you can find here.  Tonight we are chatting on MSN and writing blog posts about one another.  He thinks this is a great idea. 

My personal jury is still out.

I’ll try to give you a basic understanding of the eMpTy Boy:  If George Takei somehow merged with Mister Spock, and then the two of them turned into a Broadway musical that had collided with a rainbow and a wolf and had glitter sprinkled all over it and at the same time was extraordinarily handsome, talented, and intelligent, the result would be my son.

I am 100% objective on this subject.

Of course, he does have his faults.  He is hideously cruel and demanding at times.  Currently he’s standing over me with a whip, forcing me to finish this post, even though I’m completely stuck and don’t know where to go from here. 

He also makes me watch anime.  “OMG MOM, THIS IS SUCH A GREAT STORY!”  So I go to Netflix and click on it, and am immediately assaulted by more T&A than a thousand screenings of Porky’s. 

“Child,” I say, “there is far too much emphasis on the secondary sex characteristics of women in this animated cartoon from Japan, and I would like to point out that any woman who really had breasts that large would not be able to stand upright.  Also, why is she putting war paint on her buttocks?”

At this point I am branded a perverted old woman and informed that HE never even NOTICES all the buns and boobs that are taking up 75% of the screen time.  Silly me.

In retaliation I force him to watch shows that I like.  He hates all of them until he sees them, and then he loves them as much as I do.  Even Buffy.  Or should I say especially Buffy.

Who would have thought that the tiny boy with whom I had BBQ-potato-chip-and-Banjo-Kazooie parties would turn out to be such a martinet?

I’ve just realized that this post has nothing to do with medical transcription, so allow me to share an anecdote.

Back in the day, long before HIPAA, I used to let him sit with me in my office while I typed.  One day I had a report about a little boy who came in to County Hospital with some kind of bug in his ear; this was of great importance to the boy, because he had recently had a similar encounter with an otophilic insect, so I was giving him the blow-by-blow.  He was fascinated.  Then the doctor began describing how he had to take the bug out in pieces.

That sounds very benign, doesn’t it?  If he’d just said, “So I had to take the bug out in pieces,” it would have been fine, but no, he had to describe in horrible graphic detail how each piece of the bug broke off with the “gentle traction of the forceps,” including the color, consistency, and smell of all the fluids involved.  The expression on my face was something akin to those YouTube reaction videos of people watching 2girls1cup, causing the child to come up and tug my sleeve, demanding to know what was so awful.

As I said, this was long before HIPAA, so I just turned the speaker on (it was an old Lanier machine) and let him hear it in all its ridiculously disgusting glory.

After that, he was always asking me to turn on the speakerphone while I was working, in case anything gross came up.

Aaah, little boys.  It’s a good thing I’m not afraid of garden snakes, given the number of them he left in his pockets. 

Of course at this point the eMpTy boy believes I should tell you that the magic monkeys came and carried him off to a magical land where he ruled with an iron fist (and a large piece of cheese).  Personally, I think that’s a lot of very creative hooey, but there you are.