Conception

So there’s this movie called INCEPTION (I like that one a lot—I pretty much like anything by Christopher Nolan: he poops creativity as far as I’m concerned).

I myself could be antiquated to a 32 year old vagina turd (sorry mom, it sounded funny in my head—yeah, that’s right, I knew you would laugh at that). At any rate, I called my mom on April 20th and asked her to give me the skinny on the day of my birth as my recollection is pretty shit on that day. So, this is my interpretation of a story that my mom told me and it’s called:

CONCEPTION.

My mother and father were watching my uncle Paul play a high school baseball game. The year is 1979 and the teams playing on this dilapidated clay and grassy diamond were Redwood High School (this is where I spent my angst ridden pubescent years as well) vs. Lemoore High School.

After my parents had their fair fill of balls slapping wood, they made a quick pit stop at some hole-in-the-wall eatery in Hanford for dinner. According to my mother, this is where the term “don’t drink the water” came from, as, apparently, Hanford’s water supply emanates the faint yet pungent smell of rotten eggs (I’m trying to decide whether that is the scent of sulfur or not—nonetheless, Dave Matthews, apparently, has Hanford to thank for such a great song and not apartheid in South Africa). Okay, wait. Where was I in this story? … Oh, yeah, in my mom’s womb.

They got home shortly after dinner, and my mom wasn’t feeling too swell (must have been from the water she drank earlier). She was taking a shower at around 10:30 or 11:00 PM, when suddenly her water broke! [kaploosh]

By midnight, my mom was being rushed past the labor room and being brought directly to delivery. My imagination pictures a young doctor around that same hour being called away from some formal engagement in order to deliver Mrs. Vitale’s child in a swank tuxedo (hey, this is my story).

Sometime between the hour of midnight and 1:00 AM, that same doctor mentioned, is washing his hands after dressing into his blue scrubs.

At precisely 1:03 AM, I literally fell into this doctor’s arms, and no sooner did he exclaim, “It’s a boy!” then did I empty my tank of urine all over him (9 months is my record for holding it). The only words he could muster were, “Well, at least we know that works.”