WAIT A MINUTE page 54

but who knows what germs and
gremlins lurk on them. The art on
the wall is boring, consisting most-
ly of notices about immediate pay-
ment or immediate inoculations,
and a few pictures of former pa-
tients (now adults, and apparent-
ly cured of whatever spotty
children's illness brought them
there in the first place).
The saving grace, in terms of
distracting my kids, is the lone
goldfish swimming circles in the
small, octagonal tank in the cor-
ner. I'm not sure what they expect
him to do, exactly, but they watch
him with great devotion and fas-
cination.
The amusement story is about
the same at the eye doctor's (US.
News and World Report), the al-
lergist's (Time), the ear, nose and
throat guy (Audubon) and the or-
thopedist (National Geographic),
not to mention the hairdresser
(Elle), the manicurist (Mademoi-
selle) and my son's barber (Field
and Stream). Fortunately, I like
to read stories about fashion, the
failure of the political parties, and
the fauna of Bora Bora (such is the
nature of an unreformed maga-
zine junkie) or I'd be out of luck.
Actually, I have been working
on ways to maximize my waiting
time. I listen to books on tape in
the carpool line (catching up, at
last, with Jane Austin). I clean up
my calendar/address book at the
doctor's office, and write thank you
notes at the dentist's.
Unfortunately, the time spent
in the grocery check out line seems
impossible to redeem or rescue.
Usually, that is when — with six
people already in line behind me
muttering incantations over their
own overflowing carts — I re-
member what I forgot to put in my
basket. Then I stand, victimized
by my own indecision: Do I have
time to run back for horseradish?
Will I lose my place in line? Will
these restless strangers come to
loathe me? Do we already have
horseradish among those dark
and nameless bottles at the back
of the bottom shelf of the fridge?
The only other occupations
available in the check-out line are
sizing up the candy bars on one
side (no, no, don't touch) and the
tacky tabloids and sleazy maga-
zines on the other side. The read-
ing material doesn't vary much.
Small, pocket books offer me horo-
scopes, calorie counts, or "Barbe-
cue Secrets With Baby Back Ribs"
(not much help for a kosher cook).
The tabloids want to shatter my
illusions with their version of the
inside poop. I get drawn in by the
gossip columns and the pictures
of gorgeous women in fantastic
gowns, and find myself learning
things that some part of me
doesn't really want to know, such
as that my favorite sitcom star
was an alcoholic, or that O.J. is
still news (spare us), or that a two-
headed goat was found on Mars.
- So I wait. And wait. In the line.
In the doctors' anterooms. ❑

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