However, considering the fact that my language in this column must remain as pure as the driven snow, I’ll eschew expletives much beyond Holy TOLEDO!
Well, Holy TOLEDO, sonogram pictures sure have come a long way, BABY. The intra-wombal snapshots weren’t even available when my oldest, Annie, was curled up in the fetal position.
Now, as I mentioned back in January, the pix come even in 3-D, but that initial one didn’t show much. Back then, we didn’t even know the gender of a bun in the oven. Back in the DAY, that determination came when the baby burst into the world, kicking and screaming.
Now, we know not only that Annie’s daughter — I call her Bun because she’s still in the oven and doesn’t even have a NAME yet — is a girl but also have a damn, uh, darn fine, look at her, courtesy of the 3-D views.
As I was marveling at the technology, I wondered what the hitch possibly could be. After all, everything in life has a quid pro quo. What could the quid be for this quo, pro? Where’s the conspiracy? Although I don’t believe that everything in life is a conspiracy, most are, right?
I realized the identity of the benefactors of the conspiracy and who’s going to make the quid when my mind flashed back to school pictures, almost as far back as I can remember.
Kindergarten, Mrs. Findley’s class, the year: none of your beeswax. Besides, that one was just a group shot of us all lined up against the brick wall outside school in South Sioux City, NE. Black and white and bland.
The stakes escalated in the first grade, the first year that I recall getting a free plastic comb on the august occasion of school picture day. I was just a poor dry-cleaner’s son, so it was a thrill to get the free black comb (in later years, technological advances brought COLORED combs, probably evoking a “Land SAKES” invective from grandma’s lips).
Those were big days for us tykes, wearing a new shirt — or, at least, a rare, CLEAN one, for some kids — as we displayed various tooth counts for the camera.
I suppose those pictures were cheap enough, and I’m not sure where greed took over the school photo phenomenon, but you know the drill nowadays: Buy none or just a few, or mortgage the house if you fall for the increasingly expensive pitches to freeze time.
The sales pitches depend on whether you want 12 wallets, many of which end up lying around the house or tossed in relatives’ wastebaskets because they don’t want photos of your kids, anyway, to the Full Monty, including 5-by-7s, 8-by-12s, etc.
And the photo ops aren’t confined to schools these days, extending way beyond even professional studios to various and sundry money grabs at T-ball team photos, etc.
Holy TOLEDO! I’ve strayed from my original point, which was: the invasive conspiracy of womb photo arrays.
Under the guise of offering parents a peek at their offspring before they are sprung, a conglomerate’s executives are rubbing their hands in anticipation of windfall profits when they start repackaging the product.
After all, sonograms have evolved from indecipherable blobs to lifelike 3-D photos. It won’t be long before the sonogram tech says, “Could I interest you in some wallets? How about some 5-by-7s? We’ve got a deal on 8-by-10s. And don’t forget the 12-by-16s. They’re real popular with grandparents.”
Glad it hasn’t gotten to that point yet, because that will just multiply the opportunities for obnoxious grandparents to haul out more photos to show people who don’t give a rip about them.
Never have been that way; never will be.
Oh, by the way, would you like to see the new pix I have of Bun? Just happen to have a few here in my wallet:
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