Little Shop of Horrors

Confession: I hate going to the dentist.


I realize this is not a unique confession. I do not have to take Valium or anything before I go. I can sit still in the chair while the instruments hum, pop and grind in my mouth, well for the most part I can sit still.

When I was a child my dentist smelled like old graham crackers (my sister will vouch for me) and was generally rude. The only thing I liked about going to his office was his secretary's fingernails. They were long, VERY long and always bright, fire engine, sticky sweet lollipop red.

My fears, or distaste, for dentists are deeply seeded in my childhood. Oddly, I still like graham crackers and bright red long fingernails, although my own are stubby and almost never painted.

Currently my dentist is in high demand and if I have to cancel an appointment I am cast off to some date at the end of the following year regardless of my schedule. I also generally don't like him or his staff. They are either dumb or aggravated at life in general- either way I do not like them poking around my mouth with sharp things.

Before I was a Mrs., before I was a Mama I worked for an elected official in capital of our lovely state. Therefore, I had a dentist in that area, so I could go on my lunch break.

I went in during a lunch time appointment (yea convenient!) to have a cavity filled.

Laying back in the chair waiting for the Novocain to do it's thang, I heard the doctor setting up the drill. She seemed to be fumbling a bit, but no matter she was wearing gloves. Although, the Novocain is not kicking in. I mentioned this and she gave me another dose of meds and dove in to tackle the tooth.

I involuntarily jerked. I could feel everything, the doc administered more meds and followed with more (attempted) drilling.

Jerking my head to the right again, I'm told, in a stern tone reserved by most mothers for the candy aisle in the grocery store, that I needed to remain still until she was finished.

This pain, jerk, reprimand pattern continued until after 5 consecutive shots of Novocain leaving me virtually numb-less.

Then it happened. She says, "DON’T SIT UP!"

So, OF COURSE, I shot up and said, "Huh?!"

She replied- with a look of horror on her face, "You just swallowed a drilll bit!" She rushed off, probably to cry and call her lawyer. Her assistant said, "You're not pregnant are you." He said this WHILE HE CHUCKLED!

I called my boss, told her what happened and that I was going to need to take off the next morning so I could have an x-ray. As I sat in the waiting room the net day filling out paper work, the secretary asked, “What is the reason for the x-ray?”

The whole waiting room listened to my tale and followed up with comments of:

"You should sue!"

"Are you ok?"

"What was the dentist name?"


After the x-ray the technician came back into the office and said nothing seemed to be torn and told me it looks like everything will...pass....naturally. She was polite and kept the giggling to a minimum.

Humiliation thy name is pooping drill bits.

I switched dentists. Well, I’ve switched dentist 3 times since this…incident. If you live in my area- you know who you are- please save me from myself and give me the name of a good, gentle, non-drill bit dropping dentist.

The Return of Frank

In this post I spoke of a student I called Frank. This is yet another story involving this student, thus revealing the true reason I teach at a local community college- the students are GREAT material for my blog.


Again, in one of the practice individual speech activities, Frank's wisdom struck again. Read. Learn. Slap your forehead at his...well...you'll see.
For this activity I give the students one index card each and they have 1 minute to develop a 2 minute speech about the topic. The cards have words like; education, money, power, love and family written on them. Frank's word was family.

He went up to the front of the room and wrote the word family on the board and told the class they were going to take 2 minutes to create a sort of acronym situation for his word. I have to admit, I thought that was creative. I have done this activity several times and this was the first time someone took that approach.

So he writes:

F

A

M

I

L

Y

And asks the class for an F word- thankfully, they kept it tasteful and shouted out, "FUN!"

Frank took it upon himself to come up with an A word- anal.

Yep. He wrote anal on the board. There was awkward giggling in the crowd and he said, "No not like that, I mean like up the butt."

??????

Time was running thin so he quickly wrote the word marriage for the M. I told him he hit 2 minutes and he sat down. Leaving his catch phrase of “Fun Anal Marriage ILY” up on the board. The next 2 people did not erase it.

I just sat there PRAYING no one from the school walked in, they don't usually just walk into classrooms, but ya know.

I have more going on in my life than Frank antics, like for example apparently they installed a defective smoke detector in our kitchen- the PLACE WE COOK DAILY- and it would go off if the toaster was plugged in, poor P seems to have developed a phobia of loud noises.

Last night it chirped every 30 seconds for 12 hours.

Really.

After I had a 4:00a.m. pillow fight with the headboard while screaming choice words, Josh took cover in the guest room and I finally fell asleep with mittens over my ears that were held in place with earmuffs. (I could STILL hear the chirping btw). Only to be woken up at 6:45a.m. by Josh’s alarm clock. An electrician is coming by at 7:30 a.m. to install a non-defective detector.

I have my hammer ready, should the events of last night repeat themselves.

Really.

A hammer.

The End of an Era

Confession: I hate and I mean HATE purses. I even hate the word purse.  I also hate bubble baths and shoes with high heels.

I realize I may have to turn in my official "girl" card after such statements.

Rest assured I love pedicures, facials, twirly dresses and all things jewelry.

The other day Josh said, "God, I just wish you would carry a purse."

I had no idea he had such strong feelings about my lack of a purse. I'm not sure why I don't like them. Maybe it is committing to one accessory. I know I can have more than one purse and switch the contents as needed. But really, with my recent track record, I do not trust myself to do this efficiently. I also, REFUSE- REFUSE to spend more than $50 on a purse

I spent the better part of Sunday evening trying to find a sensible, practical and cute purse on the Vera Bradley/Target/Gap/Zappos/LLBean etc. website. Josh sat next to me on the couch as tears welled in my eyes and I picked up a pretty good wine buzz in lieu of a purse.

The search ended with me still purseless and stressed.

I took a brake on Monday.

Tuesday we went to see my best friend and her new baby. On the way home I passed through Annapolis, so I decided to give the purse hunt another go.

There is a stand at the mall with cute canvas bags in various sizes, colors, strap lengths, embroidery options and on and on and on. I thought I had one picked out, but I wanted to be sure. I told the lady I was going to take a swing through some other stores and come back to the kiosk by the pizza place and purchase a sensible purse.

When I swung back by, I started breaking out in a sweat. Seriously. I had to put my hair in a ponytail and the lady actually said, "Wow. This is really stressful for you."

We walked away- purseless.

P started screaming (inexplicably) like a maniac child. He does this when he feels like being a jerky boy. It's super fun for everyone involved- including the strangers at the mall.

When Josh got home from work, I grabbed a beer and my laptop and went to my room to do some necessary online purse shopping, again. Me vs. computer vs. purses.

One of my big issues is this monster, old lady wallet I have- it will not fit in any purse smaller than the size of a Jacuzzi bathtub- for two.

I settled on a black, white and brown hipster bag from Vera. I also purchased a normally sized wallet. Both on sale.

Big steps in the world of Nikki today. Big steps.

Sieve Head

Confession: I'm crazy.

In the last three weeks I have:


-Lost my wallet

-Switched my bank (including online banking payments, automatic withdrawals and direct deposits.) I had a Bank of America account since I was 12. They suck. I moved on.

-Lost my keys. Josh was sweet and said P probably just hid they and that I will find them. Not yet.

-Backed into the mailbox and something known as a whiskey barrel (incidentally, this does not hold whiskey- it is for flowers) at the end of the driveway of a friend’s house.  Thankfully we are still friends, she is very understanding.

-Moved (toddler and old lady dog in tow) and nearly doubled our mortgage.

-We have someone doing a short rental in our townhouse. I had to drop the keys off at the tenants work. She works at a school. There are two schools next to each other- Sand Castle Middle School and Sand Castle Elementary School. I left the keys at the middle school. The tenant works at the elementary school.

-Had a terrifying nightmare that an adult sized beaver lived in our basement. I even screamed out, "Oh my God!" in my sleep and woke myself up.

-Finally I basically signed my infant son (read: nearly 2 year old) up for college (read: pre-school). Where he will take naps without me. Play without me. Learn without me. Thrive without me.

I'm spent.

I think I may let Pmonkey make dinner tonight. I have a feeling it will involve icing, peanut butter and crackers.

Party Pooper

I have a very good friend named JD. We met in high school and have been friends since.


Every year, or for at least as long as I can remember, his parents host a St. Patrick's Day party. I'm told an authentic bag piper is present. Legend has it there is an insane amount of alcohol. Word on the streets of our home town is that the food is nothing short of amazing.

I say all of this from the perspective from someone who has never actually attended the party. I'm going by the tales JD regales me with after the party. For you see, in the 10 -or so- years we have been friends, I have NEVER actually gone to this party.

I suck.

I can't really remember why I have not gone in the past. Maybe when we were in college the date of the party did not jive with my recovery from my most recent Jager hangover.

Most recently, I know one year I was pregnant. The following year I had a baby.

This year was going to be it. Josh and I had my parents lined up for an overnight babysitting session with Pman.

We had arrangements to stay at another friends’ house. We. Were. In.

However, for reasons too boring to go in to, (in a nutshell, we needed to get the old house in order for the renters) Josh and I did not go to the party.

After we finished what we had to do on Saturday, Josh and I (and SweetP) went out to dinner, pushing back our bath and bed routine by about an hour. I was trying to rush rush rush through the bath (because we skipped it the night before).

There is no way to ease into this- so instead, I will set the scene.

P, wearing only a diaper, is holding onto the side of the tub doing his normal excited squeal and "can't wait to get in the tub" dance. -seriously, this is every night. I unfasten the diaper and begin rolling it up...when...

My son pooped on the floor.

HE POOPED ON THE FLOOR!

Josh said that's what I get for interrupting him while he was doing his business.

When I told JD I was not going to be able to make it to the party, he told me I had to blog about why I chose to hang out in an old empty townhouse over bag pipes and beer. If only I had stuck to my guns and gone to the party, someone else would have had to clean up my son's poop from the bathroom floor.

Sad State of Play

Pfunk has a birthday coming up (sort of) (June 24).  In the event you are in the market (or biologically obligated) to purchase a gift for him, I think this post will serve as shopping inspiration.

The boy LOVES to be in the kitchen.  As I was unpacking, this sponge was the only "toy" I felt was safe enough to play with in a new house, without any real supervision.  This was pre-easel and pre-markers.  I do have to say, the table looks very shiny, but I do hope this picture is not some twisted form of foreshadowing.

Every boys favorite "outside" toy- 15 feet of white cable cord.

That's a swiffer.  In our yet to be paved- thank you snowy winter- driveway.  He runs with it, as if he actually is swiffering, from the garage to the top of the driveway and back.  He squeals with delight as he does this.  It may sound cute, but really, it's quite pathetic.

I need to draw your attention to the jacket as well.  It is large I know, but it was $16 and it's reversible(!). It's also a 3T and will likely fit him until he is 12.

My neighbors probably sit in their houses sipping their coffee as they watch my son "play" with his "toys".  Surely they notice Abby sitting, quivering- for no reason other than we are not safely in the house- and tethered to the porch and think, "Wow.  I wonder if this neighborhood is taking part in some sort of outreach program.  There goes our property value."

Zesty Pickle

Confession: I have one of those faces, and apparently one of those voices.

The other day I called Verizon to cancel my account with them. Actually I was calling to make sure the account had been cancelled and that I would not be charged for a service I no longer had. I hate when I have to do other people's jobs for them.

While the Verzion lady was waiting for her computer to reboot from a recent crash, (surprised? me either) she said, "Well, while we wait for this to do its thing, I will just tell you something woman to woman..."

I don't want to hear what you have to tell me. I was at her mercy. And she knew it. All I could do was listen and give the occasional obligatory "uh-huh."

She began be telling me not to answer the door for people I don't know. I know I may sound young on the phone, but I'm not home sick from 5th grade. What's next? Are you going to tell me that if a stranger calls I should say my mom is in the shower?

Verizon lady told me an awful tale about how she was home from work last Monday and -long story- short a guy broke in her back door window. She called the cops and they caught the guy.

I said, "Wow, sounds like you should get some sort of alarm system."

She said, "Yeeeeaaaa. It's my childhood home. People know I live alone. So..."

Huh? So does that mean you are not going to get an alarm? Does anyone else fail to see the connection between not getting an alarm and living in your childhood home?
___________
These things happen to me all the time. Strangers think I work in whatever store I happen to be in at the time. They think I have answers to their annoyingly ridiculous questions. They think I WANT to answer their annoyingly ridiculous questions.

Recently I was in a Target that had a grocery section. I was not in the grocery section. I could see the grocery section if I turned my head 45 degrees to the right, but I was a good 8 aisles away. I did not have ANY grocery items in my cart. This man walks over to me and says, "Do you know where they keep the cake mix?"

"Um. I think the grocery section is over there. Check the bakables aisle."

He nods and heads in the grocery direction.

As he approaches the bakables, he turns toward me and yells-YELLS- "HEY! YOU WERE RIGHT! THANKS!"
______________

When I was pregnant I was in the condiment aisle in front of the pickles (of course) at Safeway. It should be noted I was also sort of in front of the ketchup since they are next to each other. I could have just as likely been buying ketchup, pickles or checking the expiration date on my Edy's coupon.

An older man picked up a very large jar of pickles, labeled as "Zesty" and "Bold". He asked me. Me. Not talking, not looking at anyone, not even really looking at the pickles- me. Again, it should be noted I was not wearing anything resembling a name tag or a Safeway uniform.

"Do you think these will be spicy?" I told him probably. "Huh." He said as he put the large jar in his basket.
__________

I guess it is inherited. A man once asked my mom what raw broccoli was and how to cook it.

True story.