Today I took Parker to a playground. We have been to this playground many times. So frequently in fact that if we are on the main road that passes by the park he will say his version of the word "park" and point in its general direction. This happens a lot since there are two grocery stores and a WalMart within walking distance of this park.
He has at one time or another been down every slide this park has to offer and there are well over a dozen.
Some are very high and some are just a foot or two off the ground.
A few weeks ago he approached the tallest slide.
On his first attempt at going down he froze.
The line behind him started moaning and stomping its feet. To him it must have looked like some sort of multi-colored, sweaty, angry snake.
Despite me standing at the bottom shouting promises that I would catch him, he turned around and slunk down the steps. Later, on that same trip, he braved the steps up to the tall slide again, turned around and went on his belly feet first down the tall slide.
The glide to the bottom was not traumatic. He did not cry or demonstrate anything other than neutral contentment upon descending the bottom of the slide. But for him, for now, it is a one and done deal.
At this mornings’ visit to the park, we found it, surprisingly, mostly empty.
Unless I am summoned to push him on the swings, I stand on the mushy mulch and watch as Parker climbs the steps and races through the planks and tunnels. He squeals and laughs. He tries to play whatever tag-like game the other kids are playing and they ignore or humor him, depending on their moods.
Occasionally he will stop and peer at me through the rungs of the railing from so high up that I instantly get butterflies in my stomach. He does this happy screamy thing when he sees that I am close, but not too close, leaving him free to explore this place once again.
I walk the perimeter in case he needs me. I watch him so closely that I swear if he were to fall, somehow my mother gaze would be able to catch him, or at least slow his fall so my physical self has time to get to him before he hits the ground.
–If only-
We meet at the slides. Any one of them.
He stands at the top.
I’m at the bottom.
He sits down.
I encourage him to let go and slide.
I can't help, but realize the life metaphor here. Let go and slide.
I need to say that to myself more often. However, I know that just because you have lived through something once does not mean it won't be better or possibly even worse the second time around. Parker must know this too.
So there we are eyes locked on each other. My arms are stretched out toward him. His little fingers gripping tight to the sides of the slide. My attempt at reassuring comments of how fun it will be and that I will catch him do nothing to ease his uneasiness.
He turns around and every time I think he is going to go for it. He is going to go on his belly feet first.
But no. He is turning around to stand up and race down another plank.
One day he will do it again.
One day I will be able to convince him that it is ok. That it is possible to conquer fears and self doubt. I will convince him to take in the view from way up top, throw his hands above his head and enjoy the ride.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Friday, April 30, 2010
But It's Smaller!
I've mentioned before that I am a worrier, but I feel the need to stress the severity of my worrying. I sleep with a pad of paper and pen on my nightstand so when I wake up with some minuscule concern that begs to keep me awake, I can write it down in the darkness and go back to sleep.
In theory anyway.
I have woken up, written down whatever it is that needs to be written down and then worried that I will not remember its' connection to my waking life of day time and I will again be woken up by the thought the following night.
So I worry about being up all night- worrying.
Crazy right?
***
Recently I have lost some weight through a lot of hard work. Not a ton of weight, but enough to make me not feel like a big fat whale anymore.
Running is hard work.
Eating grapefruit instead of PopTarts is hard work.
Drinking one less glass of wine is (really) hard work.
I wanted to buy just a few new summer clothes things, so I drop Pmonkey off with his Grammy and Pop Pop and went for a little relaxed- non toddle toting- shopping.
For me, a slice of heaven is being in a dressing room- alone.
I didn't know how great that was until I tried to squeeze a stroller into the tiny space that is a GAP fitting room. There is much shame in trying on an ill fitting two piece bathing suit, in front of your toddler. I believe once I even saw Pman roll his eyes when I tried on pants that I knew would probably be too small, but did it anyway- ahhh wishful thinking.
He has figured out that the doors, and sometimes the walls, of dressing rooms do not reach all the way to the ground.
AND that miracle of miracles there is ANOTHER person in their own little world in the cubby next door!
Finally as if all these discoveries were not enough to just send him completely over the edge of the world- he can actually fit in and crawl through the space.
He seems to also realize that I- The Mombot- do not fit under the space with the same ease as he does. Nor am I all that willing to attempt to fit in the space.
This pattern of new behavior has also occured in various bathroom stalls. He used to just stand there while I did what I had to do.
Now he puts his sweet baby hands on the ground, bends at the waist and peers under the wall at the unsuspecting victim in the next stall. Even when the floors are sloppy gross with gray mud residue from the parking lot of the Wawa gas station.
Of course I try to stop him. Sometimes it works.
Not always.
Yesterday, in the depths on the Old Navy dressing room, I stood alone and looked at myself in the mirror in a dress that fit and was smaller than the dresses I wore last summer. The dress looked good. Not great- it was just a solid colored cotton V-neck- but it was nice enough for the playground. I think Pslick would have approved.
I didn't buy it.
Why?
Why wouldn't I buy a dress that was smaller and still fit and was less than $20?
Because I worry that next summer I may be fat again and the dress won't fit. I called my mom and told her about the dress.
Her reply?
"Nikki. You're being ridiculous. You could lose a leg between now and next summer and you won't be able to wear pants and you will need to wear dresses."
It should be noted my mom has been on the receiving end of my worries for nearly 30 years. Josh has also taken to agreeing with me when I am in one of my worry-modes because as he says, "It is just easier and you are going to change your mind anyway."
I did recently buy a dress from Ann Taylor LOFT that was two sizes smaller than my normal size and...AND it was on sale for $4. Actually it was $3.88.
When I showed it to Josh he said, "That was a waste of $4."
What does he know?
Whenever I do wear that dress I'm wearing it inside with the price tag still on!
In theory anyway.
I have woken up, written down whatever it is that needs to be written down and then worried that I will not remember its' connection to my waking life of day time and I will again be woken up by the thought the following night.
So I worry about being up all night- worrying.
Crazy right?
***
Recently I have lost some weight through a lot of hard work. Not a ton of weight, but enough to make me not feel like a big fat whale anymore.
Running is hard work.
Eating grapefruit instead of PopTarts is hard work.
Drinking one less glass of wine is (really) hard work.
I wanted to buy just a few new summer clothes things, so I drop Pmonkey off with his Grammy and Pop Pop and went for a little relaxed- non toddle toting- shopping.
For me, a slice of heaven is being in a dressing room- alone.
I didn't know how great that was until I tried to squeeze a stroller into the tiny space that is a GAP fitting room. There is much shame in trying on an ill fitting two piece bathing suit, in front of your toddler. I believe once I even saw Pman roll his eyes when I tried on pants that I knew would probably be too small, but did it anyway- ahhh wishful thinking.
He has figured out that the doors, and sometimes the walls, of dressing rooms do not reach all the way to the ground.
AND that miracle of miracles there is ANOTHER person in their own little world in the cubby next door!
Finally as if all these discoveries were not enough to just send him completely over the edge of the world- he can actually fit in and crawl through the space.
He seems to also realize that I- The Mombot- do not fit under the space with the same ease as he does. Nor am I all that willing to attempt to fit in the space.
This pattern of new behavior has also occured in various bathroom stalls. He used to just stand there while I did what I had to do.
Now he puts his sweet baby hands on the ground, bends at the waist and peers under the wall at the unsuspecting victim in the next stall. Even when the floors are sloppy gross with gray mud residue from the parking lot of the Wawa gas station.
Of course I try to stop him. Sometimes it works.
Not always.
Yesterday, in the depths on the Old Navy dressing room, I stood alone and looked at myself in the mirror in a dress that fit and was smaller than the dresses I wore last summer. The dress looked good. Not great- it was just a solid colored cotton V-neck- but it was nice enough for the playground. I think Pslick would have approved.
I didn't buy it.
Why?
Why wouldn't I buy a dress that was smaller and still fit and was less than $20?
Because I worry that next summer I may be fat again and the dress won't fit. I called my mom and told her about the dress.
Her reply?
"Nikki. You're being ridiculous. You could lose a leg between now and next summer and you won't be able to wear pants and you will need to wear dresses."
It should be noted my mom has been on the receiving end of my worries for nearly 30 years. Josh has also taken to agreeing with me when I am in one of my worry-modes because as he says, "It is just easier and you are going to change your mind anyway."
I did recently buy a dress from Ann Taylor LOFT that was two sizes smaller than my normal size and...AND it was on sale for $4. Actually it was $3.88.
When I showed it to Josh he said, "That was a waste of $4."
What does he know?
Whenever I do wear that dress I'm wearing it inside with the price tag still on!
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Million Dollar Mare
When you build a house the builder usually has some sort of protocol for fixing little (and sometimes big) things that happen to the house within the first year or so of the settlement date.
This past Tuesday was the day they came to fix the things on our 30 day repair list. We have been in the house for about 2 and a half months- let me save you the math- that is well over 30 days.
Compared to the lists of the other new home owners in the neighborhood, our list was pretty small.
The hard wood floor is rippled in some parts in the kitchen. Just because I know what you are thinking, I will answer the questions running through your head.
1. I don't clean my floor was a sopping wet mop. I use standard Murphy's Oil and a barely dampened mop.
2. I was never told what to use specifically to clean the floor and if it was the cleaner that was causing the rippling, then why was it only in the kitchen?
3. The damage is not even really in front of the sink and/or dishwasher, which is where you would expect water damage. The majority of it is in front of the stove.
They did not come prepared to fix the floor on Monday, so they sent another guy to come over today. He brought 4 skinny wooden planks with him. We need at least 12 replaced.
The front door was painted a gray blue, but the shutters are a tealish blue. This sounds nit-picky, I know, but even Josh noticed the color difference- and he’s a man. We all know how they see color- it’s either, red, blue, green, yellow, black or white.
I was told since the door and shutters were painted at different times and the base material is different, the colors may seem slightly off. It should be noted; even the builder agreed the colors were off- and he’s a man too!
The smoke detector in our kitchen continues to go off if someone breaks wind in front of it. Seriously, it’s hella sensitive. The other day I cooked bacon on medium heat, the detector went off, the bacon was still raw.
Poor P is beyond terrified of the detectors now. Whether they are sounding off or not, he points at them, including the one in his room and screams or says, “Nononononono.” (Guess who he is mimicking there?) When they do go off, he grips onto me like a Koala Bear cub as the device beeps and wails and informs us, in a stern woman’s voice, that there is a “FIRE. FIRE.”
I’m told a call has been made to the electric company and they are working on getting me a fire detector to replace the sensitive SMOKE detector. I was assured they will be in touch and that they have “my number.” Indeed, I’m sure they do have my number. Posted right next to a picture of me that is likely on the bulls-eye of their obligatory dart boards. Confession: I do call them every time it goes off.
There were a few other issues I was told I would have to just have to "deal with" because of the nature of the weather and environment of where the house is located. Fine. Whatever. I really do not have the energy to go all rage-tastic about every little thing. The house is beautiful and I'm grateful that we are here.
The handyman who came to fix some of the things on my list has been to my house before to do some final touches after settlement. We have similar views on politics and children. He is older and very nice, so I was excited to see him again.
That was until he came up to me after fixing some grout in my bathroom and asked, in an almost interrogating tone, "What's wrong with your dog?"
It should be noted Abby's favorite spot is under my vanity in the Master Bathroom on her dog pillow.
It should also be noted that she shakes- a lot.
It should also be noted the shaking does not really mean anything other than people are in her spot and that makes her uneasy in general.
Then the handyman was commenting on how much Parker does not look like me. This again?
I told him that SweetP actually looks very much like his daddy, but has quite a bit of my personality. Then I showed this man, who I DO NOT know, a picture of Josh when he was about P's age. Maybe this one reason why weirdo strangers talk to me, I seem to encourage it by pulling out pictures.
Handyman says to me, as he glances from the picture to Psizzle and back to the picture, "Oh! You're a Million Dollar Mare!" He then tells me his friend has a really ugly- crooked ears and pigeon toed- female horse. When she is mated with a Stud the offspring come out looking exactly like the daddy horse. Her traits were not dominating enough to overtake the male horse, deeming her worth a million dollars per...session(?)
After realizing what he said, he did back pedal the ugly horse thing. Somehow though, I do not feel like a million dollar horse whore.
In a final blow, they have to dig up my newly paved driveway because they forgot to properly mark some lines or something pre-paving. I was assured I would be repaved immediately.
This past Tuesday was the day they came to fix the things on our 30 day repair list. We have been in the house for about 2 and a half months- let me save you the math- that is well over 30 days.
Compared to the lists of the other new home owners in the neighborhood, our list was pretty small.
The hard wood floor is rippled in some parts in the kitchen. Just because I know what you are thinking, I will answer the questions running through your head.
1. I don't clean my floor was a sopping wet mop. I use standard Murphy's Oil and a barely dampened mop.
2. I was never told what to use specifically to clean the floor and if it was the cleaner that was causing the rippling, then why was it only in the kitchen?
3. The damage is not even really in front of the sink and/or dishwasher, which is where you would expect water damage. The majority of it is in front of the stove.
They did not come prepared to fix the floor on Monday, so they sent another guy to come over today. He brought 4 skinny wooden planks with him. We need at least 12 replaced.
The front door was painted a gray blue, but the shutters are a tealish blue. This sounds nit-picky, I know, but even Josh noticed the color difference- and he’s a man. We all know how they see color- it’s either, red, blue, green, yellow, black or white.
I was told since the door and shutters were painted at different times and the base material is different, the colors may seem slightly off. It should be noted; even the builder agreed the colors were off- and he’s a man too!
The smoke detector in our kitchen continues to go off if someone breaks wind in front of it. Seriously, it’s hella sensitive. The other day I cooked bacon on medium heat, the detector went off, the bacon was still raw.
Poor P is beyond terrified of the detectors now. Whether they are sounding off or not, he points at them, including the one in his room and screams or says, “Nononononono.” (Guess who he is mimicking there?) When they do go off, he grips onto me like a Koala Bear cub as the device beeps and wails and informs us, in a stern woman’s voice, that there is a “FIRE. FIRE.”
I’m told a call has been made to the electric company and they are working on getting me a fire detector to replace the sensitive SMOKE detector. I was assured they will be in touch and that they have “my number.” Indeed, I’m sure they do have my number. Posted right next to a picture of me that is likely on the bulls-eye of their obligatory dart boards. Confession: I do call them every time it goes off.
There were a few other issues I was told I would have to just have to "deal with" because of the nature of the weather and environment of where the house is located. Fine. Whatever. I really do not have the energy to go all rage-tastic about every little thing. The house is beautiful and I'm grateful that we are here.
The handyman who came to fix some of the things on my list has been to my house before to do some final touches after settlement. We have similar views on politics and children. He is older and very nice, so I was excited to see him again.
That was until he came up to me after fixing some grout in my bathroom and asked, in an almost interrogating tone, "What's wrong with your dog?"
It should be noted Abby's favorite spot is under my vanity in the Master Bathroom on her dog pillow.
It should also be noted that she shakes- a lot.
It should also be noted the shaking does not really mean anything other than people are in her spot and that makes her uneasy in general.
Then the handyman was commenting on how much Parker does not look like me. This again?
I told him that SweetP actually looks very much like his daddy, but has quite a bit of my personality. Then I showed this man, who I DO NOT know, a picture of Josh when he was about P's age. Maybe this one reason why weirdo strangers talk to me, I seem to encourage it by pulling out pictures.
Handyman says to me, as he glances from the picture to Psizzle and back to the picture, "Oh! You're a Million Dollar Mare!" He then tells me his friend has a really ugly- crooked ears and pigeon toed- female horse. When she is mated with a Stud the offspring come out looking exactly like the daddy horse. Her traits were not dominating enough to overtake the male horse, deeming her worth a million dollars per...session(?)
After realizing what he said, he did back pedal the ugly horse thing. Somehow though, I do not feel like a million dollar horse whore.
In a final blow, they have to dig up my newly paved driveway because they forgot to properly mark some lines or something pre-paving. I was assured I would be repaved immediately.
Friday, April 16, 2010
Walking in Memphis
I used to love this piano bar in Baltimore called Howl at the Moon. There is a chain of them across the US- I have also been to the one in New Orleans. It was not as much fun.
The basic idea is that there are two dual baby grand pianos facing each other. They players play songs that we all know the words to and everyone sings along. Loudly. Off key. Strangers coming together, happily if not slightly buzzed.
The last time I went was a long time ago, pre- Mrs. and pre-momyhood. A guy- college age- went up to the circular stage that sat about 3 feet off the ground in the middle of the bar and sat on a stool. There was microphone in front of him.
One of the piano players told the crowd that this kid wanted to sing a song alone, sort of like a karaoke version of a dueling piano bar. This is a generally happy crowd, so no one objected. I can only speak for myself, but I was expecting this drunk frat kid to screw up whatever he was about to sing in a big way. I settled back in my front row seat, ready for voice cracking, lyric botching and audience jeering.
The piano started playing the hypnotic beginning melody of Marc Cohn's "Walking in Memphis". The guy on the stool closed his eyes and bowed his head and started singing.
The whole bar, full of people ready to sing along in between swigs of beer- just. stopped.
It was still in that bar for four minutes and thirty seconds while this guy sang to us about blue suede shoes and Memphis and being a Christian. I had heard the song before, but there was something about the way his voice played on the soprano and bass notes of the piano that was bewitching.
I'm not sure why I was captivated by him. I'm not sure why still when I hear this song I think of this experience.
I could not pick this guy out of a line up even if he was wearing a blue suede Howl at the Moon t-shirt. I'm almost 100% sure my friends who were with me that night at the bar do not even remember this performance.
I really don't understand why I feel compelled to write about this in my blog. You fellow writers may understand.
Sometimes you just have to get it out.
The basic idea is that there are two dual baby grand pianos facing each other. They players play songs that we all know the words to and everyone sings along. Loudly. Off key. Strangers coming together, happily if not slightly buzzed.
The last time I went was a long time ago, pre- Mrs. and pre-momyhood. A guy- college age- went up to the circular stage that sat about 3 feet off the ground in the middle of the bar and sat on a stool. There was microphone in front of him.
One of the piano players told the crowd that this kid wanted to sing a song alone, sort of like a karaoke version of a dueling piano bar. This is a generally happy crowd, so no one objected. I can only speak for myself, but I was expecting this drunk frat kid to screw up whatever he was about to sing in a big way. I settled back in my front row seat, ready for voice cracking, lyric botching and audience jeering.
The piano started playing the hypnotic beginning melody of Marc Cohn's "Walking in Memphis". The guy on the stool closed his eyes and bowed his head and started singing.
The whole bar, full of people ready to sing along in between swigs of beer- just. stopped.
It was still in that bar for four minutes and thirty seconds while this guy sang to us about blue suede shoes and Memphis and being a Christian. I had heard the song before, but there was something about the way his voice played on the soprano and bass notes of the piano that was bewitching.
I'm not sure why I was captivated by him. I'm not sure why still when I hear this song I think of this experience.
I could not pick this guy out of a line up even if he was wearing a blue suede Howl at the Moon t-shirt. I'm almost 100% sure my friends who were with me that night at the bar do not even remember this performance.
I really don't understand why I feel compelled to write about this in my blog. You fellow writers may understand.
Sometimes you just have to get it out.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Off to Tuscany
Confession: I LOVE entering sweepstakes. I realize this is a habit usually reserved for:
1. Cheapskates
2. Old ladies
3. Suckers
Last night I made pasta for dinner. I used wheat noodles, pre-made meatballs and jarred sauce. Usually I make my own sauce, but this time I did not. I hope they do not take away my "Italian" card.
Tomorrow is my mom's birthday. She will be coming over the following day, so I bought a little ice cream cake, P picked out some candles and I have big plans to get her a card and some flowers. Since I do not have a vase (because my wonderful husband is not in the habit of gifting me with flowers, so why have a vase?) I planned to fashion the glass pasta sauce jar into a sort of vase.
It will work. Stop judging me.
Of course, anyone who has employed this same technique will tell you the first step is wash out any sauce residue.
Then you must remove the label.
As I moved through the first step and onto the next, I saw the words "Enter to Win" written in a yellowy starburst. In smaller print it said, "Remove label for details." And how!
Here is what the winner gets:
There are a few places Josh and I want to go within the span of our lives. Italy is one of those places.
Upon further reading I found the winner will be notified by January of next year. Of NEXT year?
I'll have forgotten all about this by then and when they call to tell me I have won I will surely think they are nutso and hang up on them, thereby losing my free (childless) trip to Italy. What you thought I would use the 4 coach seats for me, Josh, Parker and possibly our goat-dog Abby?
The information actually said "up to 4 coach seats".
Up. To.
I feel I should contact the people who pick the winner and assure them if I win I will only be requiring seats for 2 and we actually would be fine riding in the cargo portion if it meant we were going to Italy for free. Surely if they know I am a party of 2 not 4 they will fix it so I win. Right?
Unless...
I could hold some sort of sweepstakes of my own to fill the other two spots.
Alas, I enter these things all the time and all I have to show for it is some cast off gift certificates for $25 to stores and restaurants I'm not even sure still exist and junk mail, in both USPS and electronic form. Who wins these things really?
So, unless I buy one of those country cute (blech) wooden, made to look weathered, signs with the word Tuscany painted on it and hang it somewhere in my house- I doubt I'll be going anytime soon. Sadly.
I also love scratch off lottery tickets. I have one right now, promising the (hope) of up to $5000 dollars. In this case “up to” will likely be an amount less than 2. Sadly.
1. Cheapskates
2. Old ladies
3. Suckers
Last night I made pasta for dinner. I used wheat noodles, pre-made meatballs and jarred sauce. Usually I make my own sauce, but this time I did not. I hope they do not take away my "Italian" card.
Tomorrow is my mom's birthday. She will be coming over the following day, so I bought a little ice cream cake, P picked out some candles and I have big plans to get her a card and some flowers. Since I do not have a vase (because my wonderful husband is not in the habit of gifting me with flowers, so why have a vase?) I planned to fashion the glass pasta sauce jar into a sort of vase.
It will work. Stop judging me.
Of course, anyone who has employed this same technique will tell you the first step is wash out any sauce residue.
Then you must remove the label.
As I moved through the first step and onto the next, I saw the words "Enter to Win" written in a yellowy starburst. In smaller print it said, "Remove label for details." And how!
Here is what the winner gets:
- Coach air transportation for 4
- 6 nights in 2 a bedroom apartment at LaFattoria
- 6 day car rental- unlimited mileage- When the Phillips family drives internationally, Josh takes the wheel. Aside of a near, reverse cliff dive in Ireland, he is usually pretty good at figuring out international streets. Also, it seems most foreign cars are sticks. I cannot drive sticks. Mostly, because I have never tried to, nor taken the time to learn.
- Wine tasting tour at a 14 century castle
- And $1000- not sure if that’s American monies or not. Also, not sure of the conversion.
There are a few places Josh and I want to go within the span of our lives. Italy is one of those places.
Upon further reading I found the winner will be notified by January of next year. Of NEXT year?
I'll have forgotten all about this by then and when they call to tell me I have won I will surely think they are nutso and hang up on them, thereby losing my free (childless) trip to Italy. What you thought I would use the 4 coach seats for me, Josh, Parker and possibly our goat-dog Abby?
The information actually said "up to 4 coach seats".
Up. To.
I feel I should contact the people who pick the winner and assure them if I win I will only be requiring seats for 2 and we actually would be fine riding in the cargo portion if it meant we were going to Italy for free. Surely if they know I am a party of 2 not 4 they will fix it so I win. Right?
Unless...
I could hold some sort of sweepstakes of my own to fill the other two spots.
Alas, I enter these things all the time and all I have to show for it is some cast off gift certificates for $25 to stores and restaurants I'm not even sure still exist and junk mail, in both USPS and electronic form. Who wins these things really?
So, unless I buy one of those country cute (blech) wooden, made to look weathered, signs with the word Tuscany painted on it and hang it somewhere in my house- I doubt I'll be going anytime soon. Sadly.
I also love scratch off lottery tickets. I have one right now, promising the (hope) of up to $5000 dollars. In this case “up to” will likely be an amount less than 2. Sadly.
Monday, April 5, 2010
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.
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.
Monday, March 29, 2010
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.
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.
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