There really should be a 1-800-MY-DENTIST-IS-MEAN-AND-RUDE hotline

I didn’t even know dentists had their own offices until the hygienist told me the dentist wanted to see me—in his office.

I’ll be brief. What transpired was this:

Him: “Are you under a lot of stress?”

Me: “Kind of.” (His office was very Holiday Inn-esque; I was trying to look around as inconspicuously as possible.)

“Like?”

“The usual.”

“Such as?”

“Work. Kids. Bills. You know…”

I started to wonder if my dentist was moonlighting as a shrink. When the hell do dentists do anything other than breathe on you and force you to look up their hairy nostrils while they manhandle your chompers?

“Let me tell you about stress. I just saw a woman whose house is in foreclosure. She’s about to lose her job. Her husband’s got cancer. Her son is special needs. Her mother’s got onset Alzheimer’s. That is stress.”

Was he saying my stress wasn’t stress-worthy enough? I was about to rewind and elaborate on the specifics of my stress—surely something in my grab bag of worries was worth something!—when he whipped out something that looked… dentically disgusting.

“Your gums are receding. Badly. Do you grind your teeth?”

“Maybe, I—”

“—I’m guessing yes. You probably don’t even know you’re doing it.”

“Maybe, I—”

“—You need to start wearing a bite guard at night. Right away.”

Oh, Mr. Dental Man, I had been down this road before. The last time I had said yes to one of your counterpart’s insidious contraptions I had ended up with a jaw widener affixed to the roof of my mouth. My poor mother had had to turn a little key every night—a key she almost always dropped down my throat—that widened my jaw while I leaned over the back of the couch. At the time someone had suggested a water pick to freshen it; instead it shot darting bursts of water at my tender gums, bursts that sometimes hit me in the eye.

Hah! Foil me again will you.

I crossed my arms and leaned back. He and I both knew that part of the fun of being an adult was saying no to dental work.

“I’ll think about it,” I told him.

He looked crushed, no joke; his emergency bite guard intervention had failed.

On the way out I racked my brain for something devastating to share with him—something that would make him feel like crap for not appreciating that my stress was mountainous and deserving of his empathy.

But, lucky for me, I couldn’t think of anything. So thanks, Dental Dick, for making me realize that my life is just peachy.

No really, thanks.

If you have to eat your words, they should at least come with a side of fries

My father is known for being a touch narcoleptic. He could fall asleep standing up at an Iron Maiden concert. While someone hammers. And some Mulletville cycles roar by. And all of Junior’s toys rally together to sing their terrible, hokey songs.

In holiday photos, he’s the guy sacked out on the couch.

At my high school and college graduations, he was the guy sacked out on the couch.

At my wedding, he was the guy—no, I’m kidding, of course. My dear father would never have fallen asleep on my special day. Not even for a quick cat nap. And he definitely wouldn’t’ t have been discovered on one of the hotel lobby couches. Not a chance.

Over the years, my dad has taken a lot of ribbing for sleepiness. (I don’t know how things go down in your family, but the mantra in mine is “mock with reckless abandon, then mock some more.”) I’ve bought him every “I’m not tired, I’m just resting my eyes” t-shirt and card I could get my hands on. I even got a matching onesie for Junior—see?



After 11 years together, Chuck, like any astute animal that adopts the habits of the tribe its bred in to, has assumed the familial trait of monitoring my dad’s eyelids for signs of droop. Especially when dear Dad is behind the wheel and he’s a passenger. That’s how Chuck ended up driving more than 1,500 miles over the course of five days when he, my dad, and I took a trip to France a few years ago. About twenty minutes into the drive from the airport, en route to get my brother, Ted, from his French ex-girlfriend’s uncle’s brother’s house (it’s a long story), Chuck clenched my leg and said, “If your father doesn’t let me drive I’m going to have a heart attack.”

The reason I mention all of this (I have a point, really) is because last night the unimaginable happened. After all the years of mockery, Chuck and I both fell asleep on my father (no, not on him—we don’t do family pig piles).

At the wee hour of 9:15.

We awoke just as my father was opening the front door to let himself out.

And oh the look he gave us as he turned to wish us good night! I swear he clicked his heels on the way out. And I fear we are about to become the recipients of some acerbic t-shirts and mugs, ones that play on all the old adages of becoming middle-aged, overworked, overtired hags. You know, stuff like this…



Well, fine. We are old(er) and tired. I just didn't think my words would be quite so chewy on the way down.

Last time I checked, wearing hooker heels was not in my job description

When I got in this morning, my boss looked at my feet and asked, "What size shoe do you wear?" When I told her "seven and a half," she took off her shoes and handed them to me, then looked expectantly at my feet.

Apparently she needed to run an errand and her shoes were giving her blisters so she wanted to borrow mine for a few hours.

Ew, ew, and ew again.

There are certain things that skeeve me out; sharing shoes is one of them. Also on the list? Sharing straws, gum, and spoons (but oddly, not forks). The words "moist" and "washcloth." The sound of anything liquid poured into a cup, especially milk. Listening to someone sing in an intimate setting (I get embarrassed for them, even if they're doing well). And eating homemade baked goods at work functions (I can't get past the image of people in their bathrobes and curlers licking their fingers).

I did what I could to dissuade my boss—I claimed that my feet were sweaty, my shoes uncomfortable, my stumpy heels…stumpy—but she wouldn't hear it. She whipped out a bottle of Shower to Shower, sprinkled my shoes, and fled.

So there I was, stripped of my one-inch-heeled, Nine West, four seasons' old black shoes and upgraded to her five-inch-heeled, designer lacey strap-ons.

You know how you liked to walk around the house in your mom's (or dad's) shoes when you were a kid? How it made you feel kind of big and badass? That's kind of how I felt: abnormally taller, wobblier, and badder (after I got over the initial skeeve factor). The heels didn't exactly go with my outfit (I may live in Mulletville but I don't usually pair hooker heels with gray pants and a cardigan) but yah, I strutted around like a happy little rooster.

Then she came back. Barefoot.

"I thought my shoes were bad," she said.

She put my shoes on my desk and waited for me to hand over the goods, which I did, albeit reluctantly. My shoes looked kind of sad and forlorn after that. Kind of librarianish. Kind of ew.

But hey, I learned a valuable lesson today. If you want a raise from your boss, let her walk a mile in your shoes.

P.S. Thank you, Tina, at the Adventures of a Working Mom for my first ever blog award. As per the award's rules, I have some blogs I'd like to send the same nod to (they're damn funny):

Diapers and Wine

Football, Ballet, and Beer

Thoughts from the Toilet Bowl

Practically Wisdom

Check em out!

Careful, this post's a real tear jerker

When Junior was first born and we told everyone the name we had chosen for him, they did two things in succession: They did one of those tight lip smiles then asked, “What’s his nickname going to be?”

Understandably, I was pissed. Basically they were saying, “That name sucks so you’d better come up with something else—something that's catchy and endearing that we like.”

Well, I’m happy to report that Junior has been knighted with his first ever nickname (besides “Junior”, that is). Our nanny’s 17-month-old son, Brian, has been racing over to Junior in the morning and greeting him with..."Jager."

As in Jagermeister. You know, that cough syrupy alcoholic substance that is one of three crucial ingredients in the always tasty and delicious Red Headed Slut?

If you've never heard a small child chant "Jager! Jager!" it's pretty darn cute.

As far as nicknames go, I kind of like it. I'd even venture to say that I really like it. It fits the whole dang family. I’ve been known to flambé with whiskey. And Chuck? About that “stomach bug” on our way to the Cape…yah, good ole Chuck went a little too nuts celebrating his birthday the night before (by the way, that lone birthday wish to him was the saddest ever—that’s like having one person at the Labor Day parade, all by herself with her lone streamer).

I'm so happy with the nickname I've been toying with the idea of throwing Junior a nicknaming party. Complete with party favors of nips! I can just see it now...

“Mom, Dad, you know how you wanted Junior to have a nickname? Let’s raise our shot glasses, shall we?”

Sniff...sniff...sometimes life is just so fricken poetic.

Junior now sleeps in a large Tupperware container

I fully admit to being a girly products whore. I own about 55 tubes of lipstick (Mac Lipglass smells like Marshmallow Fluff and doesn't dry your lips out) and have tried every moisturizer out there (if you need a thicker moisturizer for winter that’s not greasy, try L’Occitane’s Immortelle Precious Cream—I know it sounds pretentious, but you’ll never have a dry patch again).

When Chuck and I first started dating, he mocked my grab bag of lotions and potions but cluck, cluck, guess who does a little spa day once a week with moi’s products? Yup, his favorites are The Body Shop’s Tea Tree mask and Benefit’s face scrub. (Don’t bother trying their eye cream; it’s crap.)

I could go on and on but I won’t, I promise. Foofy products aren’t the point of this post, it’s something much, much more exciting (just one more plug: Fresh's Cannibas Santal line smells so good people will change seats at a party just to sit next to you).

The point of this post is…Tupperware.

(Do you need a minute? Was that good for you?)

Ordinarily I wouldn’t give Tupperware a second thought but since I’ve gone back to work I now own enough Tupperware to open my own store.

I think word has gotten out that I am not a good cook (actually, I’m not that bad, I’m just a wee $%#&ing pressed for time) so people like my mother, mother-in-law, nanny, friends, and co-workers have started just giving me food. Like, our friend Des made sauce one night and just happened to make us four extra containers. And my co-worker made linguine last week with tomatoes and basil and randomly sent me home from work with a tub.

It’s awfully nice of everyone but the last time I opened the pantry door, an avalanche of plastic nearly bowled me over. And you know what? Much like people’s homes have their own distinct smell, people’s Tupperware has its own distinct look. Like the Tupperware that's neatly labeled and appears to be brand new even though it's probably 10 years old? Des. And the container with the garish turquoise lid and flimsy container? Anonymous co-worker.

I got to wondering, as I heard someone yodeling from the mountainous Tupperware pile at my feet, what’s the etiquette here for returning it?

So I Googled it. And here’s one posting I found:

"If someone lends you some Tupperware, usually so you can take some of their food home, you should return the Tupperware cleaned and containing something new, preferably baked goods."

Oh shit, am I in trouble.

We finally have some beach sand in our shoes

Our trip to Cape Cod Saturday started off on a terrible note. Junior came down with a cold and Chuck had a stomach bug, but we couldn’t miss my step-father’s seventieth birthday. His daughter was having a lobster bake and really, how often do you get invited to one of those?

We made good time, despite getting lost and pulling over so Chuck could puke out the window. He’s such a trooper. And even though we were a few hours late everyone was really understanding, especially when they saw the side of the car.

The party was wonderful, it really was. There's the lobster pit (minus the 20 guys debating the best way to light it).


People loved Junior’s curls—they rubbed their buttery fingers through his hair so much he looked like he hadn’t bathed in weeks by the time we left the party. When I put him to bed he smelled like fresh dinner rolls.

This morning we had breakfast by the ocean. There was an air of peacefulness I wish I could have bottled and brought back with me.


(That’s me and Junior watching the boats make their way out of the inlet.)


(That's Junior giving his dad a big hug.)

When we unpacked the car tonight, two small seashells fell out of Junior’s socks. I’m putting them on his windowsill as a sweet reminder of my little man and how lucky we are to be celebrating so many birthdays.

Chuck's to-do list now rivals SuperMom's

Yesterday was Diana’s second day nannying for Junior. We called her because even though Chuck had taken the day off from work for his birthday, he needed his hands free to get things done around the house.

If to-do lists were farms and items on the list were vegetables, Chuck would be blessed with a bountiful harvest.




See that brick above? A stack of 567,987,234 bricks has been sitting in our driveway for more than a year! When Home Depot first delivered them, we told people, “We’re laying a patio” and they nodded enthusiastically. Six months later we said the same thing and they still kind of believed us. But now? The gig is up. When you’re not in the midst of home repairs, you really can’t claim you are in the midst of home repairs.

So that’s at the top of Chuck’s to-do list. Also on the list?

1. Clean his “man room”/office, which now generates an odor of dirty socks and old coffee that spills down the stairs and out the front door.

2. Go to the grocery store.

3. Fix the molding in the bedroom.

4. Mow the lawn.

5. Walk the cats.

6. Paint the house.

7. Order new windows.

8. Caulk the bathtub.

9. Find the broom.

Items completed?

Zero.

Silly, silly me. After being bridled to this man for 11 years you’d think I would have learned a thing or two. You’d think I’d know that if my husband takes the day off from work and it’s his birthday he is not going to do jack shit—he is going to drink Bailey’s and coffee and get a little loopy and then watch Star Trek reruns in between napping and yawning.

I wanted to write about this yesterday after I got home from work and saw that my darling husband was still in his loungewear, but there is an official blogging rule that goes something like this: “If it’s your spouse’s birthday, you can’t write anything disparaging about him.” If you notice, I even injected his birthday wish with a sweet note about how he’s become a better vacuumer.

Let’s be frank. It’s not hard to become better at something when you’ve only done it three times in your life. If I pick my nose once a year I’m going to improve by default because the expectations are so mediocre there’s nowhere to go but up (in this case, literally).

So, here is my revised birthday greeting, in all its glory:

“Happy 36th birthday, Chuck. Here’s to the 36 things you didn’t get around to doing.”

Does anyone want any bricks? If you pull up to the curb I will personally walk each and every one of them to your car.