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My teeth in my pocket…

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Torture tools from the middle ages?

I hate going to the dentist. And the only thing worse than seeing the dentist is seeing the hygienist. It was my turn in the torture chair yesterday. And frankly, by the end of the visit, I thought for sure I’d be leaving with my teeth in my pocket.

We all know the moment… when you sit back in the chair and the lady puts that ugly bib around your neck. She engages you in small talk to try to calm your nerves… “How are you?” “Gosh, has it been six months already?” “I love your sweater.”  You force a smile because you know there’s no way she’d even mention your sweater if you just happened upon her in the mall or at the grocery store. Why don’t they just say what they know is true, like “You must be a sucker for punishment.” or “Boyyy is this gonna hurt…”

Then she cheerily says, “Well, I’ll just tilt you back now.” And then you start your backward descent to the floor. Back, back, back, down, down, down I went. I was sure I was eye level with her shoes at this point, and I know for certain that my head was much lower than my feet. I could feel my sinuses drain into my brain. She hands me those ridiculous sunglasses to put on so that the overhead lamp doesn’t hurt my eyes. Now, I know the 80s are making a comeback, but the pair of sunglasses were like something out of Top Gun. I looked more ready to be piloting a fighter jet than getting a cleaning. And I’m not entirely convinced that the lamp doesn’t double as a camera. I wonder if these dental people give us ridiculous looking glasses so that they can all laugh at who looked the funniest at the end of the day. I can almost picture them sitting around drinking sugar-free margaritas and passing around the candid shots of each patient… “no, no, no Dr. Smith, I got the sheer winner right here…look at THIS guy!” And they all retreat into laughter.

Back in the torture chair, the hygienist begins her process by sticking the tiny mirror at the back of my mouth and scraping. She takes a quick look around, removes the tools and says, “Have you been flossing?” She says it in one of those annoying, speculating mother tones. The same tone my mom would use to say, “Have you finished all your homework?” I figured at this point, she already knew the answer. There was no point in lying. “No.” I reply.  She gives me a mother look again, “And why not?” I felt like I was 5 years old, being scolded for taking a cookie from the cookie jar. I look at her with big eyes, “Because flossing makes my gums angry.” She gives me a disapproving look. “No wonder you have so much plaque. Tsk, tsk.”  I open my mouth wide, even before being asked and if I were a dog, this would be the point I’d be rolling on my back trying to look cute and gain approval again. She starts with the scraping tool. I think I made her mad with my comment about angry gums because she’s scraping vigorously. I’d hate to see how she cleans stubborn stuck on spots in a pot. I look to my right, her shoes are nice, but those socks have gotta go.

After a few seconds, I taste blood. Yep. Lots of it. I can feel my gums getting angry. She drenches my mouth with the water spray tool, which must resemble one of those super-soaker water guns because my face is now wet, my groovy sunglasses are dripping and I’m sure I felt a stream of water hit my hair and left ear. Thank god for the glasses I’m wearing or my eye makeup would be toast.

She picked one tooth on the right side until it got so sore I was sure she had removed the tooth completely, then she toggled over to the other side and removed a tooth over there. Back and forth, back and forth, scrape, scrape, scrape, grind, pick, stab, then when she was satisfied with the fact she removed all the gum around each tooth she would drench me in water and then use the vacuum suction stick to rid my mouth of blood and any remaining gum tissue. She advised she was going to measure my gum density and jammed what felt like a hot needle into my gums. She did it for each and every tooth. For once in my life I wished I only had one tooth.

I thought she was finished when I caught a glimpse of her pushing the little tray away that contained the tools of torture. Turns out, she only pushed the tray around so she had a full 360 degrees of elbow room when she was ready to floss. She went at my teeth and gums with that floss like my mouth was an excavation site. Surely there were fossils, or diamonds, or even crude oil under there somewhere. She commented that my gums were showing signs of receding. No kidding. If there weren’t receding before today, they sure were after this because I’m sure the floss was cutting down to my jaw bone. That is to say, it was cutting through any tissue that was dumb enough to still be holding on against such a vicious oral attack. I’ve seen people who do pottery cut their clay vessels from the pottery wheel with less force. My gums were throbbing. I envisioned they were pulsing, like in those cartoons when the character gets his thumb hit by a hammer and it turns red and starts pounding. That’s what my mouth felt like.

It was about 30 minutes before my hydraulic chair was raised and I was sitting upright again. I looked like a rockstar who had a rough night of partying and it was suddenly early the next morning at this point. My hair was all full and big from hanging upside down for the past half hour, my mouth was all swollen from the constant abuse, and my makeup was destroyed from the super-soaker water nozzle.

The dentist came in then, said something to me but I don’t really remember because I was concentrating on whether or not I had been drugged and how long I’d been there. Maybe it was due to all the blood that had drained to my head whilst I was reclined upside down, or maybe it was the incredible blood loss from the whole event that made me woozy, either way, she said something. Slash? No, just me after the dentist.I wondered then if she’d be laughing at me later because if I had my nose pierced and was wearing a necklace I’d be a dead ringer for Slash from G’n’R with my dark sunglasses and frizzy hair like it was. Either way, I was far from celebrity status.

She tilted me back slightly, stuck her gloved fingers in my mouth, murmured dental terms, pulled my upper lip up and over the top of my head before letting it snap back like one of those pull-type window shades. She did the same with my lower lip… except I think she tucked it under the bib I was wearing. She pressed on my bottom teeth, said something foreign to the hygienist and brought my lip back to its resting place. She gave me a pat on my shoulder and told me she’d see me in six months.

What's the difference between this lion and me after the dentist? I bite harder.

I took off my sunglasses and took a look at the little tray table. I was expecting to see my teeth neatly laid out on it  and was fully prepared to pick them up and take them with me. I stood up and smiled in the mirror on the wall. My throbbing gums looked like raw hamburger and my disposition was like that of a super pissed off lion. I felt like I’d been eating glass and that my teeth were like loose boards of a picket fence.

“And here’s your new toothbrush and some dental floss.” the hygienist says happily. “Be sure to floss regularly.”

I look at her, and through clenched teeth I said, “Yesssss… I will try to remember thatttttt.”

:o)

The most wonderful time of the year…

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If my name were in the dictionary, this would be the picture beside it.

You can call me the Grinch, it’s okay. I already happily refer to myself as the Grinch anyway. I hate Christmas. I hate everything about Christmas…. the decorations, the music, the greediness, the commericalism, the expectations, and frankly, I think it’s the most phoney time of the year.

I think Christmas can be referred to as the time… “When people are unusually nice to people for a whole two weeks of the year, think about a Lord they can’t be bothered to give any time to any other time of the year, and spend copious amounts of money they don’t have to buy gifts they can’t afford for people they don’t like who don’t appreciate it in the first place.”

It just seems to me that most people find it more of a chore than a happy occasion. Don’t believe me? Go spend time in any shopping center in North America. You’ll hear the grumblings of fellow shoppers, complaining about “having to buy” this for so-and-so, or having to buy that for this person, and how they have to spend this much on this person because he or she spent that much on them or that this guy or that girl is expecting such and such an item and will be upset if it isn’t there . On and on it goes. And it seems the more people you talk to about it, the more people who agree that it’s just over the top nowadays and the more people who are feeling it’s all just too much.

And of course there are the people who say Christmas is all about the children. Uh huh. How many so called “funny videos” have we all be subjected to over the years of angry kids because they hated their gifts? We have a whole planet full of ungrateful kids who expect everything under the sun and are bitter when they don’t get it. Nevermind that little Johnny got 27 other presents under the tree, he’s upset that he didn’t get the latest “super-duper-turbo-power-electronic-3D-4D-game system” that the parents would have had to remortgage the house in order to buy. And there are those who would go to that length. Like the countless kids in elementary schools wearing high priced designer clothing and texting on their Blackberries or iPhones just because they wanted to be like the other kids. Suddenly kids who aren’t wearing clothing by a certain brand or name are considered underpriviledged? Spare me.

I read an article this week and the author said that maybe it was Charles Dickens who created this whole generation of having to buy buy buy more and more things to show you love someone.

If Christmas was suddenly a holiday where people had to donate money to a charity rather than to eachother, there’d suddenly be a lot less spending going on, now wouldn’t there?

Maybe the slogan of Christmas should be: “If you aren’t spending money like the apocalypse is coming tomorrow, then you don’t love your family like you should.”

Christmas … bah humbug!

My Mom, the “not-so-up-with-the-times” kind of woman

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My mom will be 73 this month. Yep, that’s a looong time to be around.

My mom is wise in many things like ancient history… I’m sure she could probably recite the entire family tree of such Biblical figures as Noah, Job, or even Nebuchadnezzar if need be. She can probably tell you all of this year’s Showstopper specials from the Shopping Channel according to date, price and category if you’d like. And frankly, I am also certain that she could appear on the Dr. Oz show as an expert on health matters… well, either that or she could work in a Chinese health store selling bamboo bark tea, tiger penis balm, or eye of newt lozenges.

That being said, knowledgeable in recent lingo or society she is not. Last year I took her to see Eat Love Pray. This was actually the first (and possibly ONLY) movie I’d seen at the theatre with my mom in my whole life. (I had loving older sisters who’d taken me to all the movies my heart desired as a kid – therefore, no mom needed)

As Julia Roberts made her way through her journey of the movie, my mom bypassed the whole plot and was repulsed by the fact that Julia was more or less sleeping her way around the world. She couldn’t get over the fact that she was sleeping with men she hardly knew.  Nevermind that the character found her existence in life … no, she was a tramp in my mom’s eyes.

This brings me to my newest mom-ism.  Mom caught a glimpse of a repeat trailer of a 2009 movie and she called me immediately to tell me that she was appalled at the “garbage” on TV these days. Not knowing what she was talking about, the conversation went something like this:

Mom: Well! I’m just disgusted by the sheer filth they put on TV now.

Me: Oh yah? What’s on? (I could hear her huffing in disgust, and I was assuming she was somehow illegally getting the Hustler or Playboy station.)

Mom: Oh, I don’t know what it was… just something disgusting with that Jennifer Anniston.

Me: (totally baffled as to what Jen could have been in that is so horrible) Jennifer Anniston? What show is on?

Mom: Oh it’s not on right now, it was just a preview of that movie “He’s just not that into you.” Some one of these channels is going to be showing it this week.

Me: (not seeing at all how this could be a vulgar thing) And what’s so bad about that?

Mom: repeating the title again like I didn’t hear her the first time, “HE’S JUST NOT THAT INTO YOU”.

Me: Riiiiight.  I heard you the first time Mom.

Mom: (getting all flustered again). Well, it must be a pornography if they are talking about a man not being in you. It’s just disgusting filth. It’s no use even turning the TV on if this is all the garbage and trash that is gonna be on it.

She went on and on for a solid five minutes of how the TV is nothing more than a slideshow of a modern day Sodom and Gomorrah. Now at this point, I could have told her it had nothing to do with that, but why bother. hahahah… if anything, it’s good for a laugh and even better, for a blog post!

Gosh, I love my mom.  LOL.

Paid $20 to try on a dress…

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You read that right. I actually DID pay $20 to just try on a dress, except it was more like $21.87. No, it wasn’t some high priced couture masterpiece from a well known designer in Paris, and it wasn’t hot off the runway in Milan. Instead, it was a dress I ordered online from a national retail store.

And here starts the reason why I cannot understand for the life of me why anyone shops online for clothing. Okay, so there are the people who have shopped a store and know what sizes fit them in that brand and can freely shop online. But what about a place you’ve never tried?

This week I fell victim like the countless number of other people who have browsed the online stores, fallen in love with an item, had to have it, found themselves hunting for their credit card and making the purchase without so much as a thought. Upon the “check out” section of the website I realized the damn shipping cost of $8.00. I hesitated for a moment (remember, I’m super frugal), but I felt I just had to have this dress.

Imagine my utter disappointment when the dress arrived and after putting it on and looking in the mirror, I realized I would have had the exact same look had I just put on a Hefty garbage bag instead. It wasn’t fitted like in the picture with the uber sexy model who appeared to be on top of the world in this dress. No sir, it just hung on me. I looked like a small child who was just found playing dressup in a short, but oversized muumuu. Not exactly the chic and trendy look I was going for here.

I read the return instructions and thankfully, the return policy was a “no hassle” one.  The following day I went to the post office to send back the garbage bag they sent me instead of the dress I thought I was going to get . It cost me over $12.00 to send it back to the company. Sooooo between the initial shipping and handling charges and now the $$ on postage fees to send it back, and no dress to show for it, I pretty much spent $20 just to try it on.

It grinds my gears to spend that money and have nothing in return. I’ve since decided that I’m banning all online clothing sites from my computer…. well, maybe after one more browsing session… I hear Victoria Secret has a great sale on right now.  ; )