I Was a Teenage Dentist

            Times are hard now, and all we hear is talk about “The Great Recession”, debt ceilings, and the nation’s credit score – apparently the only financing the US qualifies for now is a loan for a 1987 Yugo with no A/C.  Our memories are short, however.  There was another recession in the early 1980s with high unemployment and soaring inflation.  It was during this difficult time, although very young, that I began pursuing alternative methods of frugality to help my family – beginning with minor oral surgery.

            It all began with my younger sister Sarah, who was a preschooler at the time.  She’d developed a large abscess right above her front top teeth.  You know the kind – infected bubbles of putrid pus that seem to pulsate with a life of their – OK, I’ll stop.  Our mother instructed me to get Sarah dressed for a trip to the dentist.  This should have been easy enough, but she (Sarah, not Mom) was an extremely opinionated little heifer and we usually clashed quite violently over wardrobe choices.  Well, now that I think about it that does describe our mother as well. 

            I wanted to dress Sarah in one of the cute, preppy little outfits that were so popular at the time; she wanted to wear a bathing suit, rain boots, and a tutu that had seen much better days.  I wanted to brush and curl her hair and put some adorable little frou-frous in it; she was more into the Rastafarian look that year and refused to allow anyone to touch her head.

            As I eyed Sarah, who was baring her diseased little gums and fanatically clutching a ragged tutu from a dance recital our oldest sister had performed in before I was even born, it struck me.  I was bigger than she was.  At ten I was pretty much full grown, and as a child Sarah was not much heftier than a wet stick.  I calmly laid out the outfit I’d selected, ignoring her growls.  If I could catch her, I was home free.

            “Not wearin’ that!” Sarah screeched vehemently, her clutch on the old tulle nearly shredding it.  She stuck her tongue out at me for good measure.  She had few defense mechanisms against her older siblings, but those she had she was lethal with.  I knew I had to avoid two things; the long, skinny toes that would grip any human limb they could reach, pinching and twisting like a maniacal little lemur, and the tongue.   Sarah would build up as much saliva in her mouth as she could, then slurp her opponent in the most particularly icky place she could think of (generally the ears or face) until spit oozed down your skin and you let go of her.  Navy SEALs have been subjected to this very method of combat, and it has made many a hard man cringe and squeal in disgust.

            I lunged for her, weaving as she dodged around the bed.  I could see her cheek muscles contracting as she slammed her salivary glands into overdrive.  Snarled strands of stringy brown hair danced before me, and I literally seized my opportunity.  I threw Sarah bodily onto the bed and constrained her by sitting on her head.

            Oh, it was a fight, let me tell you.  After struggling mightily to force her into her pants, I got a good solid hold of her wrists with one hand to prevent escape as I grabbed for her shirt with the other.  Her little mouth was open in a furious scream, and I noticed a lovely mess of blood and pus where the abscess had been.  I recoiled with only one thought.

Oh crap.

“Mom!  MOOMMMMMMMM!” the little fiend began to howl, twisting and spitting like something out of an exorcism movie.  How was I going to explain this?  I counted Sarah’s teeth as well as I could without a priest and holy water to make sure nothing else was missing, and then shoved her out the door with an order to go rinse out her big fat screaming mouth.

            I had a bit of a time trying to convince my mother that I’d really done her a favor.  Why pay a dentist to do what I had done for free?  I have to wonder now if my mother hid her face behind a dishtowel because she was trying to mask her hysterical laughter after trying to berate me with a straight face.  I know I would never be able to keep it together if one of my children performed dental work on their siblings by sitting on them.

Always Happy To See You

My twenty-one month old son, Jordan, is a very happy and outgoing boy.  He has the “joie de vive” (joy of life) that most children his age exude.  He never fails to bring smiles to even the grumpiest of faces.  Jordie is just so excited to experience life that he can’t seem to contain himself.

            Take church, for example.  Jordan begins his rounds soon after the service begins.  He makes his way up and down the aisle, stopping at each pew to shake hands, smile and wave to those he can’t get to.  You can almost see the ripple of delight spreading over the congregation.  If he notices someone missing, he points to the empty spot and babbles urgently, as if to ask why that friend isn’t present.  Once he hears music, he races back to our family, opens a hymnal and begins caterwauling at the top of his lungs.  When the song is over, he snaps the book, shouts “All done!” and cheers loudly, much to the entertainment of our music director.  He then resumes his rounds, sometimes offering his greetings two or three times to each pew.

            Jordan is also extremely exuberant in other public situations. At dinner last night, he burst into the restaurant shouting, “EAT! EAT!” to the surprise of both the servers and diners.  He immediately ran to an empty table and yelled “Sit down!” to his grandmother and me.  He didn’t quite understand why we had to wait when there were lots of empty tables.  OK…neither did I.

            Once seated, Jordie took one look at the children’s menu, pointed to the pictures of the food and again screeched “EAT!”  He then promptly balled the menu up and threw it at his unsuspecting brother, bouncing it off his head.  When the server brought his lemonade, he pointed to the kitchen where saw food coming from and again shouted “EAT!”  Nothing his grandmother and I could say or do could quash his enthusiasm.

            Every time a server passed, they were greeted with a jubilant “HI!” and a two-handed wave.  If they were carrying food, they received thunderous applause and cheers of “YAAYYY!!”  It didn’t seem to matter that the food was going to another table – he was just happy that somebody, somewhere got to eat.  By the time our dinner arrived, all the servers gathered around for the presentation of Jordan’s chicken strips.  He was unusually quiet for a moment, then broke into a huge smile and yelled “Tet oo!”

(Thank you).

            When we came in, the servers were harried and just a tad aggravated.  When we left, they were smiling broadly, laughing and waving.  I’m not saying that Jordan is some sort of eternal ray of sunshine spreading giggles in his path (sorry – I had a Rainbow Brite flashback there).  What I am saying is this – next time you see an exuberant toddler chirping and flapping over his latest discovery, let some of that joie de vive rub off on you.  Take a look from a little one’s perspective and enjoy a few moments of innocent joy.

           

End of summer....

Jared and I have just finished reading the original verion of "Through the Looking Glass" by Lewis Carroll.  It was a challenge for Jared, but he really enjoyed it...although he did tell me more than once that the author was a nutjob (haha - if he only knew).

I'm not a big fan of poetry, but I really, really loved the poem at the end, and I thought you all would too.  Before you go, "Whatever!" and stop reading here, give it a shot.  It's a great piece about the end of summer and the end of childhood.  A nice finish, I think, to Jared's babyhood.

Untitled, by Lewis Carroll

A boat, beneath a sunny sky
Lingering onward dreamily
In an evening of July -

Children three that nestle near,
Eager eye and willing ear
Pleased a simple tale to hear -

Long has paled that sunny sky:
Echoes fade and memories die:
Autumn  frosts have slain July.

Still she haunts me phantom-wise
Alice moving under skies
Never seen by waking eyes.

Children yet the tale to hear,
Eager eye and willing ear,
Lovingly shall nestle near.

In a Wonderland they lie,
Dreaming as the days go by,
Dreaming as the summers die:

Ever drifting down the stream -
Lingering in the golden gleam -
Life, what is it but a dream?

Jared Says...

I asked Jared to put a load of clothes in the washing machine for the first time tonight.  He came out with a grin and said, "Mommy, I put the clothes in and put lots of green sauce on top!"  I managed to keep a smile on my face and reminded myself that he was trying to help.  I went to investigate and discovered that green sauce = laundry detergent. The clothes are going to be really, really clean.

Random thought while unloading the dishwasher...

I used to worry because my silverware is an unmatched hodgepodge.  Tonight it hit me...if you're going to compare your silverware with everyone else's, I don't want you to come over to my house anyway.

Dima Says...

Jordan broke our mop recently (don’t ask how – I don’t), and our floors and feet have been suffering.  I bought a Swiffer WetJet, and Captain Cheapo wanted to know why I would buy a $22 baby wipe on a stick with squirty cleaner jets vs. buying a $3 mop.  I told him that the chances of someone in the house other than him actually cleaning the floors now is much, much higher since the boys think the squirty wipe on a stick is great fun.  He thought about this for a moment and complimented me on my smart purchasing decision.  He’s learning.

Karma

I taught kindergarten for seven years.  In those seven years I went through seven first days of school.  They were all pretty much the same – the stress and tension of getting through without losing anyone, while remembering that this one was allergic to chocolate milk, finding out whose parent decided at the last minute to switch the child from bus rider to car rider, and eventually falling into bed at 5PM totally exhausted.  In the frenzied blur of those memories, I always remembered mothers anxiously hovering over their child as they waited for the bell to ring, taking pictures, whispering last minute instructions and warnings.  I remember that many cried as if the child were leaving on a plane and never returning.  My head would shake in disbelief, and I would chuckle in derision at how ludicrous these mother-helicopters were.  The child was five years old, for Pete’s sake…what, do you think I’m going to lose your precious baby?  I know you only met me briefly at orientation, but I have a teaching certificate!  I know what I’m doing, and your child is no different from the two hundred or so other kindergarteners that I’ve taught.  Suck it up, lady…he’ll be fine!

Karma, however, has come full circle to bite me in the butt.  My firstborn, my sweet baboo, my precious Jared will be going to k-k-kindergarten in just a few short weeks.  I am tearing up even as I type this.  Forgive me now, baby boy, because I am going to cry such a river that you’re going to have to kayak to lunch.  You’re only five years old, for Pete’s sake.  Only five short years ago I was swaddling you tight and kissing your thick black hair that smelled so new.  I will only meet your teacher briefly at orientation.  So what if she has a teaching certificate?  Does that certify her to have common sense, to have compassion, and to get you to the right place at the end of the day?  You’re so different from all the other children she’s ever taught…you’re brilliant, funny, loving, and gifted in so many ways.  Will she recognize that your sense of humor is a gift, and that your sarcasm is your coping mechanism?  Will she recognize that you aren’t trying to mount a hostile takeover of her classroom and depose her, but that the majority of your life has been spent in a preschool being raised by your family of teachers?  Will she understand that you only wish to help her, and that you are more than qualified to take the class if she needs to make a quick trip to the restroom?

I can only hope and trust.  I will be waiting impatiently with all the other kindergarten mothers at 2:30 that first day, straining my eyes to see a familiar, chubby little face beaming at me.  He will make it through, and so will I.  Maybe.

Four Imaginary Walls

Humans are strange, strange animals.  People in close proximity with each other, say, in a waiting room or elevator, seem to practice the utmost decorum and inoffensive behavior possible.  For instance, it is an unspoken rule that you must always leave an empty chair between yourself and others.  Always stand a respectful, moderate distance behind others at the reception desk.  Step back to allow the elderly to get where they need to go first.  If I had to hazard a guess, I’d say that nearly everyone follows these guidelines out in public (except New Jersey divas, but that’s a different post).

Elevators require even more militant self-control.  Never, ever make eye contact for any reason.  If you do happen to be caught looking at someone, immediately dart your gaze to the digital readout above the doors showing the floor number.  I do not know who decided that looking at another person in an elevator is akin to having your fly unzipped – I just know that it is an action acceptable only from small children, those with diminished capabilities and nice little old ladies.

The Golden Rule of elevator etiquette however, is the control of bodily functions.  To belch, pass gas, clip your toenails, clean your ears or pick your nose is a crime punishable by death in many countries.  Don’t be shocked…possession of boogers alone will get you twenty-five years hard labor in North Korea.  Watch “The Colbert Report”.  It’s where I get all my news and political information.  But I digress.   How many times have you gotten on an elevator and the lone man on it suddenly stuffs his hands in his pockets and stares at the ceiling like “Sports Center” is up there or something?  Never, ever shake hands with such a man.

This brings me to my point.  I know, you’re thinking, “Fourth paragraph in…finally!” Why is it that when you put a windshield, metal doors, and some windows between people on the road that they completely lose their mind and all the

aforementioned good manners? 

Always stand a respectful, moderate distance behind others.

I can usually smell other drivers’ coffee they’re so close.  I have never understood the need to wait bumper to bumper at a traffic light…we’re all going to get to the next light at approximately the same time, no matter how fast you peel out.  If you want to see this stacking phenomenon in action, visit a preschool class and watch them line up.  They are usually packed so tight on top of each other that the line leader has to get extra stickers for combat duty.  I feel like a broken record sometimes…”Slow down.  The playground isn’t closing.  We will all get there at the same time.  Back up and let the line leader regain blood flow to her extremities, please…” (I actually talk to them like that.  They usually giggle a bit and resume crushing the line leader).

Wait a minute.  Maybe there could be a sign at intersections…”Slow down.  Back up. Taco Bell isn’t closing.  We will all screech to a stop at the next light in approximately 45 seconds.  You are causing the retirees in the Grand Marquis to strap on their oxygen tanks…”

Step back to allow the elderly to get where they need to go first. 

Well, there is a valid argument with this one.  There are approximately 950,000,000,001

senior citizens in Central Florida.  If we let them all go first, the nineteen of us left that are under fifty would be trapped in our driveways.  As long as we can avoid the 30 mile per hour traffic rush during the early bird special at Golden Corral we might make it.

Never, ever make eye contact for any reason.

HA!  Put up four imaginary walls around someone and they turn into Forrest Gump gawking in a store window.  I cannot tell you how many times I’ve glanced over at another car at a traffic light and caught them staring at me, slack-jawed.  I’ve actually checked the mirror once or twice to make sure my nose was still on straight.  I mean, unless you’re next to the Elephant Man at an intersection, what in green gravy could possibly cause you to stare at them like something is spurting out their ears?  Is it just me?  I know I’m not a raving beauty that garners random adoring gazes – the only adoring gazes I get are when I show up somewhere with dessert.  Sometimes I just want to roll down my window and yell, “WHAT????”

I can’t, though.  With my luck, Jared of the Big, Unfiltered Mouth will think it’s hysterical and do it to an unmarked patrol car, carrying an equally unmarked patrol officer.

To belch, pass gas, clip your toenails, clean your ears or pick your nose…

OK folks, these are what floor me.  Granted, we can’t see you belch or fart, and if you can clip your toenails while driving…well, we won’t go there.  But come on….we can see you picking your nose!!  Really!  Would you stand in a room full of giant windows and mirrors with people passing you on either side, trying to find your brain through your nostril??  No?  Then why do you think the four doors of your Corolla form some sort of imaginary force field that no one can penetrate or see through? 

            What is it about those steel sidebars that so drastically changes our behavior and demeanor?  Would you flip Granny the bird if she picked up the copy of “Field and Stream” you had your eye on in the waiting room?  Well of course not…but it’s perfectly OK to scream at her and utilize sign language (not the kind for deaf people) when she isn’t moving those Hush Puppies fast enough across the street. 

Most people just seem to view their cars as an extension of their bodies.  If that’s so…then back up!!!!

From my favorite humorist...

Have you any idea how many children it takes to turn off one light in the kitchen? Three. It takes one to say, " What light?", and two more to say "I didn't turn it on."
— Erma Bombeck

Bad, Bad Equation

Toddler + 20 oz Mountain Dew + hospital waiting room =


a. an idiot grandfather with a vendetta against his daughter


b. 15 minutes of chasing a sugar and caffeine crazed toddler through a hospital floor full of ancient people who thought he was a rabid dwarf on the loose - "Get it out before it bites me!!"(direct quote) from a lady old enough to have cut Methuselah's hair


c. Complete and utter chaos


d.  All of the above plus some

Daddy Saves The Day!

Jared lost his second tooth last night right before bed.  Being the good mommy that I am, I went to my own bed and passed out as Daddy skyped with his brother.  I got up this morning and went to work, completely forgetting about the tooth under Jared's pillow.  Not long after getting to work I had that sudden moment of PANIC!!! and called home to see how bad the emotional damage was and how much therapy Jared would need as an adult. 

Guess who answered the phone..."Mommy!!  Guess what!!  My tooth was still under my pillow this morning."

Crap.

"But Daddy said to look in his wallet and guess what!!  The tooth fairy left $3 in Daddy's wallet for me!!"

I began to breathe again. 

"Really?  Why do you think she did that?" I asked.

"Daddy says it's because there were too many toys on the floor and she couldn't get to my bed."

I am truly amazed that Yakko (my nickname for him - if you've ever talked to him you'll know why) was able to think so fast on his feet.  Good thing there wasn't a $100 bill in that wallet.

It Ain't Easy Bein' Mom

            You never know the rigors of what someone else does until you have to do it in their place.  This goes quadruple for anyone who has to temporarily fill in for their mother or wife. 

            I gained a better understanding of this concept when my mom was hospitalized for two weeks last Christmas.  As our mother’s mobility and vision have steadily declined over the years, my sister Charlotte and I have gradually taken over the more physical and difficult December tasks.  I quickly realized, however, that we were only lowly stagehands in the great Holiday Spectacular, waiting for instructions from Director Mom.  With the Great Multi-Tasker suddenly in Cardiac Intensive Care after a heart attack, Charlotte and I were left staring at each other, mouths agape.  Gifts weren’t bought.  Unbought gifts generally means they aren’t wrapped, either (crap!).  Some food had been purchased, but I had never, ever made a holiday dinner on my own without the benefit of my mother’s bossing – err, supervision, and Charlotte’s greatest culinary achievement is fish sticks.

           

Add on to all of this the stress of running both of our family businesses, closing out the fiscal year, and making sure my own small children had a memorable holiday without Grandma.  I’m still not sure how my sister and I made it to January with our sanities intact.  We cried (rare for us), screamed (not rare for us), made lists, took shifts at the hospital and the office, kept an eye on our aging father, and had marathon gift-wrapping sessions.  Charlotte shopped for gifts for dozens of people until the wee hours of morning, while I ran financial reports and culled the traditionally huge holiday menu down to what I could manage without calling in Rachael Ray.

            We took pictures over the course of her hospitalization of the refrigerator full of food, the counters full of home baked treats, and the growing pile of gifts (wrapped with bows and EVERYTHING!) under the tree.  One of us (I don’t remember who now) even managed to bake up enough homemade cookies to make a whole floor full of nurses happy.  Mom obsessed over what she thought was a ruined Christmas and seemed amazed that we had given up sleeping to assure holiday merriment instead of turning off our cell phones and dashing off to Cozumel.  We insisted on postponing Christmas for the adults until she came home, and she insisted that we have Christmas dinner on the 25^th as we normally do.  As I fed her contraband ham, mashed potatoes, and date pudding I’d smuggled into the cardiac unit, she finally seemed to accept that Charlotte and I had not allowed the holiday to turn into How the Heart Attacked Christmas.

No matter how much I may think my sister and I do for our mom, she’s still the director, and we’re just stagehands.  I’ve now discovered that I am perfectly capable of making a tasty and enjoyable holiday meal, but I still want the presence of a bossy, crotchety old grump at the kitchen table, scrutinizing each of the nine varieties of gravy and squawking over the differences in the way we cook green beans.  I’m sure Charlotte won’t mind chasing behind said grump in the motorized scooter this December, dragging her purchases through the mall until security kicks them out at closing time.  It’s got to be way better than the “Where are you?  What did you buy?” calls every 3.5 nanoseconds.  The heart problems in no way affected her speed in dialing a phone, let me tell you.

It ain’t easy bein’ Mom.  I’ve also come to the conclusion that it might even be just a little harder bein’ Mom and trusting others enough to be you for awhile.

Why does my mother think that if she eats a fattening food in a lot of little tiny pieces instead of one big hunk that she's somehow eating less?

Jared Says...

     I became aggravated with Jared's whining today and whispered in his ear, "Put your big girl panties on and deal with it!"  He looked at me for a long while and finally said, "You of all people should know that I'm not a girl."

Problems with Comments

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Thanks!!

Passing the Buck

     I discovered that I was pregnant in February, and underwent six weeks of ultrasounds and exams before eventually losing the baby in April.  I ended up in the emergency room in June with severe abdominal pain, and discovered the pregnancy didn’t “resolve itself” and had to have medical intervention to end things.  Yes, I know this isn’t funny at all, but trust me...it will be. 

             I received this letter yesterday.

From: Big Clueless Health Insurance Company

            Dear Mary,

Big Clueless Health Insurance Company retains the services of Even More Clueless Recovery Systems to review claims when an illness may have been the result of getting hurt at work, on commercial premises, or a motor vehicle accident.  These are common causes of health problems where other parties could be responsible for paying your costs.

            I could no longer read the letter at this point because I was blinded by tears and accompanying paralyzing hysterical laughter.  Let’s analyze, shall we?

1.      Somewhere, someone who is human should have at least glanced over my case and seen the word “pregnant”.  Logically, the word “pregnant” should have sent up a red flag in conjunction with the words “at work, on commercial premises, or a motor vehicle accident”.

a)      “At work” – This is kinda icky, as I am a preschool teacher.  I’m sure that there are a number of people that get pregnant on the job, but I seriously doubt it can be claimed for workman’s comp.  We don’t even have any male employees, so it would have had to have been one of the kids’ fathers.  That could count as work-related, but on the job?  It would take Jose Baez to try to muddle through that one.

b)      “On commercial premises” – Almost as icky as on the job.  I wouldn’t be surprised if someone got pregnant at Walmart.  I wouldn’t be surprised if a Walmart employee got pregnant on the job and tried to file workman’s comp.  I, however, do not engage in pregnancy-inducing behavior on commercial premises, except for hotels.  If that was the case, I could sue the St. Augustine Holiday Inn for “injuries” resulting in my son Jared.  We probably shouldn’t analyze this angle any further, however, as I don’t want to give lawsuit happy ambulance chasers any more ideas.

c)      “Or a motor vehicle accident” – This has a myriad of possibilities.  Becoming pregnant while operating a motor vehicle could have caused an accident.  Someone else becoming pregnant and then hitting me could have also caused…wait…. no, it couldn’t.  I’m sure some teenager will try to use that excuse one day though.  Maybe being in a motor vehicle accident would have caused me to require consolation from my husband later, resulting in pregnancy. 

2.      I have to respond to this letter through a questionnaire either online or over the phone.  I’m leaning more towards doing it over the phone as that promises to be much, much more entertaining.  The questions are listed below in italics – my possible responses are bolded.

Why did the patient seek medical attention?

As I’m sure my medical records and insurance claim forms clearly show, I was pregnant.  With a human baby. (I include that as these people have already proved to be about as smart as a box of hair).

Were the patient’s injuries the result of a motor vehicle accident?

Unless the conception occurred in a junkyard, no.

Where did the accident or injury happen?

That’s getting a little personal.

Did you file a report of injury?

Not unless sticking my head out the bathroom door and yelling, “Two lines on the stick!  Flush my happy pills!” at my husband counts.

Was settlement or insurance money received from another party?

Don’t I wish.  If I could convince Antonio Banderas that the baby was his, I’d be all set.  Tell him I’m the one from Walmart.

Is the patient represented by an attorney for this incident?

Yes.  I’m suing my husband.  Nancy Grace will be covering the incident at 8PM and 10PM. 

            I’ll let ya’ll know how it turns out.

New Jersey Meets the South

     I was in the local nail salon I’ve been going to for nearly ten years for my monthly-ish (OK, sometimes it’s a bimonthly) pedicure.  The owners are there six days a week, twelve hours a day, helped by one other woman.  The salon is very clean and attractive, and the pedicure you get there for $20 is much more labor intensive with paraffin heel wraps and hot stone massage.  I realize that I have lost any male readers I might have had at this point but two; my husband, who is still choking over $20 being spent on toes, and my brother, who is lamenting over the state of his dry heels.

            While happily dozing through a luscious foot massage, the serenity was broken by the entrance of two women and a group of young girls.  After being cordially greeted by both owners, she announced in a loud and grating voice that she’d called the previous day to set up manicures and pedicures for a large wedding party.  Great, I thought, lots of business for some hard-working people.

            The loud woman, whom I’d by now identified as having both a thick New Jersey accent and even thicker New Jersey diva attitude, began trying to intimidate the owners into doing the mani/pedis with French tips and four designs for only $15 instead of the $42.  The owner obviously didn’t know whether to laugh or get angry.  “You kidding me?” he asked in his Asian accent.  “You want me to do for two-thirds less?  Why I would do that?”  I could see her thoughts plainly – because you’re foreign you must be stupid…therefore I can bully you into doing it for almost nothing.  “Because seven more people are coming and it’s a lot of money.  Can’t you count?”  To my disbelief, she started counting on her fingers like she was giving a two year old gummy bears.  “One, two, three…”

            “I can count,” the owner replied.  “We don’t do nails for free.”  The Jersey Diva became irate and began to shout that she could do the nails much better herself at home.  “Then why you here?” he asked in exasperation.  Finally, after seeing that the dumb foreigners would not sing and dance for a couple of measly bucks, she shouted at the top of her marinara sauce and Jack Daniels coated voice, “You want me to take my money somewhere else?  Huh?  Do you?” 

            “Yes!”  The owner’s wife exclaimed, “Out!  Don’t come in my salon and yell in front of my customers!”

            The owner moves to the door and opens it, hoping Jersey Diva will take a hint.  Seeing this sends her again into hysterics.  “You want me to take my money somewhere else?” she screeches again, looking as if she might have an aneurysm.  “YES!” the clients shout in chorus from the spa chairs, the nail stations, and the drying table.  Jersey Diva spins around and stomps out to the spontaneous applause of the clientele.  The small Divas-in-Training suck their teeth, roll their eyes in disgust, and saunter out behind Queen Entitlement.  The owner shuts the door firmly after them and asks aloud, “WHAT was THAT??”

            That, folks, was New Jersey.  To this day I am amazed at the dramatic differences in regional cultures.  What make some areas prone to the loud, dramatic, and intolerable, while others produce those that are laid back and soft-spoken?  While I realize that I cannot judge an entire state by the behavior of a few, but geez…stereotypes don’t just build themselves, do they?  Bridezilla temper tantrums may be a common sight in the Northeast, but I’ve never seen such a display anywhere but on TV.  My sisters called me a Bridezilla because I cried in frustration over some decorative bows while running on three hours sleep.  You just don’t see this kind of junk down here unless you get a Cuban and a Puerto Rican in the same room and they start debating the proper way to roast pork.

            I guess I just don’t get it.  As a born and bred Southerner, I would rather have my toes buttered and deep-fried than make a public scene over the price of something.  Reputation and family name just seem to something we like to preserve in small town Florida.  Maybe I’m just a dumb Southerner – maybe all transactions in Jersey are conducted in ear-splitting screeches.

            There is a funny end to the story though.  The next time I was in, I asked about the Jersey Diva.  She actually had the nerve to come back in later that day with her entire mafia…err, mob…err, posse trailing behind her.  Having apparently been turned away from all the other nail salons in town (including “Nail So Happy!” – I love that one) she came back to try to strike another deal.  Jersey Diva got shot down quick – even though the salon was empty at the time, she was told that her business wasn’t needed.  Somewhere in central Florida, a New Jersey woman with a hopefully much smaller attitude got married with naked nails and dry heels.

            There is one Southern trait that crosses race, language, and nationality lines…self-respect. 

Mormon Tabernacle Choir Has Their Own Physician? OR Funny Craigslist Scam Emails - You Decide!

My brother Matt is selling his XBox or Playstation or some other vacuous time-sucker on Craigslist.  The following is the exact emails he exchanged with a totally legitimate and trustworthy individual...I mean, I'd give all my bank information out to Dr. Jennifer Thompson...

 

Matt Elmore to Jennifer

It's in perfect condition, and my final asking price is $275.

Thanks Matt,
I got your mail.
The price is ok by me,I reside in Utah but needs to purchase for my Son that traveled to West Africa for his international studies,he is with his Father who was transferred to work at the United States Embassy in west Africa and i want to send him a birthday gift because his birthday is coming up soon..I would have come to pick it up myself but because of distance and nature of my work as a medical doctor at Mormon Tabernacle Choir extension in South Utah,my days are always busy.Please if you do have a paypal account,provide it to me so that I Make the payment to you Or your Full name,Full contact Address,City,State and Zip Code if you wish to receive the money through money order,i can send it straight to your residence.I will be paying you the total of $400 for both the cost price and the shipping...[Please i need the information fast so that your payment will reach you before tomorrow to enable you ship the Packages fast.
Thanks for your understanding.

Dr Jennifer...

Jennifer Thompson to Matt

Matt Elmore to Jennifer

Well let's see. I am a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, also known as the "Mormons". So I'm well aware that being a "doctor at the Mormon Tabernacle Choir" doesn't make any sense at all. It's a singing group, not a place. Also, their headquarters aren't in South Utah. I'm well aware of what you're doing here. This is a scam, and you are a lazy, piece of trash. If I'm wrong, then please, email me you're husband's full name and exactly which American embassy in Africa his works for, and as an American citizen, I will be able to get in contact with him to ensure his actual existence. But as I'm already sure, you are just scum trying to steal from hard working people. I don't even know why I'm wasting my time since you probably won't be able to understand this. From the looks of the grammar, spelling, punctuation, and overall incoherent nature of the email you sent, you can't really speak English anyway. If you have any dignity left after this, then please, I eagerly await your response.
Sincerely,
Please Go Die

I for one am completely shocked that the good doctor hasn't returned his email.

Ten Rules of Jordan

This is kind of a knock off on a tshirt I've seen a few times...I'm sure you've seen it too.  Jordan has recently picked up the word mine, and it's usually screeched at the top of his little lungs.

1. If it's yours, it's mine.
2. If I see it, it's mine.
3. If I want it, it's mine.
4. If I don't want it, it's still mine.
5. If it's on a shelf in a store and is breakable, it's ALL mine.
6. If you take it from me, your sanity is mine.
7. If it actually is mine, I probaby don't want it. Yours is better.
8. If it's not mine THIS INSTANT, I will run to Grandma and cry on her leg.
9. See? Grandma said give it to me. Mine!
10. Veruca Salt has NOTHING on me. It's mine. Trust me.

Crime and Punishment

     A groundbreaking new sentencing guideline for carjacking may soon be considered in Polk County.  You want to steal a car?  Be our guest.  There is one stipulation, however...the sentence for this crime is to be driven by a Federal Marshall from Pensacola to Key West with a toddler, a preschooler, and a CD of nursery rhymes in a Ford Fiesta.

     First time, non-violent offenders will be given a standard set of children who have been given copious amounts of liquids beforehand to assure numerous shrieks of "I gotta pee!", but only in areas where no restrooms are available for miles.  Both children will have been prepped by being extremely well-rested but ravenously hungry.  The sentence will require gas station stops at least every fifty miles for high sugar drinks and chocolately, smeary candy bars, with at least one slushy-type drink being spilled the moment it has been paid for.  Repeat offenders will be provided with a toddler suffering from both a nasty cold and a stomach virus, complete with explosive diarrhea.

     The aspect of the sentence which will be most effective in discouraging future crimes is the intensive, repetitive nature of the toddler's communication.  Very small children have endless persistence and can crush the will and sanity of even the most hardened career criminal.  The constant barrage of screeches..."MINE! MINE!"  "All done!  All done!  All done!"  "Out! Out! OUT!!" can only be drowned out by the relentlessly cheerful perkiness of the nursery rhyme CD.  The choice between the ear-splitting shrieks and enduring one more rabid rendition of "Hickory Dickory Dock" is like being asked to choose between waterboarding and electric shock.

     By the time the thief reaches Tallahassee, he will be begging to be sent to a nice, quiet jail cell.  By Jacksonville his hair will be full of Goldfish crackers and the Slurpee that someone "accidentally" spilled down his back.  I-95 South will be nothing but a redundant stretch of green and brown.  A-1A must be avoided for the protection of the torturers (i.e. children) lest the convicted be driven completely mad, overtake the driver and attempt to drive the Fiesta into the ocean.

   Once the vehicle crosses the Seven Mile Bridge and is met by the Department of Corrections at the Southernmost Point, the carjacker must generally be extricated from a fetal position on the floor of the car.  With shouts of "BYE BYE! BYE BYE!" from the sugar-crazed children, he runs frantically for the safety of the bus filled with rapists and murderers awaiting transport to prison.

     This sentence should not be considered a punishment, but a form of rehabilitation.  Test subjects showed a deep-seated fear of not only anyone under five feet tall, but of all vehicles in general.  It is expected that rates of car theft will fall dramatically, and that theft of cars occupied by children under the age of twelve will be nonexistent.

     Polk County is also considering a pilot program to require that all convicted drug dealers be accompanied by a two year old twenty four hours per day, based on the theory that it is impossible to participate in the sale of narcotics with a small, version of a piranha screaming "MINE!! MINE!!" throughout the transaction.

Jared Says...

     Jared is a major drama king, if you haven't figured it out by now.  He gets bored easily, and spends considerable time dreaming up ways to get out of doing things.  Church is no exception...the teachers in Primary (our children's church) often bring Jared to find us while trying to holding back a smile over the latest reason why he must see Mommy or Daddy.  He usually asks for Daddy, since Mommy figured the game out last November when Jared dramatically "passed out" in the middle of Singing Time.  (He watches too much "House").

     Today's ploy involved Jared needing to speak to Daddy about a "personal problem".  Dima ended up taking him to the bathroom, where Jared complained long and loud about how his butt itched.  When they exited the stall after this diatribe, they came face to face with the Stake President, one of the regional leaders of our church.  He had a broad smile on his face, much to Dima's embarrassment.  Jared was completely unperturbed about the whole incident - after all, doesn't everyone's butt itch at some point?

Sorry, President Sweeney.  I'm sure you learned much more than you expected during your visit to the restroom today.
   

In honor of our trip to see the Beachy Amish in Brandenton yesterday...

Never Throw Fish At a Pregnant Woman

My pregnancies have never been a piece of cake.  We began our family while in our thirties and my body has never truly accepted the fact that every few years an alien parasite is going to invade for nine months.  Sleep towards the end of the pregnancy has always been an elusive game for me.  I’ve tried every pillow, sleeping position, and mattress topper known to man but I still end up lugging myself back and forth between the bed and a cushy armchair.  One wee hour, as I was attempting yet another school bus U-turn repositioning in the bed, I told my dear husband (who by the way DID this to me) that I felt like Shamu trying to perform a flip at Sea World.

          “Next time I’ll toss you some fish”.

          It’s phenomenal how fast you can locate someone’s throat in pitch blackness.  He isn't always so dense though.  He is generally supportive with sometimes hilarious results.  We were sent to the emergency room once during my first pregnancy, and my husband looked gravely concerned on the drive over.  Wishing to reassure him, I asked what he was worried about.

          “Will they give you an RV?”

          “What?”

          “You know...an RV,” he repeated, slowly.

          I had to think about this for a minute.  Maybe the hospital was having some sort of raffle I didn’t know about…you know, “Hey!  You’re the one millionth pregnant chick to waddle through our doors!  Tell her what she’s won, Johnny!”

          “Well, that would be good,” I replied, kinda quizzically.  “We could always sell it or something.”

          “Sell it??”  He stared at me as if I’d lost my mind. “What???”

          “We aren’t talking about the same thing, are we?”  This happens sometimes.  OK, a lot.

          “R…V…” he repeated again in exasperation.  “R…V.  You know, they stick it in your arm with a needle?”

          I was laughing so hard by the time we got to the hospital that I was bright red in the face and panicked some nurses who thought I was in labor.  I just couldn’t get the image out of my head of some poor soul trying to drive a Winnebago with a giant needle between the headlights into a vein in my arm.

          My husband has never seen the humor in this incident.

         

         

Jared Says...

OK, I lied.  Jared hasn't been talking much today...he lost his first tooth last night, and has been completely obsessed with some parachuting soldier toy he bought with TF money.

My nineteen month old Jordan, however, has been in rare form.  I gave him a container of berries to snack on in the family room while I put away groceries.  He was happily stuffing his cheeks like a squirrel when he saw me walk by with a package of cookies.  He slammed the top shut on the quart of berries, yelled "BYE BYE!" and ran interception on the cookies.  He ain't gonna grow up to be a nutritionist, folks.

He does the same thing when Mommy or Daddy are paying more attention to the computer than they are to him.  You haven't lived until you've had a laptop slammed shut on your fingers mid-sentence.

The boss is getting restless.  Gotta go while I'm still able to type.

Two Years, Eleven Months, and One Day

          My husband asked me once why I write everything out longhand before I type.  I told him that the physical act of writing helps me better organize my thoughts and seems to require less editing later on.  He laughed and called me “old school”.  Old school?  Really?  He is two years, eleven months, and one day younger than I am.  Was there a technological revolution in the late ‘70s that I somehow missed?  Somewhere in the years of disco, TRS-80s, and Pong, my pathetic little mini-generation at the end of the Vietnam era was apparently left doddering in the dust with our quills and ink wells. 

          He is a conundrum, and I have finally realized why (although I had to write it out longhand to get it).  Women are not meant to marry men slightly younger than they are.  Cougars and cubs are fine – you expect him to be young and vital, and he revels in your experience and excitement (or so I’m told).  Gold diggers and sugar daddies are fine too – he’s rich, you’re gorgeous and you pretend to be dumb – everybody wins.  It is highly unfair though, at thirty-seven and thirty-four, you require a box of hair color with “maximum 100% coverage for resistant greys!” every four days, and he is despondent to find a single silver hair.  Giggly young cashiers hit on him as the bagger tells you, “Hey! My mom uses that same hair color!”  Your husband is carded while buying Nyquil and men your own age refer to you as “Ma’am”.  It’s OK though.  With a two year, eleven month, and one day longer credit history, my name appears on the house deed first.

          Old school…pfft.  I told my husband that I wanted a minivan with a rearview camera to avoid hitting things – mainly our children.  I have hit the garbage can and recycling bin more times than I care to count.  I ask this for the safety of our offspring and the taillights of the car, I said.  He told me to look behind the car as I was getting in and to strap all the kids in their car seats before backing out.  He thinks he’s so smart.

          He’s really just cheap.

          I mused aloud one day that the baseboards needed cleaning, and as my knees are past their warranty I might offer the eleven year old down the street some money to do them.  My husband gasped and choked until our five year old asked if we needed to throw him back in the lake or something.  “I don’t hire things done in my house”, he scowled indignantly.

          This is a lie.

         

He often asks when my brother and his girlfriend can babysit so that he can get some uninterrupted mommy time.  He had no issue having his father resod the backyard last year while the man was supposed to be spending his vacation with us.  He was thrilled to death when my mother sent her cleaning lady over as a surprise while I was in the hospital with baby #2. 

          OK, Captain Independent Pants.  Here’s your brush and bucket.  Good thing your knees are two years, eleven months, and one day younger than mine.