Competitive Eater

I find it is time for a bonafide rant.
We humans can be, and usually are, our own worst critics. Even so, I believe that I have a pretty healthy body image for someone who readily admits that cotton candy is her Kryptonite. That said, I know I am at least 20 pounds overweight. I do not say this to gain sympathy, to fish for reassurance, because I feel bad about myself, or for any reason even remotely connected to my menstrual cycle. I am not saying this because I'm having a bad day. I am not whining about this; I'm not really even complaining. It is a fact.
Just because it is something I can change does not make it less of a fact. Just because you think, "No! You look great!" does not make it less of a fact. Actually, I feel like I look fine, too. I am proud of my body. It still functions wonderfully: I have my motor skills and all five senses in tact. My body grew and nurtured two entire human beings into existence. I recognize these as feats to be celebrated, certainly I do. But I also must acknowledge that the reason I am not more than 20(ish) pounds overweight is because I watch what I eat (at least I try to in earnest; I really, really do. Damn the inventor of Tiramisu!) and I exercise like a fiend when I can. If I ignore the fact of my extra weight, I only set myself up for further weight gain and all the health problems that accompany it.
So, if I order a salad, it's because that is what I want; don't "That's all you're having?" me. If I turn down your offer of more food, please be aware that your reassurance of my looks is not necessary. It is a difficult task for me to say no to food; please do not try to make it harder for me. Until science figures out a way for you to work off the extra calories I took in by eating that double fudge cookie you offered me, please give me the common courtesy of trusting my judgment about my own body.

Special Birthday Post! It is 1:45pm when I wake up. I eat my favorite breakfast, put some egg nog in my coffee, and get a big hug from my son. While I see the present sitting in my spot on the couch, it will have to wait for everyone to get here. I pick up my daughter from school. It is a warm, beautiful day in mid-December. So beautiful that the ice cream truck is out. The kids play outside. I work out, shower, run errands. When I come home, Husband is already helping to cook dinner for our guests. We make out in the kitchen. Everyone arrives, including my brand new nephew who I get to hold for several long stretches. Everyone enjoys my homemade alfredo. I leave for work, stopping to pick up my favorite coffee drink and pastry- which was the last cheese danish left in the case. I have 10 minutes, so I sneak over to Bath and Body Works to pick up gifts-and I find exactly what I wanted for the recipient. As I'm walking back to my car, it occurs to me that I can't think of a birthday I've enjoyed more. Thank you, family of mine, for making it possible (and a quick shout-out to the universe, for saving me that last cheese danish).

Etiquette Coach

I walked in to Old Navy to exchange some boots. Since I didn't have a receipt, I went straight to the checkout line. There was only one customer in front of me, a woman with two tween girls in tow. One of these girls was sitting in a stroller, legs dangling over the sides so she could scoot herself around. I saw she was doing this before I got in line, and I made sure to give her plenty of space. Very soon, however, she starts backing up straight toward me. The woman she was with was watching her do this, and continued to chat with the cashier. The woman made eye contact with me as I stepped back, and stepped back some more, to avoid the girl bumping into me. The woman continues chatting with the cashier, saying nothing to me nor the child trying to play the world's most unfair game of bumper cars with me. As I am being pushed further toward the back of the store, I decide to simply step to the side, out of the backing zone. Still not a word from the woman to the child.
Now, Mama always said, "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all." Not my mama, but someone's. Also, as an avid reader of Miss Manners, I know there are no occasions for which rudeness is acceptable. In those few minutes, my brain could not conjure a sentence that did not include a) a 4-letter word, b) a command, rather than a request, and c) the need to be spoken with my outside voice -to get this woman to tell the kid to KNOCK IT OFF! So I said nothing. I simply moved out of the kid's way and seethed silently with rage. There is truly no good way to either reprimand someone else's child, or to ask a parent to please remember that people other than their children exist, but I know that part of the reason I couldn't think of anything polite to say was because the devil on my shoulder said, "This lady obviously doesn't give a fuck how you feel, why should you show her any courtesy?" Luckily, Miss Manners won that round, and I will just remain hopeful that there will never be another.

Pilgrim

I'm convinced that I was meant to live in this day and age. Without intervention of modern medicine, my mother and I wouldn't even be here. If by some miracle I had survived my birth, there is a great chance I would not have survived the births of my children. I am painfully intolerant of the cold and am terrified of extended voyages across the ocean. Given that I almost gave up baking my own bread until I got my stand mixer, I can't imagine how I'd do making my own flour. Without my steamer, panini grill, and microwave, I might never cook at all.
As I am preparing some food on Thanksgiving Eve for the big dinner, Husband is lounging around doing absolutely nothing, demanding that I bring him food, water, and medicine like someone who just had knee surgery or something and can't walk - maybe because he did - Missey is underfoot trying to help with every measure and stir, and Bug is QUITITGOSITDOWN! Bug is cranky and needs a bath. Even after his extended bedtime ritual, he doesn't want to sleep. I catch him playing in his room half an hour after laying him down, then he throws a fit. Missey is done grating the cheese and needs another job. My feet hurt, my back hurts, smelling all this food has me hungry, and I'm exhausted. Hectic as all this is, I am grateful for every last minute of it - and not just on this one day.

Remodeler

The building I work in has been remodeled over the last year. I was one of the first to get a new desk - all my own, too - resting comfortably on the stylish new modular carpet. Not that the new stuff wasn't cool, but I missed my old cozy office, tucked away and locked from all but a select few coworkers. The new area was cold, and no space heaters were allowed (which may or may not have to do with one catching fire on my watch). My new computer was missing essential programs that I had to wait to have installed. I realized that as adaptable as I had always believed myself to be, I really don't like change.
I tend to live in the here and now. I forget to take photos of major events because it doesn't occur to me that I will one day be present in a future where I may want to revisit these moments. Even so, I rarely look at old photos, because I know where they are if I want to see them, but I'm too busy right now. The future will come when it comes, and bring with it what it will. The past, I can't change, and has led me to where I am now, which I do not at all regret.
That said, I catch myself using the phrase, "I remember when" a lot. If we ever drive around my town together, point out a building, and I'll tell you the business it used to be before it was the business it is now, as well as who I was with when I used to hang out there. This is why I don't like change: It makes me nostalgic. I don't want to be that guy - "Hey, did I ever tell you about how that Taco Bell used to be-" "YES! You've told me about it!" I accept that change is inevitable, and I wouldn't want to live in any other time than this one. But a large part of me cheers every time they recycle parts of the old house on Extreme Makeover: Home Edition. Memories deserve a place in our now.

Parent's Television Councilmember

I know that topically, this is a few weeks late, but I can't not comment on the Parents Television Council's criticism of the Glee GQ photo shoot. I'm not going to link to it; it doesn't really deserve any more attention. My only comment here is one that goes way beyond this one photo shoot: Just because it was once for kids, doesn't mean it's always for kids. Cases in point: Miley Cyrus on Hannah Montana: For kids. "Can't Be Tamed" video: Not for kids. Justin Bieber: All ages. SNL featuring Justin Bieber: TV-14. Dakota Fanning in Charlotte's Web: G. Dakota Fanning in Hounddog: R. 

If you are allowing your kids to watch, listen to, or view adult content just because a celebrity they like is featured in it, you are not parenting. According to the Parents Television Council, "Many children who flocked to ‘High School Musical’ have grown into ‘Glee’ fans. They are now being treated to seductive, in-your-face poses of the underwear-clad female characters posing in front of school lockers, one of them opting for a full-frontal crotch shot." Um, how are they being treated to these pictures? GQ is a magazine for men. I am not so naive to think kids can't find their own methods of obtaining a copy of the magazine, or finding the pics online; Dad isn't necessarily handing over the mail. But parents should be paying attention to what their kids are watching, even if it features OMGJUSTINBEIBER!

Podiatrist

I have a problem with socks. I have no idea whether anyone else has this problem; it really hasn't ever come up in any conversation I've ever had.  The issue is this: my socks get holes in them. In the heels. The Achilles tendon, specifically. I have no idea how this happens, especially as it usually happens on the first wear, and typically only on pairs I have bought at stores that do not include the word "dollar" in their name.
I understand holes in the toes. I understand holes in the heels (because unfortunately there is not enough pumice and/or shea butter in the world to get my feet to look good in sandals). I do not understand holes developing over the softest part of my foot.
I also do not understand how this happens on the first wear. When this phenomenon occurs with pantyhose - which nowadays I avoid like shows having anything to do with New Jersey - I can usually pinpoint what happened, which was me being careless and snagging them on something. Side Note: this has happened with knit gloves, too. Knit gloves + Velcro = Bad. My socks, however, are safely housed inside my shoes, which should protect them from me and any runnings-in I may have with rough objects. Perhaps this is where I should point out that I am not wearing wooden shoes or anything. Get some meddling kids on the case, because this is a mystery to me.

Age Guesser

I received what I felt was an odd compliment: Our waitress liked my hair (not an odd compliment), "It makes you look young," she said (odd compliment). I felt that this was an entirely different comment than, "That haircut makes you look younger," as fed to you by someone who knows what you looked like before said haircut. But this woman was a complete stranger. To her, I just looked young.
It is not new to me to hear people who know the number of candles on my cake say that I look young for my age. Since I've always been my own age and looked the way I look, I'm not sure what to think of this. I am fortunate to not have wrinkles or to have found any gray strands yet. I know it's coming, and I don't dread it, exactly. I've never been ashamed of my age, and once I begin showing my age I don't see any reason to lie about it.
Thanks to the magic of Facebook, I have seen pictures of the classmates I graduated high school with, and they don't look any older than I do. So, since they are my age and appear no older, how is it I look young for my age? Was my entire graduating class genetically blessed? Is my age reading skewed, or are others'? What is my age supposed to look like?
Obviously there are many answers to that question. Our modern times allow for anyone to appear to be almost any age they choose, with the help of unpronounceable chemicals, poisonous injections, and plastic surgery. I have my doubts that everyone else my age has gone to one or all of these lengths to look younger. Certainly there are those that appear older than they are, but you wouldn't dare tell them this. In fact, pair any two humans of the same age, and some will conclude that one appears older than the other. When a person tells you their age, whether they appear older or younger than that is first, a matter of subjective opinion, and second, completely incidental. Rather than blurting a backhanded, "You look great for your age!" or replying with a quiet I-feel-kinda-bad-for-you-then "Oh," how about we just accept that age looks different on everyone?
I want to add that this is a lesson for me, not a sermon. I've certainly been guilty of trying to gauge how old people are. I've also failed miserably at this, which is why you won't hear me barking at the fair's "Guess Your Age" booth.

Um, Part 2

Okay. Normally I own up to my mistakes, cut my losses, move on. However, sometimes I underestimate my workload and think, "I can still do this!" As is the case when, two months ago, I decided to try to play "catch up" with my blog posts. This actually made things worse, because I haven't wanted to post just one story a week; if I couldn't post multiple articles to cover the backlog I didn't want to post at all. Considering I'm still about a month behind, I think it's time I faced up to the fact that I just do not have the time to do these posts. The time I had is long gone. This is a personal disappointment, because it meant a lot to me, as the aspiring writer I've always wanted to be, to make time to write creatively at least once a week. I'll just be moving forward now, and do my best to go back to weekly updates. And if an extra post or two happens, w00t!

Fad Diet Pioneer 9/15/10

I am overweight. This is just a fact, not a complaint. I eat healthily, and I exercise almost daily, yet overweight I remain. Sometimes I remember to record my meals and count my calories, sometimes (ahem, usually) not.
A friend of mine is underweight. This is her own observation, not anyone else's. She eats healthily, but has a stressful schedule and some medical issues, and so remains underweight.
We trade our woeful "can't lose weight/can't gain weight" stories often. Our efforts toward our goals are earnest.
"I think stress just makes it worse," she says, and a light bulb appears over my head.
"So," I say, "we won't stress over it. We'll start a 'No-Stress Diet.'" We gave ourselves a month. I tried not to weigh myself, so I wouldn't think too much about whether the "diet" was working - which was the whole point, not thinking about it. I gave in about 3 weeks in.
"I couldn't resist anymore," I confessed, "and my weight is the same." My friend's weight was also about the same.
While I'll need to delete my manuscript of the - I was sure - best-selling fad diet book of all time (it's ok, I'll make my bajillions of dollars elsewhere), I took comfort in the fact that if I simply trust myself to make the right food choices (however grudgingly), and to keep exercising, I will be fine. I won't balloon to a triple-digit BMI as I secretly feared. My pants will still button. When I am ready, I will count calories again so that I can be sure I am consuming fewer than I currently eat, but even then, I don't have to stress over it to make it work.
Before I delete that manuscript, though, do you suppose anyone would be in the market for a book on how to maintain one's weight? Anyone? Bueller? Bueller?

Friend 9/8/10

I've been unfriended. I am not a friend collector, so my number of Facebook contacts is small. Tidy; you can call it tidy. So I noticed when my number dropped recently. I couldn't figure out who it was for a while, so I guessed it was someone who wasn't really using Facebook anyway and closed their account. The fact that it was someone whose posts I didn't miss meant that it was obviously someone I wasn't close to, so I was not offended by the thought that my guess could be wrong and I was unfriended.
Offended still is not how I would characterize what I felt when I discovered who was missing from my friends list. Especially after reading this article on whether it's okay to unfriend acquaintances. What I felt was confused. The person is a friend from high school, who I hadn't spoken to since, and I'd only sent the friend request a few months ago. I would not have been upset if my request had been ignored in the first place. Since it was approved, I am left wondering if I offended my friend in some way, or if she, like myself, was simply keeping her friends list tidy. On the other hand, do I really want to know? I would certainly never put someone in the position of having to explain why I was removed from their friend list.
If I offended her somehow, I don't want to defend myself, or apologize: All of my Facebook friends are adults, and must know that on the Internet, offensive things lurk. If you are the type to unfriend someone whose viewpoint you find disagreeable, then I am relieved to no longer be on your friends list.
I don't think that was the case, though. Facebook is how I've reconnected with many people I hadn't had contact with for years, and I realize that I don't have a lot in common with many of them. We find people, we friend them, we learn what they're currently up to, and that's about it. What more is there to say? The thing I love best about Facebook is that I know where to find people if I need to. Just know that even if I don't comment on your status or message you directly often - or ever - doesn't mean I don't want you as a friend. I'm really just lazy.

Barber 9/1/10

It's been 6 months since I shaved my head for St. Baldrick's, and I only just now need a haircut. The back grew too long, and my head was looking mullety. I hate it when my husband asks me to straighten up the back of his hair after he buzzes it, so I was reluctant to ask him for help trimming mine. But it had to be done, or I was going to lose a little more sanity each time I looked in the mirror. That lasted a couple of weeks, and now it's too long again.
My son also needs a haircut. My husband said I could decide when to cut it, and I love him for that. Bug's curls are adorable, and as wild and unruly as he is. I love ruffling his hair, calling him Mop-Top. I also put off his haircuts because I have cut his hair before, and while it turned out okay, it is not an endeavor I wish to undergo again. He is squirmy, that one, and my nervousness keeps me slow. Bug, however, has begun to notice his appearance. "My hair is cut wrong," he tells me, "I want it cut nice." "Like Daddy's?" I probe, not completely sure what he means. "Yeah, like Daddy's." Now I'm sure: he means buzzed. I suppose it's not just my decision anymore. Darn it.
I also tried trimming my daughter's hair not long ago, got maybe half an inch off (she needed much more), and was too afraid of messing up to continue. My mom used to trim my, and my siblings', hair all the time. I wonder if she got better with practice, or just assumed we'd never notice if our bangs were crooked. Then again, my mom can do plenty of things I can't do, like sew, bake a dish only once a year without needing a recipe, and use a hot glue gun without burning herself. Time for me to make appointments.

Life Coach 8/25/10

I am generally unadventurous. Bungee jumping? Only if I measure the cord myself, and it measures within my armspan. Cliff diving? Uh-uh. Spelunking? Never. Creepy old house? "No thank you," you hear, my voice quickly growing faint as I run to a safe distance of 3 towns away. Leisurely cruise? Ha! I've seen Titanic. But I love myself a good thrill ride. Amusement park, state fair, or carnival, I am in line for the biggest, baddest ride I can find. Rides that made me weep with longing when I was pregnant. Rides that are high off the ground, fast, dizzying, stomach-dropping, and preferably invert my person at some point. Rides with long lines that lesser-gutted people drop out of as the anxiety overwhelms them. Rides that are terrifyingly fun. In short, the awesome ones.
If I don't choose the right company to go to the fair with, I end up riding these rides by myself, or not at all. My sister - who lives out of state, naturally - was once the only one who would go on these rides with me, but now my daughter is growing to love these rides as well. Missey's been waiting impatiently to grow tall enough to ride the bigger rides with me, and I can't wait. Even last year, she was tall enough for many of them, and she and I had a blast riding together. She has yet to learn the lesson of inviting like-minded friends to the amusement park.
For her birthday this year, she wanted to go to the amusement park, and was able to invite a friend. This friend has a season pass to the amusement park, so, Great! I thought, she'll enjoy it. I didn't know until we started deciding which rides to go on, but when Friend had warned us earlier that she doesn't like roller coasters, she meant she was afraid of heights. I couldn't help but feel bad for Missey. Since her growing efforts over the past year had paid off, she was itching to ride the bigger rides, but chose not to, because her friend wouldn't. I expected disappointment, frustration, and even a little whining, but got none of those. "If Friend isn't happy, I'm not happy," is what I got. I guess the lesson my daughter has learned - one that I didn't understand until I was much older, unfortunately - is that even if it is your birthday, when the thing you want makes someone else unhappy, you won't enjoy it. 

Communications Coordinator 8/18/10

I need a new phone. I'm not intimidated by technology - I worked technical support for years - but I do get easily overwhelmed with decisions. I am switching to one particular carrier, but even so there are a lot of phones to choose from. Blackberry? Windows Mobile? Android? Apps! I need apps!
My current phone has suited me fine. As with anything, there are pros and cons, but I'm not sick of my phone yet, even after two years. I just need my new phone to do everything my current phone does, and sure, I'll take an extra app or two. One more thing: can I please get phone calls this time?
I've had service with my current carrier for a few years. In that time, I have heard several times, "I tried to call you," only to realize that at the time they tried to call, my phone was sitting right next to me giving me the silent treatment (Come on, baby, I swear I barely glanced at that new iPhone, and I swore I would never do it again. Why can't you forgive me?). This issue occurred on two phones with this carrier; it has to be a service issue. I can compare phone features all day, but will still be taking a leap of faith as to whether my calls will come through with any reliability. Now that my husband is already using the carrier I will be switching to, we have discovered that he does not receive my texts, and I do not receive his calls. Ever the problem solvers, we decided that if he needs me he will have to text me, and if I need him I will have to call him. We are hoping that when I switch to his service we will have the freedom to choose our methods of communication, but until then, we will be playing phone-then-text-then-phone tag.

Yard Seller 8/11/10

I have junk. Lots of it. It's in my garage, and I'm pretty sure while I'm not looking it encroaches inch by inch onto the side of the garage reserved for my car when it snows. "Yard sale," I promise myself every weekend, but never act on. Until I did.
My mom knows two Internet presences: Hotmail and Craigslist. Wednesday we decided on the garage sale, and her first thought was, "We have to post it on Craigslist. SomeoneIKnow posted hers on Craigslist and had all kinds of people." This was one on me: I am always on the interweb tubes and had no idea people searched Craisglist for garage sale listings. But list our yard sale we did, complete with hours and directions. And come, people did not.
We also put up signs at the major intersections near my house. There were some customers, but it was not the bustling flea market I'd hoped it would be. The salt on the wound was that I happened to be reading a novel that opens with a yard sale in which our beloved main character pockets $1600.00. How is that even possible? In my experience, junk unloaders will sell you 5 coffee tables for a dime. We were selling clothing for a quarter per item, but it wasn't really moving. If it had, that $1600.00 would totally have been mine. If only I knew the secret formula for turning my no-longer-needed wares into glittering gems that cause those quarters to leap out of the bargain shoppers' pockets. Until then, donation will be my decluttering solution.

Fire Marshal - 8/4/10

My address is a city address, but technically I don't live in the city. Therefore, the city fireworks restrictions don't apply to my neighborhood. Everyone in my neighborhood knows this, and takes full advantage for several days surrounding Independence Day. This practice was hair-raising when my son was afraid of the constant pop of firecrackers, but luckily now it's just nerve-wracking, waiting for the errant ember to set the house ablaze.
We were on vacation until July 3rd this year, and it was a stressful time for my son and I. As a parent, I realize my mistakes in hindsight: no naps, not enough playtime, not enough attention, no Mommy/Son quiet time, Mommy didn't leave enough room in her suitcase for patience. However, even in the best of circumstances, Bug is a handful, and his behavior was no less frustrating at the time. Add to that my husband had to extend his business trip for 3 more days, so it was just Bug and me, alone, for longer than I'd expected. I was simply worn out. Worn. Out. I was just ready for things to get back to normal, so I didn't plan on doing anything - not a single thing - on the 4th of July. If I'm being perfectly honest, July 4th is Husband's holiday - he usually plans our fireworks viewing. Given that he wasn't home, I especially wasn't motivated to go anywhere.
So we didn't. Bug and I slouched together on the couch as I introduced him to James and the Giant Peach (which, for days afterward, he would beg to watch again and again, and I secretly cheered each time). We watched the movie until Bug noticed the increasingly louder popping.
"What's that noise?" he asked me.
"Fireworks, buddy."
He runs to the window and marvels. The downstairs windows don't get the best views of the pyrotechnics going on, so we moved upstairs. I picked him up so he could see out of my bedroom window. Because these aren't professional fireworks shows, the displays can be sporadic, but they can also be quite impressive. We stood there for hours in the dark, mostly quiet but for a few naturally-curious-boy questions, oohing and aahing while I cuddled him, and enjoying how it was just the two of us slowed down in a calm, quiet moment.
The Independence Days before this one I would wonder, "Where is the fire marshal when you need one?" but this year I was only concerned with that stillness in the shared anticipation for the next big firework, and the excitement when we saw it, as I reconnected with my sweet baby boy. This was the vacation we needed.

Beauty Editor 7/28/10

Makeup has been on my mind a lot lately. Aside from the quest for the perfect lip gloss that will never end, my mascara is clumping and my concealer (unsurprisingly) runneth low. Anytime I consider buying new beauty products, I consult a couple of magazines' "Best Of" lists. A lot of times I end up testing the recommended product, twirling it in my hand, reading the ingredients, mulling over the (usually high) price, putting it in the basket...and then putting it back after I've decided on something else. For me, the buying decision typically ends up being based on instinct. Even when I have purchased the year's best lipstick, I've been disappointed. Buying makeup is always a chore, and these lists are supposed to make it easier, but not for me. I really can't help but wonder what I'm doing wrong when my eyes look like I pasted tarantulas on them after applying the latest volumizing-curling-lenghthening-strengthening formula mascara, and my undereye circles peek out like fresh bruises under the new improved no-more-undereye-circles-guaranteed! formula concealer. 
Here's my proposition for you beauty editors out there: Stop using average people to test these products; or do, but put them in extreme conditions. Example: I am not your average shade of pale. There is Simpson in my DNA, judging by my skin tone, only paler, like if Lisa ever discovered WoW and had only the glow of her monitor to bask in for 7 months. Let me be the judge of which eyeshadow/blush/lipstick "flatters every skin tone." Example 2: I have average skin texture at sea level, but a mile above that I turn into a Komodo dragon. It takes a heavy lotion, Olympic timing, aligning moon cycles, and witchcraft to keep my skin moisturized for any length of time. Send one of your colleagues up here to the mountains to test the latest Jergens formula and see if she isn't disappointed after 5 minutes. 
I suppose there are more "average" women out there than there are women like myself, or they wouldn't be considered "average." I'm guessing. You want a large reader base, I understand, so you cater to average women. You give them affirmation, coddle them, chew their food for them. But I also suppose your average woman doesn't really have trouble walking into a drugstore, picking a shade of lipstick, and being satisfied with it. Meanwhile, the rest of us stare at ourselves in the makeup counter mirror, at the ghastly oh-so-wrong blush on our cheeks, "This is the best for fair skin?" we think incredulously, "What's their definition of 'fair?' Jennifer Lopez?" We - your not-so-average - are the ones who need help, here. So how about it, beauty editors: once a year, at testing time, round up a few testers on the extreme ends of the spectrum and publish their results. It's what I would do if I were in your shoes.

Credit Underwriter 7/21/10

I have had a Target card for several years now. My credit limit has remained exactly the same for all those years, until recently. My credit limit went from a very reasonable discount store limit of $200.00, to a whopping, and completely unreasonable for a discount store $2,000.00. I don’t know if it’s even possible to spend that kind of money at Target. You would have to buy most of the store to even approach that figure. I would love to try, except for the whole having-to-pay-it-back-plus-interest “catch” that comes with most credit cards. I appreciate (I guess) the gesture, telling me in no mistakable terms that I am wholly trustworthy when it comes to giving money to Target. But really, who made that call, a former mortgage lender?
I've never been a credit underwriter, but are you sure that someone who racks up $2,000.00 at Target has the means to pay it all back?

Book Collector 7/14/10

I should have seen the Nook coming for Mother's Day. I'd been discussing them for a while, unsure if I really wanted one. I don't buy books for myself. I buy them for others, quite often, actually; and I read them, of course, but they are almost always borrowed when I do. To me, buying a book you've never read is like buying a DVD of a movie you've never seen. You may love the author's/director's previous work, but that doesn't guarantee you're going to like this one. So my book collection is slim. Very slim. I-don't-even-have-bookshelves slim. I only buy books that I love; books that when I am out of other reading material I don't mind revisiting. This is why I didn't buy an e-reader years ago. Fortunately, the Nook supports e-pub format, which means I get to borrow the e-books from the library. What! I know.
The surprising thing is that the Nook has actually gotten me to purchase books more. I've still done my fair share of borrowing, but since Mother's Day, I have purchased 3 books. That's about 3 times the number of books I've purchased for myself each year prior to this one. Blame it on my being a sucker for cool electronic gadgets, I guess.
I'll never be the expert who enters used book stores trying to find the first edition of an obscure 19th century novel to add to their reading room (complete with laddered bookshelves!), but I haven't minded adding to my tiny collection, even as I acknowledge I was tricked into it by a shiny novelty device.

Vegan 7/7/10

My husband went to California on a business trip. During this trip, he visited a vegan restaurant. I am not vegan, but I am thoroughly jealous. Life is hard enough being a vegetarian; I can’t imagine trying to attempt veganism. Being vegetarian means asking questions about nearly every dish at nearly every restaurant – including salad. To eat at a restaurant where I wouldn’t have to ask a single question about where a dish fell on my dietary chart would be pure heaven. My husband loves meat; the universal imbalance of his getting to go to a restaurant the likes of which I can only dream is astounding. He is now, and will be for quite a while, in trouble for this.
“I brought you back a menu,” he tries to console me.
A menu? To perhaps muffle my aching sobs and absorb my bitter tears with?! You’re killing me!
“Why would you tease me with a menu?” is what I actually ask.
“I thought you could get some ideas from it. And there’s a recipe on it, too.”
“Oh. That’s cool.”
“And there’s a website, and the chef also sells cookbooks.”
I checked the restaurant, just to be sure, but alas, there are none of these restaurants anywhere near me. So for now, I have no haven for safely meat-free fare except my own kitchen. Good thing I like to cook. Even if I didn’t, I think I’d still like it better than asking, “Is there chicken broth in your spinach-artichoke dip?” whenever I tried a new restaurant. Worse, sometimes I forget to ask entirely. If I were vegan I'm not sure I could ever eat out. "What's your soup of the day?" "Tomato." "Great! I'll have tha-" "Tomato Creme, with Parmesan croutons." "Okay, how about spaghetti with tomato sauce?" "Oh, you'll love it, we actually use egg noodles, and our tomato sauce is made with a beef broth to give it a hearty, smoky taste!" "Fine, I'll just have a salad, then." "Sure, would you like Caesar, Ranch, Thousand Island, or Light Ranch?" "Actually, I'd like a menu for another restaurant, if you have it."
I'm sure I'd learn how to get along without any animal products whatsoever, but for now, the above scenario plays like a broken record when I consider this lifestyle change, so I'm going to leave it to the more seasoned vegans. ...And remain jealous of Husband's good fortune.

Flyer - 6/30/10

It’s 10:00am the morning of our departure date, and we’re rushing around like headed hens (I prefer hens that way) finalizing the packing, loading, and basic grooming so we can get the heck to the airport. Actually, I’m getting ahead of myself.
It’s 10:00pm the night before our departure date, and I have just given my son his antibiotic for his 4th ear infection of the year. We are getting all the clothes washed and dishes done. Bug stands in the living room, and begins vomiting. Husband grabs him and rushes him to the bathroom as Bug is heaving, leaving a trail of half-digested – nevermind, I’ll just say grossness – behind. Apparently Bug is allergic to this antibiotic, as well as amoxicillin. Go figure. It is also late Friday night, which means the following day is Saturday, and quite a busy Saturday at that, so too late for me to call in and attempt to get a replacement medicine. Go figure. While Husband is tending to Bug in the bathroom, I immediately arm myself with paper towels, hot water, and disinfectant and begin cleaning up the mess. It’s not an easy job, and only adds to the delay in the getting-ready-to-go schedule. Having done the best I can, I sprinkle baking soda over it to keep our home from smelling terrible when we get back, and we go to bed.
Cut to 10:30 the following morning. Packed and car loaded up, we head to the airport. Husband’s flight (to another state, on business) leaves just after mine and Bug’s, so Bug rides with Husband to the airport. I’m following Husband’s truck. This is embarrassing, because I have lived and driven in my city for 15 years. I know my way around. What I don’t know is whether I need to turn left or right at a particular interchange to head south to the airport. It’s right; I am in the left lane. Naturally. So I miss my turn. The only place to turn around at this point is a mile down the road.
I call Husband, “I saw you in the left lane, so I got in the left lane, and I didn’t see you get in the right lane so I missed the turn.” I don’t add, “If I’m failing this spectacularly without the hyperactive preschooler with me, how on Earth am I going to pull this off?” And I breathe deeply the rest of the way to the airport.
Weeks ago I had the brilliant idea of attaching the car seat to the top of my rolling suitcase instead of purchasing a luggage roller for it. I even practiced at home, and was pleased with the results. Now that I am parked 20 miles from the terminal (okay, not even one mile, but still really, really, really, extremely very far away – almost as far away as one can park and still be charged $8.00 a day for parking) realize that I was not fully packed when I attempted this, nor did I have my enormous backpack on. I am having a difficult time. I am stopping often, and unable to keep up with Husband and Bug. Husband offers to help, but I won’t have his help coming back, I remind him, and need to do this myself, thank you anyway, I love you, too. I am sweaty and the car seat is banging against my arm, sure to leave a bruise. I switch suitcase-dragging arms often. I take a corner too quickly and the suitcase and car seat fall over. Not even five minutes into this trip, I have sworn to purchase a luggage cart for the ride home.
I check in with a live human, who is wonderfully cheerful to me despite my wonderfully un-cheerful demeanor. Our seats? Side-by-side. Score! Onward to security.
For a small airport, the line is long. When our turn arrives, I ask if there’s a slow line, because we’re going to be a while. “That’s okay,” the TSA agent assures me.
I have forgotten what to do between my last flight one year ago and today. I have lost Husband since checking in, and now Bug and I are about to take our shoes off and get X-rayed. The shoes go into a bin and through the machine. "Uh, I'm not sure how to do this," I gesture to the car seat/rolling suitcase combo. I am told I have to detach them from each other. Sigh. "Ma'am, you'll have to put your wallet in a bin here," I'm instructed, not having realized I was even still clutching it in my sweaty little hand. "Ma'am, his toy will have to be put in a bin as well," I'm further instructed, not having imagined I would have to pry Bug's best friend Scratchy Puppy from his sweaty little hands. Luckily he doesn't protest too much about parting with Puppy. He does protest about walking through the metal detector. I have to carry him through. On the other side, after passing the extra screening our medicine requires, and being reunited with our disjointed stuff I sit Bug down in a small chair and attempt to re-pack. Bug disappears. "Bug!" I shriek. "I'm right here," says a small voice in a chair of his own choosing. "Don't move!" I sternly command, "I have to get our stuff, then we'll get on the airplane." My attempt to be cheerful there may be mitigated by my clenched teeth; I cannot be certain.
At this point, it has been an hour or two since the application of my antiperspirant, to which I must give a failing grade. Come on, Degree, don't you have a "Too-heavy-suitcase-and-hyperactive-preschooler-going-through-post-9/11-airport-security-Mom" formula? What are you paying your researchers for?
Security screening over with, I begin to relax. Plenty of time before the flight. After a few minutes, Husband joins us. We eat brunch. The stress is lifting for the moment.
Next we head to our gate. I seat Bug and I at the end of a row of chairs, across from a single gentleman working on his laptop. The gentleman promptly moves. I imagine he didn't want to sit next to a bouncing preschooler and his sweaty, crazy-eyed, shrill-voiced mother, and I can't be offended. Within a few seconds of our arrival, Bug pushes the car seat/rolling suitcase monstrosity over. It lands directly onto the seat Single Gentleman had just abandoned. If I had the presence of mind, I would have asked Apparently Psychic Single Gentleman to tell me if my Partylite investments will ever pay off, but I do not. Our flight is delayed, and Husband's is not; he has to leave us to catch his plane. The stress has settled back in. Bug is stressed as well, and not afraid to let me know. He will not sit still. He wants this, he wants that, he DOES NOT WANT the other. Where is Daddy? He wants Daddy. Is Daddy coming back? He will not be comforted. He loses a toy.
When it is time to board, I do not make it to the line fast enough to board early to get the car seat installed. It takes forever to install the thing. I am still quite sweaty from physical exertion, stress, and the embarrassment of holding up the passengers behind me. Bug is not excited about the flight, as I had anticipated. I try in earnest, but am unable to prevent him from repeatedly kicking the seat in front of him. Deja vu: He does not want to sit in his car seat. He wants this, he wants that, he DOES NOT WANT the other. Where is Daddy? He needs to potty only at the end of the 2-hour flight, just as the "Fasten Seatbelt" signs are lighting.
I wait for everyone else to deplane before I even attempt to. As I watch the bruises form on my arms in all their purple glory, I promise myself I will travel lighter - and buy a damn carrier for the car seat! - next time. I promise myself that unless I absolutely have to, there won't be a next time. As my sweat glands will attest, flying is most definitely not something I am cut out for.

Advice columnist - 6/23/10

I have a kind face. It’s a curse. While shopping at a thrift store, about to try on some clothes, a woman pops out of an adjacent dressing room, contorting herself to view the pants she’s wearing and asks, “Are these okay?” Because I have made the mistake of answering someone who is actually talking to a Bluetooth headset before, I hesitated. She looked directly at me. “Um, yeah, they’re nice pants,” or something else generically approving was my reply. The pants were actually a handful of sizes too small for her. Did she really expect honesty from a complete stranger? Since I was a complete stranger, not likely to ever see her again, should I have given it to her? Moments later, she did it again. “Those pants are better than the others,” I honestly replied, in all honesty being perfectly honest this time. They were still too small.
Having a kind face - an approachable, even inviting face – is as much a curse for the people who approach me as for myself, because I will be nice. I can’t help it. My mother tells me all the time that I’m too nice. I’ve learned that I simply believe it to be better, when a stranger approaches my kind, trustworthy face, not to betray that trust with hostility or suspicion. Obviously a woman who will ask a stranger’s opinion of her appearance needs the reassurance; what does it cost me to provide it to her? A strange man who approaches me in a grocery store parking lot to ask me on a date while I’m wearing my most unflattering sweater and with my 5th-grader in tow - here I’m assuming he wasn’t doing this as part of some joke or dare - is choosing a very non-threatening target for a reason; I could be silently suspicious of him later, but at the moment there was no reason to insert sarcasm or acidity when I informed him of my marital status, and as he slinked back to his car muttering, “Yeah, I should have known,” I believed I had made the right choice. Besides, I read Miss Manners; I know even when asserting yourself you should remain considerate of others' fragile feelings. 
Perhaps that's it: I missed my calling. Perhaps this is the face of an advice columnist, the photograph of whom, showing the slightest of smiles, is placed to the left of the warm, comforting answers to the readers' dilemmas. The unfair advantage being allotted the time to ponder my answers before they're dispensed, as opposed to needing to come up with a better answer than, "Uh," when asked if these towels match this shower curtain. I am doubtful, though, seeing as how I'm already amazed at what a fellow human will ask a complete stranger; I'm not sure I would be willing to volunteer to have these queries thrust upon me. Better leave it to the professionals.

Travel Agent - 6/16/10

I'm going to be traveling with my three-year-old this summer - just me and my three-year-old. I am terrified. Imagine the Tasmanian Devil, of Looney Tunes fame. Now imagine him as a child, when he had even more energy. Now imagine trying to hold him on a leash, pulling a rolling suitcase behind you, a backpack weighing you down, and a car seat in the other hand. Did you notice that in this scenario you need three hands? For added fun, the Tasmanian Devil will have to be somehow persuaded to wait patiently while you have his medications screened. Just an extra challenge that you know will make you feel even more accomplished as you sit on the airplane, mocha in hand, having quite comfortably made first boarding call.
Then I wake up to the cold realization that the trip remains weeks away, and remember to add floss to my packing list. Also, the flight has yet to be booked.
The only travel arrangements I have ever made have been for myself alone, and luckily I require only one seat. So after choosing a flight that arrived at a decent time of day, had the website not asked me to choose seating, I may never have considered that our seats might be separate. But there I was, staring at the two remaining available seats, several rows apart. Crap. I can just imagine myself in row 19, sipping my coffee, reading my new book, while in row 27 some innocent businesswoman by-sitter has to pause perfecting her financial charts and graphs every twenty seconds to pick up the car my son vroomed right off the tray. Next flight, then.
Only the next flight didn't give me seating options whatsoever. I called the airline. No guarantees. Really? He's three. How can they not seat me with him (see above scenario with frustrated businesswoman)? Next flight: arrives late at night. Sigh. I vent all this frustration to Husband.
"They can't not seat you with him. How could they put him with strangers? Lawsuuuuuit!" he reassures me, "Besides, the flight attendants will ask people to move, and they will. Someone will." So I imagine myself, on a flight alone, being faced with the choice of giving up my window seat, or being seated next to the Tasmanian Devil. Who needs a window seat anyway? So, comforted by Husband, the no-guaranteed-seat flight it is. I'll just take the airline rep's advice and get to check-in extra early to sort this out. These arrangements were such a headache, and I'm still a bit uneasy about it. Sure, passengers may move to accommodate us, but happily? Unlikely. I think most passengers are stressed out enough trying to get to their destination that playing musical cramped-airline-chairs isn't going to add cheer anyone up. Hopefully that won't be necessary. Perhaps what is necessary is to leave these arrangements to a professional travel agent next time. If for some reason my seat isn't adjacent to my son's, I won't stress. Hey, the seats were purchased by a pro. He must know what he's doing. How you doing back there, frustrated businesswoman? Heheheheheheh.

Um.

My vacation in June really set me back, and this blog has been as neglected as an original XBox.  I'll be trying to make up for this over the next couple of weeks. I'm going to add what should have been the original post date to the title. Here we go.

Fashion Expert

My daughter wants to be a fashion designer. She loves buying clothes, wearing clothes, accessorizing her clothes. I support her a thousand percent. I just don't know where she got her love of fashion, because it's not in my DNA. For most of my life I just wore anything comfortable, no matter how ill-fitting and unflattering. I'm still a jeans-and-t-shirt gal 99% of the time (although living in a cold climate, those t-shirts are usually covered by a sweater, a hoodie, and a coat), and sometimes I wonder if I embarrass her. She has tried to tell me before that I need new clothes, so it's a sound theory that I do.
Right now I am working toward fitting back into my cute shorts. I just bought them last summer, when I could fit into single-digit-sized pants. The last few months haven't gone so smoothly, weight wise. My willpower hovers between non existent and I-wish-I-was-pregnant-only-so-I-could-justify-this-binge-right-now. The end of one meal is just the beginning of a countdown to the next (yeah...it doesn't sound healthy to me, either). In the meantime, shop for fitting shorts I must!
Clothes shopping is always a challenge. I'm petite but not skinny, so when confronted with my body type, designers - well scratch that, I don't think clothing designers have ever been confronted with my body type. I picture Vera Wang with her sketchpad, being presented with my measurements, and the room quickly filling up with smoke as her brain overheats trying to process how to flatter my frame using only fabrics which have already been invented. "Five foot one? But not a size 0? How..." an assistant quickly hands her a paper bag to breathe into, "And full-busted? It's not possible! It's against the laws of nature, physics, and Chanel!" 
This is probably completely unfair of me, picking on Vera Wang, about whom I know nothing except her name and the fact that she designs clothing - oh, and has guest-judged on Project Runway. Still, you don't see me in any of her dresses, do ya? Well, no, you're right, I really don't wear dresses if I can help it. Right again, I don't really have the money for designer- WHOSE SIDE ARE YOU ON?!
Getting back to my original point, before I pissed off Vera Wang (that is, if either of you reading this are friends with Vera Wang) - clothes tend not to fit me correctly. I happy dance in the fitting room whenever a pair of jeans labeled "petite" isn't too long. I then have to try not to pee those pants if they are also a single digit in size. Shirts...well, are another matter. I have to buy up in size due to my (ahem) chest circumference, then they're too long and/or become shapeless on my frame. When that doesn't happen, you guessed it, more happy dancing. Stacy London and Clinton Kelly tell nearly all of their makeoverees that clothes can be tailored, which may be something the experts have time to do, but in my experience it's just easier to whine about clothes not fitting straight off the hanger. Know which clothes tend to always fit correctly off the hanger? Jeans and T-shirts. Fashion Expert: No. Comfortably dressed: H-E-double-hockey-sticks Yeah.

Feng Shui Consultant

Husband and I whisked ourselves out of town (30 whole minutes from the house!) for our anniversary this year. We talk about it every year, this is one of only two years we've done it. Another thing we often talk about is building our dream home. I've sketched floor plans, he's tried to talk me into purchasing expensive software so he can show me his ideas - in 3D! I have a basic idea of what I want at this point. I'm not sure houses don't already exist with all the features I want, so I've kept my mind open to pre-owned houses as well. Not to mention my love for quirky old homes in our city's oldest district. We even owned one when we first got married, but the repairs outgrew our budget, and we had to sell it. So when I saw that the B&B where we stayed was an 1892 Victorian with a turret, I was in love. When I discovered that part of our room was in the turret, I squealed like a tween with delight. It wasn't just part of our room, it was behind a wall, the low-roofed hall access like a secret passage. And within the turret: a reading niche, with chairs and lamps. Utopia.
Naturally, I concluded that my quirky house MUST have a turret. The turret must be in my bedroom and contain a reader's recluse, just like this one. So I began sketching. And abandoning, and sketching anew. Repeat. I couldn't seem to grasp how the design would work in real life. I even found myself abandoning the house sketch I've had in mind for months to get the turret to work. This will be where I read my novels, read my magazines, play sudoku, write poetry, update my blog, hide from the kids! I tried to sleep. I couldn't. It had to work!
Eventually I concluded that the turret would have to be only upstairs; I couldn't find a use for it downstairs. Is that possible? I have no idea. But that's what I want. I don't care if it's unreasonable or even unfeasible. I want a round room sanctuary. Why round? For the awesomeness. I have no doubt a feng shui consultant would say the same thing.

Scriptwriter

So...Lost. Right? Sigh. I really enjoyed the first season. After that it was more of an obligation; I was too invested not to watch the mysteries unravel. Then they didn't unravel. They just rolled away, out of view and (the writers hoped) out of mind. A coworker, Beer, and I discuss this show almost daily. I said a few weeks ago that there was no way the show could be concluded to my satisfaction.
"At this point, everyone could die and I'd be okay with it," I said.
"Really? You'd be okay if everyone just died? Interesting," Beer replies. Beer is an incubator, not at all reactionary. A typical response from him on Lost theory is "Oh...I hadn't thought of that." followed by silence, as he thinks of that. If there is a downside to Beer's introspection, it is that he lets me talk waaay too much. I digress.
I was right, though - everyone did die. Not the way I thought they might, but they did. I wasn't okay with it, though. Let me just point out that I would have been okay with it, if more plot lines had been solved. It might also have helped if Sayid had ended up with the actual love of his life, Nadia. But that's just the smallest fly in this very contaminated ointment.
See, I didn't want the island to be this mystical, unexplained gold light. Just write in a geologist character to tell Jack and Hurley that it's because of the very high level of minerals Y and Z that the island has this crazy electromagnetism. Tell Locke and Desmond that pressing the button every 108 minutes released a synthetic compound created by Darma to counteract this effect so it would be contained to the island itself and not, you know, cause airplanes to crash and shit.
I conclude that the island was indeed real - and I have read on multiple websites that the majority of Lost finale watchers do, too - because as dear old dad said, "the most important time of your life was spent with these people." I guess surviving a plane crash would have quite a profound effect on shaping the rest of my life as well, and if there were other people with me I wouldn't be likely to forget their names if I ran into them at Target. "Sun! Right. Didn't we work together at the mall? Duh! The Oceanic crash, how silly of me. How's your husband Jim?"
Since the first flashback I have believed that without the mythology, without Others and Jacob and mysticism, Lost would be an interesting show. Get the survivors off the damn island and back to real life to resolve the frayed ends of existence they left dangling before the crash. They could do that with or without each other, but it would be great to see Locke show up at his dad's front door, sans wheelchair. Sayid torn between mourning for Shannon and searching for Nadia. Jin and Sun on the run from her father. Hurley, swept up in his newfound fame, cheats on Libby. Claire and Jack discover their relationship, Claire decides to stay in the States, and we watch as she struggles to make ends meet. Sawyer keeps being intense and brooding. I don't care, really, just put him in a scene now and then for me to ogle.* Jack and Kate - Fuck Kate, Jack,she is seriously too messed up. You are a leader! Get over her conflicted ass already! *Ahem* Sorry.
All this isn't to say that I wasn't entertained by the Others. I loved Juliet and her back story. I'm just saying the show never had to go that far and it would still ave been a good show. But, since you had to get all mystical...
Just tell us what the light is. Show us the first guardian of the island. Show us the 4-toed inhabitants. Let us see the kids that the Others whisked back home discovering their new found abilities to hear dead people, like Miles. Show us Hurley bringing people to the island once he's in charge, or stopping people from reaching the light - by kicking some ass.
Another thing - I wanted to see Claire reunited with Aaron, though I suppose I understand that the writers needed the shot of the plane flying over just before Jack closed his eyes. It seemed to me, though, that they were building up to it and we never saw the payoff.
Everyone could have ended up the same in the end (dead), but I found it...lazy to go out this way. And don't try to tell me I'm the lazy one for not using my imagination to conclude for myself what these remaining mysteries are. I don't want to use my imagination when I watch TV. I reserve my imagination for unillustrated books and conjuring a world where my son no longer pees in his pants. Of course, I'm not a professional scriptwriter, so tell me: how hard was it to come up with this ending really, on a scale of petting your cat to petting your ego? Be honest.

*Husband, you did not read this sentence.

Doctor

"You're both in trouble," I tell my husband and son. Husband asks why, while Bug just keeps trying to get me to ignore him so he can go back to sleep. "Because I think I'm coming down with something." "'Bout time," Husband says. "Hey! That's not nice!" "Well, the rest of us have all been sick." It's true: Husband and both kids, congested, coughy, achy, and whiny (which NyQuil cures that?) for the past few weeks. Bug has had three ear infections - four if you count that this round both ears got their fair share of bacteria. And Husband? Sick on Mother's Day. Hmmph! Like any competent mom, I waited until everyone else got better before I let myself get sick. My guess is that the germs can't get you while you're running downstairs to dose some Mucinex, running upstairs with the Tylenol, or back to the store for more tissues - with lotion, because the noses are sore enough already. Once you get the kids back to school and sit down to watch last week's Bones, BOOM! That's when germs getcha. Of course, all the popsicles and lotiony tissues are gone, along with the only other member of the household with a driver's license to pick you up some decongestant.
I immediately reach for the zinc lozenges and boil some water for the echinacea tea. I also take a good dose of good, old-fashioned denial that I'm actually sick. "It's not so bad," I think, "I'll take my vitamin C and be better overnight."
Two days, multiple lozenges and mugs of tea later, my throat is just a hint of sore. At least I lucked out and bypassed the persistent cough and whininess** that plagued the rest of my family. I'm no doctor, but apparently it's sound science, talking yourself out of an illness.*

*I'm pretty sure. It could possibly - maybe - have been the vitamins and extra rest, though.
**Husband is not allowed to offer his opinion of my suffering from this symptom.

Cobbler

To any Southerners that may be reading: No, I don't intend to write 3 paragraphs on blackberry or peach filled pastries.
I usually don't fix things. If I didn't pay at least 3 figures for it, I can probably afford a new one. This includes shoes (which I have never and probably will never pay 3 figures for). When the soles wear down, I buy a new pair. When the zipper or buckle breaks on one, I buy a new pair. When the toes get scuffed ...er, well, I usually still wear the shoes, hoping no one notices. I don't always throw out my old pair, sometimes out of sentimentality, usually out of laziness, occasionally because although the old shoes may be uncomfortable, I still think they're cute and will wear them once in a while.
Most of my shoes are neutral-colored slip-ons, to get me out of the house faster. It's never failed me. Except...<insert flashback chimes here>
Recently, my daughter and I were making a quick trip to the library. I threw on a pair of black flats on my way out the door. I drove the few miles to the library, walked across the parking lot and into the library, then walked around browsing the shelves for a few minutes before I realized that something was off. My feet felt uneven; one foot was higher than the other. I looked down and realized I was wearing two different shoes, and I don't mean that one was a left shoe and one was a right shoe. One was a black flat, and the other ...was also a black flat, but with a bow on it. Luckily, most likely because they were the same color, no one seemed to notice. I doubt any stranger in the library would have said anything about it to me, but I didn't catch anyone looking at my feet, then quickly turning away to hide a smile. Even my fashionista daughter didn't notice, and if anyone was going to ridicule me about wearing a pair of shoes that didn't match, it'd be her.
I had replaced the black flats with the bow on them because the soles were too thin and were becoming uncomfortable to wear for long periods. I kept them around because they're so cute, and dress up my casual outfits just a touch, and I don't mind wearing them at work or the movies or somewhere where I am seated for most of the time. I don't even know if a professional cobbler - are they even still called that? can fix the bow shoes. I do know that I am reluctant to even get pants hemmed, so I'm not likely to find out. I'm more likely to wear two different shoes again.

Detective

Husband can't find his keys. This is unusual, because unlike many, many of his other things, he always keeps his keys in the same place. Although, occasionally he'll put his keys next to something he doesn't want to forget, like his gym bag or a letter that needs to be mailed. Seems like a handy little memory trick. He stands next to the key holder our daughter made in shop class (yes, I am bragging), "Have you seen my keys?"
"No."
He remains standing next to the key holder, drumming his fingers on the wall. I can't tell if he's sincerely thinking about where the keys may actually be, or just waiting for me or one of the kids to say, "Here they are!" However, after eight years of marriage, I have ascertained with reasonable certainty that each time he comes to me and says, "I can't find the thingamajig," he hasn't actually searched for it, but gone to wherever the thingamajig should be, and upon not seeing it, just waited for it to materialize there. Case in point:
"I can't find the small suitcase. I looked in the closet." Into said closet I go, emerging with the small suitcase.
"Where was it?" 
"In the closet."
"Oh. I didn't see it."
I know he didn't see it, because from the time the suitcase was last utilized to now, we have put more stuff into the closet on top of the suitcase. You can be judgmental about my organization skills all you want, but my point - that we own a lot of stuff, and that we've lived together long enough that he really ought to know that that stuff ends up in the first convenient place I can find for it so he probably should move stuff around if he really wants to find the thing he needs - remains valid.
If I were to give him the benefit of the doubt, my other guess would be that these objects are simply kickin' it in an alternate dimension whenever he wants them. That would certainly explain why I can't find things sometimes. In fact, I think that's what happened to a tube of moisturizer I had on my nightstand a while back. It simply disappeared, and I haven't been able to find it for months. I may have briefly believed that my son threw it away for no other reason than he loves to throw things in the trash, but now that I've come up with the alternate dimension theory, I realize I'm treating him as guilty until proven innocent.
So since Husband is still standing there next to the door, I begin offering suggestions.
"Are they upstairs?" He goes to look. Not upstairs.
"On your desk?" No dice.
"In the pocket of the pants you wore yesterday?" Knowing those pants are in the wash, I am hoping that isn't the case. It isn't; he'd checked those pockets before washing them, like anyone who has ever done laundry should.
At this point, I get up to help look, which consists of looking in all the places he just looked. Even I can't find these *&$% keys.
"Okay, I'll just take your car," he resigns, picking up my keys.
Then a thought that I foreshadowed in the first paragraph of this blog entry crosses my mind: "Did you put your keys with something you needed to take with you?"
"Yes," Husband starts chuckling. Now Husband is full on laughing as he strolls to his man cave and picks up a shopping bag, his keys clipped to the handles. As I said earlier, it sure seems like a handy memory trick. How he didn't see that bag when he went into that room earlier to look on his desk...well, I think I've abused Husband enough for one post.
Since Husband (mostly) doesn't mind the abuse, especially this close to our anniversary, this is for him: Sweetie, although I may not be a professional detective, know that whenever your glasses straighten their legs and walk right off of your bedside table, I will be there to pick them up. When you can't find your left sock, I am on the job. When you know you put your wallet right there and now it's gone, I'm your woman. Yeah. I'm your woman.

Vegetarian

A coworker is trying to switch to a vegetarian lifestyle, and since I am the only vegetarian most of my coworkers know, they referred her to me for advice. This wasn't a bad idea, if you base it on the principle that sometimes one's purpose in life is to serve as a warning for others. I'm happy to pass on what I've learned through my mistakes.
When I made the decision to stop eating meat, it was not done cold turkey (ha ha). I was fed up with bad experiences attempting to eat chicken (underdone, mostly, but the last straw was when I bit into what should have been a morsel of sweet and sour chicken that was instead fried bone), so chicken was the first meat cut from my diet. This triggered a domino effect that led me to eliminating red meat, later pork, and finally fish. As the years passed, I became less tolerant of any animal products, and stopped eating meat broths and gelatin as well. However, being of the lazy persuasion, I didn't exactly do a lot of research. I didn't read labels like any meat-avoider worth her salt should.
The eye-opening moment for me was lurking in my bag of McDonald's french fries.
"Honey," Husband began, "I almost didn't tell you this, but I knew you'd want to know..." pregnant pause, "McDonald's fries have beef tallow in them."
"What?! Why??" Not that I cared why. He had let the cow fat out of the bag. It was in the fries, and I couldn't change that. I had been eating them for years, blissfully ignorant of their evil ways. And because my love of french fries is somewhere between my love of bubble baths and my love for my first born child, I was shaken to my very core. Would I never be able to eat the most delicious of all potato preparations again? That's when the ingredient checking began. Fortunately for me, McDonald's is pretty much the only fast food restaurant that hates me; there is no beef tallow in other franchises' fries. Unfortunately, plenty of meat is sneaked into plenty of other food products:
Yogurt  - gelatin (discovered, devastatingly, after I fell in love with Dannon Whips and had already eaten several containers, and almost all brands have it)
Broccoli-cheese soup - chicken broth base
Chip dip - gelatin
Queso dip - beef broth
Spinach-artichoke dip - chicken broth
Wendy's Caesar salad - bacon
biscuits - lard
Cracker Barrel corn muffins - fried in bacon grease, and there is some form of meat product or another in damn near every other menu offering at this place
Zio's tomato and alfredo sauces - beef broth
95% of the time, your wait staff will not have a clue which menu items are vegetarian, and you can double that figure* if you're trying to ask the kid behind the fast food counter.
If by asking my advice my coworker is hoping to glean advice from a professional vegetarian, she should consult someone else. However, at the very least I can pass on the most priceless gem of wisdom in the sea of attempted meatlessness: Always, always check the ingredients.

*I'm pretty sure this figure of double 95% is accurate.

Book Reviewer

I love to read; always have. I don't have much time to read these days, with TV and the web and not making reading a priority getting in the way. Still, if a book grabs my attention, I will make time to actually read it. My interest level is purely based on the first few pages. If I haven't holed myself up in my room, blanket wrapped around me, blocking out the cries for Mommy's attention (my spoiled kids expect to eat every few hours, can you imagine?) by the second chapter, the cause is hopeless.
This is the case no matter what genre, which author, whose recommendation led me to, the glowing reviews of, or accolades awarded to the book. I love horror novels, but I had to claw my way through to finish reading The Shining, the Stanley Kubrick movie version of which terrifies me. I have tried to read books from Oprah's book club that I just couldn't be invested in enough to finish (We Were the Mulvaneys, The Poisonwood Bible). I have tried to read books with wonderful reviews that I just knew I'd love if I stuck with it (Wicked; which I did finish, but most decidedly did not love). My husband bought me Lord of the Rings years ago, and even being the geek I am, I haven't finished it, though I've tried several times. I never finished Gone With the Wind, a Pulitzer Prize winner. And normally, I devour books by Toni Morrison (my favorite), but could not finish Paradise.
As much as I wish I could say I only read novels that whisk me on an emotional journey to challenge my understanding of the world around me, I am a sucker for the shallow, gimmicky page-turner. The DaVinci Code: So predictable, so cliched, so adhered to my hands once I opened the cover. Red Dragon/Silence of the Lambs/Hannibal Rising: Graphic, horrific violence, as seen from the mind of the killer himself, and the worse it gets, the more you are compelled to get through the book so you can witness the good guy win.  The Sookie Stackhouse novels: Purely a guilty pleasure, but a pleasure indeed. Even when all that's happened on the page is the description of Sookie's outfit, I have never been tempted to put these books down.
I can't even list criteria here that makes a book entertaining for me, because I haven't found a pattern. I'm not able to say, "I like blank type of books that have blank happening and make me feel blank." I don't know what made me anxious to read every word of Confessions of an Ugly Stepsister yet had to trudge through Wicked.  I don't know why I have so much fun delving into the alternate universe of the Sookie Stackhouse series but couldn't make it past the first chapter of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone. It's not a subject, genre, or author that keeps me turning pages. A book reviewer would probably at least be able to tell you that the book wasn't worthy because "the material was ill researched and the writing was amateur," or that "the book comes alive with its vivid characters and gripping details." My entire book review, on the other hand, would either read "Finished it," or "Couldn't finish it," however unprofessional that writeup may be.

Sleep Analyst

After being so proud of myself a few weeks ago, I missed an update last week. I had a busy week: I had a root canal, my son started day care, I bought a new car, and overslept twice, making myself late to pick my daughter up from school. It's because I work nights that I am so sleep deprived. After three years of only napping for a couple of hours here and there a day, we put our son in day care so I could get a full day's sleep. The first week didn't work out so well, with all the errands factored in. And once I did get to sleep, it was hard to wake up, hence the oversleeping. Especially Saturday - I slept for about 13 hours. After I had spent the rest of the week on the go, without a chance to write, I thought Saturday would allow me plenty of time to make up for it. Not so. I had severely underestimated my level of exhaustion, which had apparently reached 11. This amount of sleep is rare, especially during the day. I'm accustomed to about 5 hours a day, at most. And although I've worked nights for 7 years now, on my off days I sleep at night, like the rest of the world. Getting several hours of sleep in a row is much more refreshing than 2 2-and-a-half hour naps a day; thirteen hours of sleep is the kind you get to compensate for those naps getting disrupted. Wonder what a professional sleep analyst would say about it? I myself would have no idea.

Photographer

When I'm not neglecting to take photographs altogether - like Halloween 2008, which I greatly regret - my photography skills are sorely lacking. My equipment, until I won a camera in a drawing, was limited to the technology of the camera on my cell phone. With the exception of the occasional disposable model, the camera is a device I would not have purchased on my own. There are certain truths I know about myself: I will one day OD on coffee. I am unable to resist bubble wrap. I do not take pictures. The thought rarely occurs to me. I'm too busy enjoying the goings on to remember to document them.

I have used my camera, though. Mostly for larger occasions like birthdays and Christmas, but a little bit here and there as well. It's supposed to produce higher quality pictures, but in the wrong hands, the advancements of the equipment in use make little difference. For example:

Phone

New Camera

Can you spot the remarkable difference? Nothing like blurred images in high resolution.

Whenever my grandmother would send us pictures she'd taken, there was always one picture she had accidentally taken. Always. It's like a special talent she has of snapping the shutter at the most random moment. We've seen pictures of her finger over the lens, a blurry sideways picture of my uncle on the couch, and many pictures throughout the years that were almost identical to the ones above that I took. Apparently, I inherited the gift.

This may be a subconscious reason for my forgetfulness when it comes to photography. Luckily, someone else always wants to take pictures. For a long time, I was worried that there were no pictures of my daughter's first birthday, because I know I didn't take any. I was quite relieved to find out my mom had taken the pictures. She always gets duplicates for whoever wants them, and for ten years she just hadn't ever given me my copies.

At least she had them developed. With digital photography, my pictures stay on whatever media they're captured by. My favorite Mother's Day gift was a photo album filled with two years' worth of the pictures from my cell phone. Shots of my pregnant belly, my son's newborn shots, shots of my daughter making goofy faces. It was absolutely wonderful. Some of the pictures may have looked a lot like the ones above, but hey - I doubt professional photographers get their own photos given to them as gifts.

Hairdresser

I lack patience with hair. Whether myself or someone else is working on it, I can hardly sit still long enough for my hair to be styled. I suppose it's because it's not worth it to me to spend so much time on something that won't last long enough for me to get from the bathroom mirror to the car. Throughout the years, I've ponytailed it, headbanded it, crimped it, iron curled it, iron straightened it, hot-rolled it, pin-curled it, french-twisted it, bunned it, stuck it with decorative sticks, and clawed it, and all of these things eventually just gave me a headache. It's rare that I even blow it dry, because I have both children, and a warped sense of time management, which makes hair styling even less of a priority for me.
I'm not even capable of styling other people's hair: I dread when my husband wants me to "clean up" the back of his head after a home cut. Ever since my daughter has been old enough, she's been on her own as far as washing, brushing, and prettying her own locks. The times that require my help don't turn out well. For Halloween, I dyed my daughter's hair black with fuchsia streaks. It was a mess, and not at all consistently colored. And I can wet down and fine-tooth comb my son's mop top, but it still sticks out and generally looks like he rode in the car with his head out the window (Attention Department of Social Services: he didn't. He rode safely buckled into his size-appropriate LATCH-fastened car seat that has never been in an accident.).
It has now been over 24 hours since my hair was shaved away, and it's refreshing to not have it. Quite cold as well, but mostly refreshing. It took almost no time to wash - rubbing a pea-sized dollop of shampoo over my stubble - and only barely longer than that to air-dry. I had nothing to comb, and no tresses to fuss over when I made my last mirror-check before leaving the house. I didn't need to hold it out of the way as I put my coat and scarf on. I didn't scramble around the house to find a clip or band in case I needed to put my hair up later on. I got to wear a hat without worrying about static. There were no frustrated tucks of strands behind my ears or brushes of my hand to move my hair off my shoulders - again.  It was liberating.
Despite the good-natured teases from family and friends (my daughter's nickname for me is "Baldo"), and extra stares from strangers, I'm enjoying the baldness. Without my hair, I don't have to even attempt to be a hairdresser.
There's more:  In the midst of all this, I haven't forgotten that I chose to not have hair. Each time I've absentmindedly reached up to twirl my hair, having momentarily forgotten that it's gone, I consider the fact that while I'm not saddened by that, there are others who are saddened by their hair loss; others who didn't have a choice. I can only remain optimistic that the money raised will help researchers find a cure, and that with that cure no one else will have to lose their hair.

Charity Worker

There are few professions so far in this blog that I'd actually want to be (maybe swimsuit model), but this is definitely one of them. Charities are essential to society, and those who work to start and keep them functioning are beings worthy of our respect, indeed. Regrettably, I have not contributed to charities as much as I'd have liked. This is mostly due to the feeling of not having enough money to give, flimsy as that excuse is. But there is a particular charity that has been on my mind for a while now: St. Baldrick's. I have a whole head full of hair that (other than physically) I'm not particularly attached to. It's thin, especially prone to static, and stray strands stick straight up on top. It's oily, but my scalp is dry. It grows too fast, and will not be contained by barrettes, scrunchies, french combs, hair sticks, or the dreaded hair claw. As much as I spend on cuts to make it easier to maintain, I'm never happy with it. So giving St. Baldrick's the amount of money I'd normally spend on a haircut to let them shave my head is no loss for me, but stands to make a big impact for the people it's designed to help.
People have asked me if I'm nervous about losing my hair. Though I may feel differently once I'm actually in the barber's chair, right now the only thing I'm nervous about is that I'll like being bald so much I'll never let my hair grow back. Once I go through with this, I plan on finding other causes to contribute to, monetarily or otherwise.  Because since I'm not a charity worker - and heck, even if I was - I need to do what I can to support them.

Blogger

This post will be the 26th, marking exactly half a year of weekly postings. They may not have always been as punctual as I'd have liked, but I'm proud of myself nonetheless. Even though I started this blog with tons of inspiration for articles, and constantly encounter more, I wasn't sure I had it in me. I have kids, a husband, a full time job. I eat and sleep. I watch TV and play video games. In spite of all this, every week for the past 6 months, I have made time to write. That is a big accomplishment for me, and I hope to keep it going. Maybe...just maybe, this is a step in the right direction to become a professional blogger.

Homemaker

My husband is picky. From his steak to his socks, he is uncompromisingly particular. When I call him on it, he says, "That's why I married you." Then I usually walk away, shaking my head and muttering my frustrations over how much extra money the little-used but much-desired feature on Model X will cost us over Model Y. Of course, at the end of the day, his response does give me warm fuzzies.
There are certain things I wouldn't think my husband - and as stereotyping would have us believe, any husband - would care much about. Like today's topic: Bedding. Aside from having soft, high-thread-count sheets, I wouldn't think he'd fret too much over what they looked like. I was incorrect. When I started shopping online for a new bedding set, I showed him the ones I liked.  We had actually agreed on a set...and then realized it was dry clean only. Dry cleaning is a process wherein people without children get their fabrics laundered by professional cleaners at some off-site location where they take a day or two to get your stuff back to you, since people without children have this kind of time and money (and probably extra bedding to use while they wait). Hence, dry cleaning is not for us.
When I went shopping at the store, I sent pictures for his review. "Too dark, too flowery, too ornate." The process had quickly been drained of its fun. In frustration, I picked 3 that I thought would be alright by him. "Choose!" I demanded. His simple yet effective response was, "I choose...Buzz Lightyear!" Instead, he decided to go to the store with me. Finally! Naturally, being at the store didn't make the decision easier. We had selected a couple of different duvet covers, only to put them back because of one flaw (wrong color) or another (too expensive). I stared at the displays. "If I could pick any of these," I sighed, pointing to a dark and flowery comforter, "it'd be that one."
"Okay," said Husband.
I sighed again, "But, you know, we can keep look- Okay?! You're okay with that one?"
"Yeah, it's not so bad."
"It's so pretty! And it matches our sheets! And our bedroom is plenty bright, so I'm sure it won't look too dark in there! And..." I was excited by my victory. And you know what? It is pretty. I like it. A professional homemaker probably makes these types of decisions him- or herself, but knowing Husband doesn't hate it makes me like it even more.

Practical Joker

While I have never desired to own a whoopie cushion, there have been moments in my life where I've found myself plotting a perfect practical joke - and then not performing it.
Case in point: one of these days the part of my brain that feels shame will call in sick, and I will ask the friendly Whole Foods worker where the Twinkies are.
Better case in point: Standing in line at a register, the woman in front of me was purchasing a lot of items, the last of which was a bag from the bakery. The cashier asked her, "What's in the bag?" so she could ring it up accordingly. When the woman said, "Three donuts," I - with a very Dr. Strangeloveian self-restraint - stopped myself from looking the cashier in the eye, licking my fingers, and mumbling as if my mouth was full, "Two donuts." It would have been effing hilarious...at least to me. I had no idea how the lady whose donuts they were would have reacted - probably not well - which is why I didn't go through with it. Alas, it is a moment I will never have back. A moment I will lie to my grandchildren about, telling them it really happened.
Perhaps the woman would have reacted like my friend did on Halloween a couple of years ago: I put on a drab gray dress and my daughter's long black wig, and smudged gray liner under my eyes to look like a J-horror ghost. Then I sat at my friend's desk with my back to the door, awaiting her arrival so I could slowly turn around and give her a short scare, then a laugh. Instead, I got an ambivalent, "What are you doing?" and a polite chuckle. In other words, as the kids say nowadays: a fail.
Aren't I too old for this nonsense anyway? Or does a professional practical joker never really retire? I suppose I'll never know. Now if you'll excuse me, my shoe is untied. ...made you look.

Winter Olympic Athlete

Watching the Winter Olympics reminds me of everything I don't like about winter: trying to do anything while I'm cold. I hate being cold, indoors or out, but at least indoor temperatures are predictable. At home, I know I have plenty of blankets available to keep me warm. At work, I've accepted that I have to layer my hoodie over my my sweater over my t-shirt, with my coat lain over my legs like a blanket for my entire shift. By the way, when you see me wandering the building in my scarf and gloves, YES, I AM that cold. Being cold just isn't something that ever goes away for me in normal-people temperatures; say, anything below 80F. Even in summer, it's not too often it gets that warm outside.
When my kids want to play outside this time of year, I think of how cold I would be, and only reluctantly allow it while I watch through the window trying to absorb all the heat from my coffee mug. When it snows, even wearing gloves, my fingers numb as I brush and scrape my car windows. I waddle like I did when I was pregnant while trying to get across my icy driveway. My nose could guide a sleigh on a foggy Christmas Eve. So watching skiers try to out-jump each other, I can only think of how sniffly they must be, and sympathize with the sting they feel as the snow hits their cheeks. These people have to train constantly, too - do they ever feel their toes? Shouldn't those luge sleds have heating pads built in? Can't we give the bobsledders down coats? I'm cold just watching this in my slipper socks huddled under my electric blanket.
A professional Winter Olympian would probably be flabbergasted by the fact that I've lived in Colorado for 15 years and never gone skiing, snowboarding, or rarely even made snowmen. You go ahead; I'll stay in and watch Lost. Call me when you're ready to hit the sauna.

Mind Reader

Sometimes, people don't tell me things that I should probably know. Like recently, when I went to say hello to a coworker, and two supervisors were standing next to her. The coworker saw me approaching and said, "Hey, what's up?" To which I replied, "I was just coming to show off my fabulous new shoes," which she then looked at, and began a conversation. This went on for a couple of minutes, with the supervisors also joining in the small talk, when I asked what she was doing. "I'm going to be the temporary supervisor," she said. "Oh, nice," I congratulated, then realized..."Oh, so...these guys are here to train you right now. Why didn't you say so?" I looked at the supervisors, "Why didn't either of you say anything?" They just laughed and said it was no big deal. Now, I didn't have much time to spend chatting anyway, since I was at work, but really...they could easily, and inoffensively, shooed me away because what they were doing was important, and I was awkwardly interrupting. This has happened before.
Once, long ago, when I lived in an apartment, I would have to use a laundromat when I needed to do laundry. Laundromats require quarters. One day, I didn't have any quarters, so I called a friend to ask if I could please come over and borrow her washer and dryer, please, please since I was out of quarters. She agreed. I got there, started my laundry, and was ready to hang out with my friend, when it soon became apparent that she and her husband had recently been "discussing" something. Where here, the word "discussing", when presented in quotation marks, being the euphemism for "arguing about." Of course I didn't expect her to tell me that they had been arguing; she could have just said no to my coming over. But I know that she was just trying to help me out. This is a gesture I sincerely appreciate, but I certainly did not want to interrupt them if they needed to talk. Yet there I was...stuck there with wet laundry, entertaining myself while they talked privately in another room. Just being awkward old me.
I think a lot of people do this - they don't want to tell someone no, or seem rude by saying that it's not a good time for them. And, if I were a professional mind reader, they wouldn't have to say these things. Since I'm not, please tell me next time I inadvertently walk in on your team meeting - you don't even have to let me get my coffee and donut first.

Swimsuit Model

Target has swimsuits out already. Did anyone bother to remind them that it's February? This is more ridiculous than Christmas decorations set out for sale before Halloween. Although in all honesty, I may have been grateful for the extra time if I were still searching for a suit myself. Fortunately for me, I found one last year.
Not that it was an easy feat. Swimsuit shopping is not your average woman's favorite pastime. For me, it's a chore greater than any other. Ever. Swimsuit manufacturers don't seem to know that women of my type exist. Petite but not skinny; well-endowed but not by surgical enhancement. One-piece suits usually fit me awkwardly, which limits me to tankinis, and all swimsuit candidates must include bust support, which limits me to none of them. Oh, sure, swimsuit manufacturers pretend to cater to larger-chested women, sizing swimsuits by bra size, advertising underwire and support. I want to believe the tags on these suits, which is why I try on so many before giving up.  But what I've discovered is that by "bra size" on these suits, they mean "enough flimsy stretch fabric to prevent your arrest for indecent exposure," "underwire" means "a wire sewn into the flimsy stretch fabric...not that we attached it to anything structural," and "support" means "... - actually, I don't know what the hell they mean, since there is none.
I've never aspired to be a model of any kind in my life, but now part of me would love to become a professional swimsuit model, just to show these designers how out of touch they are with real women's bodies. To show them that their cute bikinis on the racks at Target aren't so cute when they're stretched out like a plastic bag carrying 2 gallon-sized jugs of water.

Oral Surgeon

I had to get my wisdom teeth pulled. I wasn't going to bother, since they never caused me any pain, but apparently they decided that since I wasn't going to pull them, they were going to rot themselves away. Once they started forming cavities to carry out their evil plot, the dentist said they needed to go. What I wasn't aware of until the oral surgeon told me, is that wisdom teeth should be pulled while you're young - "Not that you're old!" - he kept interjecting unnecessarily. But the older you get, the harder they are to remove.
He was correct, not only because of my age, but also because I have a disproportionately teeny tiny head, with a corresponding teeny tiny mouth. It was difficult for him to move the instruments around, and the will of my teeth to stay in my head had him going back and forth between many different instruments. Everyone understands that tooth extraction is not a pleasant process, but for me it wasn't the pressure on my jaw, or the disconcerting loud cracks you hear as the tooth is ripped from your skull, it was the excessive stretching of my lips. I try to be a good patient, really, but it was too much to have my head facing one direction, and have my lips pulled in the opposite direction. I kept turning my head to follow my lips, which wasn't helping. And all the while, the surgeon cursed and muttered about how small my mouth is, then cursed some more. He even ended up using a pediatric tool at one point. Good call - I've been begging my dentist to use pediatric x-ray film for years; no dice.
With my mouth full of gauze and pliers and drills and circular saws and hammer and chisel (well that's what it felt like), I didn't get to complain back at the surgeon that maybe his hands were just too big. So now I'm thinking that the world of oral surgery could use more people like me, with smaller hands, and an understanding of people with small mouths. I wish I'd had this revelation when I was younger - "Not that you're old!" I mentally hear the oral surgeon interject - because at this point, I'm not sure I'm capable of enduring the many years of school and training to become an oral surgeon. I do, however, know I'm capable of cursing like one.