Life Would Be A Dream

Let me just say that if I could have a root canal every single day of the year?

I probably wouldn't.

But this was BY FAR the best experience I've ever had at the dentist, bar none.

This dentist was just a chicklet, just a child. But he knew what he was doing, he did. And he kept me completely out of pain the entire time I was there. If ever I had the smallest twinge, all I had to do was lift a finger and he was at the ready with the Novocaine. And he used enough gas so that I was on Cloud 9 most of the two hours I was there.

I began with a disclaimer, letting them know from the beginning I was not responsible for anything that came out of my mouth speech-wise during our little session. Then on went the mask, which smelled amazingly like incense, which reminded me of the 70's, which reminded THEM of things OTHER people did in the 70's, and it went downhill from there.

I remember at some point the three of us were kind of chair dancing to some song during one of the let's-check-and-see-how-much-deeper-we-need-to-drill parts. And I remember it because that was one of the points where the gas was turned way down...it wasn't on high ALL of the time.

After about an hour and a half they had to remove the mask to take some x-rays, and both of them started laughing. Apparently the mask gave me sleep marks and I looked quite lovely. Dr. Chicklet was quick to tell me they weren't laughing AT me, they were laughing WITH me...then he put the mask back on and turned the gas on high.

And I laughed, too.

I remember him saying the drilling was all done. Then he was drilling again. It was the curse of the funky roots, come to haunt me again. Even though I'd warned him, he didn't believe me. He didn't find the last one that wasn't supposed to be there until he started filling the tooth.

So I laughed some more. Not AT him, but WITH him.

All told it took him about 45 more minutes than he had planned. I was perfectly happy to have it take a couple of hours more, but he had another patient waiting.

He told me it had been a blast and to come back and party any time.

Which makes me wonder what else I did besides snap my fingers to the music, hum, and chair dance.

I do remember staggering out of the office and weaving my way to the car. I don't think I could've passed a sobriety test at that point. Luckily, the effects wore off quickly.

I'm thinking I may have a few less brain cells than I did 24 hours ago.

But oh. It was SO worth it.

Because the tooth doesn't hurt anymore. And if I had to suffer through all that just to get my tooth to quit hurting, I'd gladly do it again.

Anyone know where I can score some nitrous?

Getting To The Root

Remember a few weeks ago when I made my friendly every-two-years-whether-I-need-to-or-not visit to Dr. Hairy the Dentist?

He's such a nice guy.

He apparently thought the same of me, because he invited me back to see him again and just for kicks threw in a filling. Only as I was coming down from the cloud of laughing gas he had me on, I mentioned to him that the tooth he had been working on ached.

"Hmmm...." said he. "That's unusual. Let's give it some time and see if it goes away. Here are some pretty, pretty pain pills for you! And LOOK! A PONY!!"

Only there was no pony. And the ache, it did not go away. In fact, it got worse. So I decided to ride my imaginary pony over to see Dr. Hairy again yesterday.

"Look!" I said, whilst pointing to the tooth in question. It must be noted here that it is most difficult to say "Look!" or anything else intelligible with a finger in one's mouth, but say it I did.

"Look! It still hurts. It aches. It pains me. STILL. The filling DID NOT make it better! So what do you have to say to THAT, Dr. Hairy?"

Dr. Hairy then took out instruments of torture. A scrapey thing. A tappy thing. A plastic thing he made me bite down on several times. And after ten minutes of painful testing, he went to consult with another colleague. A digital x-ray was taken.

"So," said Dr. Hairy, "Are you busy tomorrow afternoon? Say around 3:00 p.m.?"

Realizing he wasn't offering me dinner and a movie, I asked what he might have in mind.

"It seems as though, at least we're almost positive, you are in need of a asd;ljfahdal and tomorrow is the first opening we have."

"A asd;ljfahdal???"

"OK now, don't get upset, because they've come a long, long way since you last had one. They're DIGITAL now, and we don't use those hand files anymore, and we promise to give you lots of gas and you really won't feel...."

"ARE YOU TELLING ME I HAVE TO HAVE ANOTHER FRIGGIN' ROOT CANAL DONE???"

"Would you like some more pretty pain pills? Yes, as a matter of fact we are talking about a...a...root canal. And we think that tomorrow would be..."

And then I didn't hear any more because my head exploded right there in the dentist's office.

So today will find me, fragmented head and all, back at Dr. Hairy's. I will have my MP3 player, my death grip, my Xanax, and a wish to be almost anywhere else but there.

I just hope they can get my jaw open.

In Which I Become Queen of the Family - At Least for the Night

Last night the troops were hungry.

It's nothing new. It happens every 2.5 hours in our household. Someone is always saying, "What's for _____(dinner, lunch, breakfast)? Is there anything to EAT in this house? I'm STARVING!"

Most of the time I bat them away like annoying flies. "Shoo!" I say. "Go 'way kid. You bodda me."

Last night, however, I took pity on the masses and decided to actually cook. Or something that resembled cooking. In a roundabout way. Of sorts. Somehow.

So.

I browned some ground beef with onion and taco seasoning and layered it in a casserole dish. I covered that with a layer of pinto beans (since I was out of black beans). Next was a layer of our favorite taco sauce. Then I made the famous Velveeta "cheese" dip by melting Velveeta and adding a can of Ro-Tel spicy tomatoes and poured the whole thing over the top of the other stuff.

(We believe in technical terminology here at HUW. Only the best for our readers. Later on we may add some other things to the stuff. Just you wait and see. Let me know if it goes above your head and I'll try to explain it in a more germane way.)

As you can probably tell, this is sizing up to be a heart attack in a casserole dish.

I chopped up some scallions and threw them on top, "baked" it in the microwave until everything got hot, broke out the Frito Lay Scoops and sour cream, and called the hogs to the trough.

Pseudo-Daughter was there to eat with us. Everyone piled in to the kitchen table, Hubster said grace, and the feeding frenzy began.

I don't think I've seen anything quite like it before. It's a wonder we all survived without someone losing a limb, exploding, or choking on inhaled food products. You'd think I never feed these people.

Somewhere between the "Mom, this is AWESOME!"-s, the "OH MY GOODNESS!"-es, the "Can you make this again?"-s, the chomping, the seconds, thirds and FOURTHS, I became Queen of All I Surveyed.

Granted, all that I surveyed was a dirty kitchen, dirty dishes, and an even dirtier house. But by golly, I was Queen of It All.

Tonight when we go back to take-out I will lose my crown. But oh, it was glorious while it lasted!

Knitting, You Are Dead To Me

At least for a little while.

I finished the blasted dishrag. Only I got impatient with it, as is my wont, about row 439. Of course, I think the entire thing was only supposed to have around 50 rows, so I honestly believe you can say I more put it out of its misery than anything else.

Because I am nothing if not kind to cotton yarn. And small animals.

About 3/4 of the way through I started doubling up on every other stitch. This did lead to the desired effect of finishing the stupid thing, but at the same time it led to a rather misshapen lump o' yarn.

Sis and I had coffee today, and I took the poor, deformed object with me to show her. She said it looked more like an air-conditioned hat for a baby since I'd dropped so many stitches and it bulged so menacingly due to my impromptu surgery of the pattern.

Needless to say, the knitting needles are getting a rest at the moment.

Instead, INSTEAD! I HAVE EXCITING NEWS!!!

It is now 2:27 a.m. in the morning and I have just FINISHED crocheting a dishcloth that ACTUALLY LOOKS LIKE A DISHCLOTH!!! I'm so excited!!! I may frame it.

But for now? I think I'll go to bed.

The needlework, she has done me in.

The Saga of the Dishrag

You would think I could finish a dishrag by now.

Well, other than the one I crocheted with no pattern that ended up being lopsided and funny-looking.

But no. Not me.

I have attempted and torn out approximately seven different dishrags so far. They have been a mixture of crocheted and knitted. Usually I'll get about one-third of the way through, realize how awful it looks or that I've missed stitches or stitched where I shouldn't have or in the case of knitting, dropped the end off of a row and been unable to pick it back up. So rather than just sally forth and continue on, mistakes and all, I grumble and grunt and groan and rip the whole thing to shreds.

There is not a perfectionist bone in my body. And I certainly don't feel as though I should be able to master this RIGHT NOW after all the videos I've watched and the books I've read.

Oh no. Not at all.

To be honest, I have a hard time doing a double cast on. I had to watch a video on YouTube over seven times to be able to get the doggone slip knot on the knitting needle. It got to be so comical that The Boyfriend came over to watch behind my shoulder to see what kind of brain surgery I was trying to perform.

I am a sad, sad lot.

So last night, after I finally got four, count 'em, FOUR, stitches cast on, I began a pattern called the Idiot's Dishcloth. I figured it suited me well. I was determined to FINISH this project come hot places or high water.

If I made a mistake, I faked it. If I dropped a stitch, I tried to pick it up. If I couldn't, I skipped it. Hey, the pattern said it was "very forgiving" and even an idiot could do it, so what do I have to lose? In the process I have learned to yarn over, knit two together, and I'm on the downhill side.

Don't stop me now, I'm on a roll.

I may not be a pro yet, but I'm learning. And a year from now, when the needles are gathering dust in the the drawer of the dresser, I can proudly say I made one of the worst dishcloths in the history of mankind.

But by golly, I will have finished it.

Zip It, Will You?

I just broke the zipper in my pants.

I hate when that happens.

It's the middle of the day, and now I have to go through the rest of the day and act as though nothing is wrong, all the while making sure my front side is covered at all costs. Because OH! WHAT IF SOMEONE SAW MY UNDERWEAR???

It's not as if I wear bikini panties anymore or thongs and OH MY GOODNESS EVEN *I* CAN'T STAND THAT MENTAL PICTURE LALALALALALALALA.....

So as I travel out the door to the drugstore to pick up some prescriptions I will also be in search of safety pins. Big, honkin' safety pins. The ones that look like the diaper pins I used to use on the diapers of my dear son, Cutie's dad.

The ones I stabbed him with more than once. Purely unintentionally, I might add.

And then I will hie me to the bathroom and fasten up my pants the best I can so as not to cause the known world any embarrassment over my lack of coverage in certain areas. And then I will immediately have to pee. And so I will undo the huge, honkin' safety pins, stab myself repeatedly, and not be able to go when all is said and done.

Lather, rinse, repeat until the final whistle blows and I can go home tonight.

Because I am nothing if not uncomplicated and easy to get along with, even during the worst of circumstances.

When I get home these black pants will join their sister brown pants in the trash. Thankfully I purchased replacements only a couple of weeks ago. It's my uniform. If I could find navy pants I would be a happy camper, but it seems they no longer sell them.

As it is, I get my money's worth. I figure with All The Wearing I've gotten about five or six year's worth of wear out of this one pair. Not bad for $19.99.

Now if the zipper was just a little better quality....

Knit 147,349 Purl 248,136

Did you know there are 437 ways to knit? And just as many ways to cast on, purl, and do a lot of other stuff I don't know how to do yet.

I take my knitted cap off to you needle workers out there.

Well, it actually looks more like a crocheted dishrag that's kind of lopsided at the moment, but I can put it on my head and take it off and pretend like it's a knitted cap if that will make you happy.

What I have learned in the past few days is that there is American knitting (the kind I do) and Continental knitting (which seems very complicated) that Sis does. To give you an idea of our prowess in the knitting arena, let me tell you this:

Neither one of us knows how to purl. We're lucky to be able to cast on and actually knit. And I even found out from that hussy Elizabeth Zimmermann, she of PBS and video fame circa 1981, I am doing even the casting on the wrong way.

Well poop.

And then, the one thing I thought I did know how to do it turns out I don't.

Many years ago my great-aunt taught me how to crochet. I made chain after chain, happily crocheting away. And then I decided to branch out. I put a row on top of one of the chains! And lo, it was as if I had created FIRE.

Immediately I decided to make a rug. But after all, it was the sixties, and I was just a kid. The rug turned out to be the size of a coaster and all was well. But I learned some bad habits in the process.

Since no one was around to tell me how to put the second row on top of the first, I improvised. Now, instead of CROcheting, I CHRISchet. The Chrischet is where you pick up the back loop of the first stitch you come to rather than picking up the back two loops. It gives the finished product some interesting ridges, but it works for me.

At least it will, if I ever finish anything but the stupid lopsided dishrag. Which is doubtful at this point since I'm concentrating on the knitting for a while.

Leslye Solomon tried to teach me the Continental style via her video circa 2006. However, what with all the twisting and the repairing lost stitches and weird purling and stuff, I failed it. Then I went back to my "Knitting for Dummies" book and failed that too.

Maybe I should purchase a one-on-two class at the yarn shop for the owner to teach the two of us what we need to know. It would be a great birthday present for us, don't you think?

Kind of like Remedial Knitting for the Aged and Dim.

It's good for me!

Insomnia Reigns. The Earth Ain't Rejoicin'

And so, in my little hissy fit of insomnia, the crickets and I thought we'd just give you a little update on the situation of the World As We Know It.

Since we've been having hideous problems with wireless service to the computers here at La Casa, and since I personally have been the biggest single part of the whole by a) refusing to acknowledge it exists and b) plugging my fingers in my ears and singing LALALALALALALALALALA or the Star Spangled Banner (whichever one would prove to be most annoying to the person involved so they would just GO AWAY, PLEASE and let me play on my computer that is working JUST FINE, THANK YOU! I was also the one to call our very best friends at AT& verily T to get the problem resolved.

And Interpeeps? They are rushing out here with the speed of a thousand turtles hyped up on ambien, they are. They're supposed to be here on October 3rd, but with all the chomping at the bit they've done so far it may even be sometime DURING THE SET APPOINTMENT TIME.

I know.

Now, don't y'all go gettin' your bowels in an uproar in case it truly does happen. After all, I'd hate to have you miss it because you spent the better part of the time they were here out in the outhouse.

It's a brand new world, Mabel!

Now, if we could only get a cure for insomnia...zzzzzzzZZZZZZzzzz

Just A Shade Past Crazy

I had big plans for this weekend.

Remember the living room? The one we started remodeling in March or so? I was bound and determined to get my part of it finished this weekend.

You may now laugh out loud.

I finally made a concrete decision on an area rug, brought it home, and disliked it immediately. I took it back to two different branches of the store where I bought it, but ended up returning it at the original store. I also found the replacement for the rug but I had to special order it. It should be here on Friday.

One down.

I decided I wanted Roman shades for the windows. I went to the store where I planned to buy them, but the thing that always happens to me happened yet again. I couldn't find shades already made that were the correct width and color I needed.

So I decided to bite the bullet and special order them. Call me crazy - go ahead.

The salesperson and I went through EVERY SINGLE BOOK she had of fabrics, and NOT ONE of them matched my furniture. Not one. They were too pink, too red, too light, too patterned, too everything.

I got so desperate I even considered making the shades myself.

You may stop writhing on the floor with laughter at any time. I'll wait.

Given that I am most definitely NOT a seamstress, I think I will pass on that option. I've been told they are easy to make, but even easy sewing projects tend to stymie me. It is not one of the gifts I was given, and I readily admit it.

However, I did purchase a Knitting and Crocheting for Dummies kit this weekend. It came with two sets of knitting needles and a crochet hook, plus some kind of measuring device. At least I think that's what it is. I feel like an expert for being able to distinguish between the knitting needles and the crochet hook. My first clue was the HOOK on the end of one of the sticks. And the fact that there was only one.

My momma didn't raise no dummies.

If I get REALLY good at it, I may give everyone dishcloths for Christmas. However, given my history on projects such as this, I wouldn't hold my breath if I were you.

As for the Roman shades?

I think I'll punt.

Rest In Peace, Dear Friends of My Youth

Henry Gibson, he of the Laugh In poetry recitation. I will never forget his little person holding his huge flower whilst reciting some of the funniest and worst poetry I've ever heard.



Mary Travers. What a voice she had! Puff the Magic Dragon will never be the same without her. Peter, Paul and Mary are now down to Peter and Paul.



And Patrick. Dear Patrick, who danced his way into the hearts of women, but had eyes for only one. What a brave man he was in life.



They say it happens in threes, and it looks like it's happened again. It sure makes me wonder who will be next.

No Reservations

Homecoming is September 26th.

We went to pick up "the dress" last night. The dress that The Girl had picked out without me there. The dress that clung and gapped in all the wrong places. The dress that SCREAMED at me with ALL THE TIGER STRIPES.

Lions and TIGER STRIPES and bears! OH MY!

I quickly found places that bunched up where they weren't supposed to, and places that gapped where they weren't supposed to and pointed them out to The Girl without mentioning the places that clung like second skin. She hadn't noticed them before and agreed the sheen was off of the tiger, so to speak.

And I breathed a mighty sigh of relief.

I chose a couple of dresses for her to try on. The first she declined due to the print. But the second? The second, although too low cut for my taste, looked gorgeous on her in every other way. She agreed. She was even excited about it. And I was VERY excited, not only because I was saving $50 over the Tiger Tiger Burning Bright dress, but because she actually liked the alternative. So we purchased the newer/better version and headed home.

On the way home we discussed another idea she'd come up with for the dance. She wanted me to cook dinner for her group of twelve and have Hubster and The Boy dress up as waiters to serve. We'd set up tables with candlelight, flowers, soft music, etc., and give them their choice of entrees. The kids would pay for the cost of the meal, but they'd be able to enjoy themselves without worrying about tipping, how long they stayed or anything else.

In theory, a wonderful idea.

Until, that is, she called her friends to discuss it.

And found out that instead of twelve people, there were now TWENTY-TWO.

Now, I don't really have a problem cooking for twenty-two people. I do it almost every Thanksgiving. Usually I cook for over thirty.

However.

We don't really have the space for "intimate" seating for twenty-two. Unless they'd like to eat out on the patio, and even then it would be tight.

Not to mention the bugs.

So we're in negotiations now. I'll let you know how things turn out. Until then we're hoping they opt for ribs and beer at a bar down the pike.

Oh not really.

They'd be too dressed up for the ribs.

With love from Chez Chris.

One Hot Tomato

Meet Father Abraham.

While not extremely huge, Abraham has been chosen to be the father of many nations. He will hopefully provide the seeds for next year's crop. He is one of the tomatoes that was harvested from the volunteer plant that came up in Mom's garden this year.

Sadly, it seems as though the transplanted plant is not doing well at all. I blame this partially on my brown thumb, and partially on the fact that it was transplanted after it had gone to vine. If I had found it earlier we could have had much better luck with it.

For instance, these tomato plants seem to have overgrown the marigolds I planted. And guess what? NO SQUIRREL PROBLEMS THIS YEAR!!! I do believe my little miracle device, as well as planting marigolds in the same bed, worked wonders!

Oh, and Hubster for you naysayers out there? Nanny, nanny, boo boo!

Author! Author!

I am not a bitter person. I am not jealous. I am not envious.

Not normally.

But today? Today I am jealous. And envious. And the tiniest bit bitter.

But only a teeny, tiny bit.

You see, one of the goals I have in life is to actually, honest-to-goodnessly, really for truly write a book. And after I write the book I want to get it published. That's where I want to start.

My brother-in-law did just that. His book came out in July, and today I found it on Amazon.

A. MA. ZON.

Not only that, but he has it in Wal-Mart as well.

And I don't think I need to tell you how that pointy-headed, big-eared, long-tailed, big-bellied, green-eyed monster is dancing in my head right now.

But I will tell you this....if HE can do it, then *I* can do it.

Stay tuned for further developments.

Or a book called "Murder...Relatively Speaking" - because you have to write what you know, right?

heh heh heh heh....

I'm In The Mood For Lunch, Simply Because It's Near Me

Funny, but when it's near me, I'm in the mood for lunch....

My office sits right next to the Executive Boardroom. The Executive Boardroom is the place of many meetings, the majority of which have food involved.

After all, we are a not-for-profit.

About a year ago there were so many meetings with food attached that they started auctioning off the leftovers to benefit missions. But since I eat lunch late, it was all gone before I could get any.

However, there is another thing that bothers me about all the food.

It is all the food.

Oh, not the food itself. It's the SMELL. The tantalizing aromas that come from just across the hall multiple times during a week.

From my office I can smell every single morsel of food that goes in or comes out of the Executive Boardroom. All the savory soups, the tasty sandwiches, the hot pastas, meats, vegetables and salads that are mere feet away from my grasp...but might as well be on the other side of the moon.

Because Interpeeps? I don't ever get invited to partake. Because I'm never part of the meetings held in that room.

Which is why I am down to skeletal proportions now. Just skeletal, I tell you!

You may all collectively play your teeny-weeny violins for me now.

I'll just ease my pain with these powdered-sugar donuts from the snack machine while I listen.

Have the Martians Arrived to Attend the James Robison Services Yet?

Oh my word.

I haven't slept well the past few nights. And when I don't sleep well, I usually have a vivid dream life. Last night was no exception. It had something to do with fire and church and the building being rented out to James Robison and his crew. They brought in Roman columns and race cars that they put on display to show how they truly live.

Oh, and to protect the race cars from the fire and the torrential rain outside. And the Martians. That was important, too.

In the meantime I was trying to calm down the ex-band leader because the band had done a couple of his favorite songs and done them poorly. For some reason it was my job to both guide and calm, but to beat feet out of there before the big guns came in. I obliged, but then I had to fight my way through the crowds trying to come in as I was going out. And then there was the torrential rain to deal with as I tried to get to my car.

I was spared the viewing of what my mind considers to be a Martian. I'm sure I'll be privy to that another day.

Woo. Hoo.

So, the night before last I apparently couldn't sleep and came downstairs to write pithy words of wisdom for the world to read and exclaim over. However, thank goodness, I didn't finish and publish said words. Because I was under the influence of my friend, Ambien, and the words? While they were on the page, they did not make much sense in the light of day.

This scares me for two reasons: 1) My meanderings sounded not unlike I was under the influence of more than just my friend Ambien, but perhaps a fifth or three of my favorite tequila product, and that I had consumed the worm at the bottom of each and every bottle, and 2) I haven't been to sleep tonight, it's after midnight, and I am under the influence of my friend Ambien again - although she isn't doing diddly in the way of making me sleepy and wafting me away to Slumberland. If I wrote incoherent nonsense in a previously similar life, might I not do the same again?

In addition, I'm kind of scared to go to bed because I really don't want to have those stupid dreams again.

I mean, I don't speak Martian. What if they need the facilities and I can't tell them how to get there? Will I end up wetting the bed?

It's a legitimate concern.

Double Your Digits, Double Your Fun

For the past several years there has been a tendency toward a little something I like to call Global Warming.

It's a phrase Al Gore and I came up with when he invented the Internet.

And for those years, in late Spring, most of Summer and early Fall the temperatures have ventured into and stayed around the 100 degrees F mark.

Until this year.

Blessedly, the worm seems not only to have turned, but to have donned a wool coat.

I work at a not-for-profit in midtown, as I may have mentioned eleventy hundred times or so. Every year when the triple digits hit, it's my job to make sure we put an ice-filled tank with free bottled water outside the doors for people in the neighborhood. This is the first year since I've been here that we haven't needed to provide that service. Usually we will refill the tank for at least a week if not more. This year we didn't even set it up.

So here's my thought: I need to come up with a new "catch phrase" for what's going on with the weather. Something original. Something for which Al can't claim credit.

How does "The Big Chill" grab you?

OK, how about "Global Normalization"?

It's a work in progress. Meanwhile, don't tell Al.

Dr. Hairy Gives Me The Gas

Today was the Day of the Cracked Tooth.

Unfortunately, today was also the Day of Sleeping Late, so it was the Day of the Forgotten Xanax, which put me into the Day of Fear and Trepidation Like None Other.

My appointment was right after work so I didn't have time to run home and grab the relaxation tool I needed. Even if I had, it wouldn't have had time to work before I had to be at the dentist's office. It was no wonder I walked in with my fists clenched at my sides and my jaw set.

It can be hard to fix a cracked tooth if you can't pry your mouth open.

Dr. Hairy (part of his nickname) came in and tilted me back in the chair. By that time the Death Grip had taken a firm hold, taking part of the pressure off of my jaw. I opened wide as Dr. Hairy explained how he was going to paint a numbing agent on my gums before he "gave me some medicine" to further numb me up.

He didn't fool me one bit, because this girl's been around the dental block before. He meant NEEDLES.

It was at this point, just before I went totally rigid, that I mentioned it might be a good time to haul out the gas if he felt so inclined. Otherwise he might have to peel me off of the ceiling, and it wouldn't be because I was floating.

Oh no.

Thankfully, he was a good egg and complied. Within an hour or so my hands had released the Death Grip, the jaw was loose, James Taylor was on the MP3 player and I was feeling no pain. The shot of pain killer wasn't even that bad.

And then came the drill.

I hate the drill.

And the first inkling I had of exactly how much I hated the drill was when it began to hurt. Even with the shots, even with the gas, even with the everything. So I got more shots. And then the drill was annoying and scary but it didn't hurt.

Finally it was over. And if this filling lasts as long as the last one did, I'll be dead the next time it needs to be replaced.

I think it's a good trade-off.

In Which Wii Join The World Of Technology

Pseudo-Daughter brought her Wii over for us to try out about two months ago.

It's still here.

I think we're going to claim squatters' rights soon. In the meantime, I got a wild hair and bought a Wii Fit to go with it. Because, as we all know, I am All About the Exercise.

Not.

However, stranger things have happened.

I have really BECOME All About the Exercise, because the Wii Fit? IT IS FUN.

I know, the two or three of you who read this already have a Wii Fit and have discovered this fact already. But trust me, this is NEWS in our family.

I am taken with the Step Aerobics. Who'da thought it? I have the top score in both the Step AND the ADVANCED Step at this point. (You may OOOOO and AAAHHHH now.) Of course, it's probably because no one else likes it the way I do and they haven't bothered to challenge me. I have also done my share of FALLING OFF OF THE BOARD whenever there is a change in the step because I am graceful and light on my feet that way. Honestly, I do well enough to remember which foot is which without them changing up steps on me all the time.

And Interpeeps? Hold on to your collective hats, because this girlfriend of yours has actually been RUNNING. Granted it's running in place, and granted it's the beginner run for now, but running it is. The Girl gets a kick out of seeing me run. She even made a video of it showing me from behind on her phone, but it somehow got deleted.

And that's a darn shame, that is.

I don't think she's ever seen me run in her lifetime, come to think of it. And she's almost eighteen.

Not only are there aerobic games to play, but there's Kill Me Now And Get It Over With Yoga as well. Only they just call it Yoga. It doesn't have the chanting and the visualizations and the Yin and the Yang and all that. It's just your basic yoga positions that I will never ever master in my entire lifetime or that of generations to come.

There are reasons for this. One is that I have no sense of balance whatsoever. In school I remember falling off of the balance beam more than I was on it, nearly failing the GYM class.
Who have you ever heard of that failed a PHYSICAL EDUCATION class? I mean, really. It was embarrassing.

And it is now.

I can't balance on one foot to save the nation or anyone else. I have a hard enough time balancing on two feet, what with the enormous appendage called my behind on the backside and the huge-osity of the frontal chest-type area. You'd think they'd balance each other out, but when it comes to side-to-side balance it doesn't matter a whit. I'm sunk.

And so, for balance-challenged people like me they also have balancing games. I think I don't need to tell you that I'm still on the beginner level on those. And I have been far surpassed by not only the children, but the children's friends. As a matter of fact, one friend in particular refused to leave our house until he had beaten everyone's score on a couple of the balance games. He's bunking out in the back yard now, but we've drawn the line at a campfire.

I haven't done any of the strength games yet. Basically because they aren't games, and I don't like what I saw The Boy do when he did that portion. I'm just fine with ignoring it for the time being. I'm just happy with what I've accomplished so far.

How long will it be fun? How long will I continue?

Let's wait and Sii.

D Day and Dysfunction

Today is D Day. I have my every-other-five-years-whether-I-need-it-or-not cleaning and check today.

I hate going to the dentist. It makes my teeth itch. All the scraping and the gouging and the poking and the drilling send me UP. A. WALL.

I also know beyond a reasonable doubt that I have cavities that will need to be filled, so there will be more drilling and scraping and gouging and poking in the future.

I HATE going to the dentist.

Every little scrape or scratch they do with that scraper scratcher thing echoes in my head and makes me feel like someone is scraping my very bones. It puts a fear in me greater than any surgery ever could. Because I KNOW it's going to hurt and there won't be anything I can do about it.

I know I'm irrational. I am a native of the irration. I am full-blooded irrational, and proud of it.

I think this stems from Dental Trauma I had in the past. It's a well-documented syndrome, at least in my own mind.

The dentist I went to in my earliest years decided to pull some teeth of mine because my mouth is apparently too small to handle the normal amount of teeth. Which you would never guess, never in a million years, if you happened to know me well, as I know all of you Interpeeps do.

Ahem.

Back to Dr. Dread.

At the tender age of before I was sixteen, he pulled at least four of my teeth - maybe more - using what was available at the time for anesthesia. No gas, no putting me out, just a couple of shots of a numbing agent. And apparently he didn't use enough or didn't give it time to work well enough because it was almost time for One Life to Live or The Guiding Light or some other soap he watched on a regular basis and he didn't want to miss seeing Stone and Crystal's wedding. Because, you know, they've been through so much in their lives to get to this point what with the drinking and the affair and the long-lost father who was a pirate and finding out their child of love was switched at birth with another baby and one of them is gay and all.

So when Dr. Dread pulled my teeth he was obviously in need of some Soap Opera Therapy in a big way. He needed to hurry, and my mouth wasn't cooperating by getting numb enough fast enough.

So he pulled my teeth anyway.

And I heard and felt them coming out. Those roots run DEEP.

Strike one.

Fast forward fifteen years.

I now have a different dentist, one who is a son of a friend of my father's. And I find that I need not one, but TWO root canals done.

Never, ever chew ice. 'Nuff said.

Not knowing my past, he misunderstands when I grip the arms of the chair like a vise. He spanks my hands and commands me to STOP THAT RIGHT NOW!!! in a loud voice. Apparently he has no sympathy for fear.

After he finishes his work, I have no sympathy for him and never go back.

Strike two.

The next dentist is a cousin of Hubster's. While he is wonderful at what HE does, his hygienist is not. My gums bleed like a stuck pig after seeing her, and are swollen for days.

Strike three.

I am now in my late forties and find I have two cavities that need filling. I asked my boss for a referral, and he sends me to his dentist. The hygienist is nice, if a little rough. However, she uses "laughing gas" to make me more comfortable after I tell her my fears. When I am seen by the dentist to fill my cavities he pumps me so full of gas I float away.

I decide then and there I will never change dentists again.

But I still have a hard time going in. It's the scraping thing still. I just can't seem to get over that, so I haven't been back in almost three years.

But then the kids got after me, and Hubster got after me, and I got after me, and so I'm going today.

But I don't like it.

Not one bit.