An Unbelievable Hootard

This weekend I had a conversation with my Spanish speaking son David. He is the one who gave me the nickname Mommacita many years ago when he was a teenager. (the word teenager is a foreshadowing people) I always loved that he gave me a nickname, because we gave all our kids nick names. LOVE the nick name.

So I asked him: "Dubers, (his little nickname that we made up for him when he was two that means cutest little David in the world) what exactly does Mommacita mean?" The phone goes dead. I repeat the question. "What does Mommacita mean?"

"Um... Well..."
"Is it something bad?"
"Um....sort of."
"Well like how bad? Am I like a hootchie momma or something?"
"(nervous little laugh) Well, only just a little."

"So I'm just a LITTLE bit HOOTCHIE MOMMA? Or would I be a Hootchie Momma that is small in stature?"

"Pretty much all that. Um. Kind of." (more nervous laugh)

"Oooooooh"

DeepBreathDeepBreathDeepBreathDeepBreath


LaughingitoffLaughingitoffLaughingitoffLaughingitoff


ResisttheurgetomaimeResisttheurgetomaime


Here I've been sasshaying around in my mommacitaness for close to 9 years not really realizing the extent of my ever so confident sasshay.

DUBERS!!!!

In an effort to rise above, (the stuff my life is made of...) I tried to find some mommacita visuals for your viewing pleasure. Most of what I found I could NOT post, (might have offered too much pleasure) because, my fellow Americans, if you refuse to stand for something, you will fall for anything. (I heard that line (on a reality show) come out of the mouth of a bimbo. Seems fitting that we adopt it here.) Here are a few things that came up that were post worthy. First, we have

A Hootchiemamma extraordinaire and a one of a kind role model for me, a deeeeeeply entrenched Mommacita. Cher takes no guff from no body (a foreshadowing of a different sort). ...Next we have


HootchieMamma kicking up legs. While I may have at one point wanted to lay on the floor in a pair of limey leather pants accented with black wedgies and kick up my heels, I would never allow myself to be photographed in them. tackiness. I might end up on What not to Wear.

This is the last mommacita picture I am willing to post. I'm kind of wondering why google brought her up on the mommacita search. Maybe she's little in stature.

When someone takes my picture as mother of the groom at Mitch's wedding, am I going to end up on some one else's blog to illustrate the meaning of Mommacitahootchiemama-ness? The Horrors.

Whilst in my search for visuals, I ran across an urban dictionary site quite by accident. There was a word on it called "Hootard". It means: "anyone who is so dumb that they would be considered stupid in Whoville." While I love my golden boy Dubers like no other, I still believe that since I made up the name Dubers 24 years ago, I can change the meaning now if I wish. The new meaning of Dubers is Hootard. I don't think he reads this blog anyhow.

ps I'm still keeping Mommacita. The new meaning of Mommacita is lovely lovely kind and lovely woman.

Not Even a Minor Pulloff

Self: High fives for pulling off that bookclub last night.
Realistic Self: Oh please.

Self: Well they came, they blabbed, they ate, they left. I'd call that a major pulloff.
Realistic Self: Um. Wait. Remember the first woman who got here?

Self: The one that I told the secret to about not reading the book? I believe my exact words to her were "Hey ________, you want to hear a secret? I didn't read the book."
Realistic Self: Yah. Remember the first thing out of her mouth when the discussion started?

Self: You mean the part about announcing that I hadn't read the book?
Realistic Self: yep.

Self: um. That was a bit of a blip in the radar screen of the pull off. I wasn't even given the chance to use my practiced head nod. I remember at one point catching myself using the head nod, and then having to tell myself, no need to use the head nod, so I stopped with the head nod. In fact, I remember thinking I can't believe I considered the head nod thing. I got a little red in the face thinking that the head nod and I had been on the same page.
Realistic Self: Ya Think?

Realistic Self: So how did you like the discussion?
Self: I found my mind wandering a bit becaise I didn't know what was going on.

Realistic Self: And?
Self: Ok Ok I was disgusted and irritated with myself because the book actually seemed like it might be worth reading.

Realistic Self: Why so quiet?
Self: Sometimes I hate talking to you.

Realistic Self: I don't know why you would say that.
Self: You know, you were pretty valuable to me when I was raising the kids, but I've got to say, sometimes now that I'm living with only you, I find you to be annoying and irritating.

Realistic Self: Funny, I think I remember the kids saying the same thing when they were , um, like, 15.
Self: (sound that is made when you take a huge breath and blow alot of air out your lips and they vibrate. like a horse does)

Self: OKOKOK. I was narcked out by one of the women.
Big Woo.

Realistic Self: It was classic, no?
Self: Yep. It was absolutely a classical tale. Rivals a Dickens novel.

Realistic Self: It was hilarious, no?
Self: Yep. Now that you mention it, it was totally hilarious. Hilarity was abounding far and near, near and far.

Realistic Self: You deserved it, no?
Self: Yep. I deserved it all the way.

Realistic Self: I mean, didn't you just L-O-V-E love it?
Self: Yeah yeah, excellent blog material. And much more socially appropriate than skin tags.

Self: Can we be done now?

Why Why Why

Why did I do the following things?

Why did I agree to host a bookclub meeting at my house tomorrow night?

Why did I not read the book?

Why can't I even remember the title of the book?

Why don't I go right this minute and practice the all knowing head nod in the mirror, so tomorrow night when the Relief Society ladies show up here all perfumed and eager faced with their books under their arms and they all start discussing whatever they discuss at these functions, I can fool them (with the newly perfected head nod) into thinking that I am wiser because of what I read in that book, whose title I can't even remember, and they will not notice what a loosery host of the book group I am?



Sometimes I exhaust myself with my own sloth.

Something for Them to Remember Me By

Keep in mind that this is tolerated.

Me: Hello my darlin. Are you traveling to the sun?

Gracie: Yah Grandma.

Me: Are you watching movies in the car on the way?

Gracie: Yep. Cinderella. We borrowed a thing but the cords were missing so my mom tied the TV to the seat with a rope.

Me: That sounds like a good idea. And convenient yet slightly barbaric too. What are you going to do when you get there?

Gracie: We are going to swim in that pool that looks like a jelly bean.

Me: A Jelly Bean?

Gracie: Yep. Like what you give us.

Me: Yes! I DO give you jelly beans! You remembered! You remembered! What else will you do?

Gracie: We are going to go on walks with our bikes.

Me: Oh...a bikewalk. Or is it a walkbike? Anyway, those are cool. Did you stop and say hi to your other Grandma on the way?

Gracie: yep

Me: I'll bet your Grandma just hugged and hugged and kissed and kissed you.

Gracie: Yep. But she doesn't leave lipstick all over my face when she does it.

Me: Oh, that's nice of her.

Gracie: Yep. I don't like those lipstick grandma kisses that stay all over your face.

Me: Um. you mean like mine?

Gracie: giggle

Gracie: giggle

Gracie: laugh

Gracie: Gafaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaw

Procrastinative (new word, i just made it up because that's part of the diversion process) Diversions

Procrastinative diversions in order to avoid preparing a Young Women Lesson for 8:30 am church:

1. Eat a peanut butter cookie with a Hersey kiss on it
2. Try to think of something to blog about
3. Flip through the menu on Dish network
4. Reject the following TV shows:

"Peyote to LSD: A Psychedelic Odyssey" on the History Channel
"Bridget Jones: the Edge of Reason" on one of those chick channels

Lara Croft: Tomb Raider" (Tim would have totally watched this because of the Angelina Jolie Factor. He had a not so silent crush on Angelina Jolie, and I know this from when she was in that movie where she played a news anchor and wore a blonde wig. During this movie, he kept leaning over to me in the theatre and saying "she looks so good as a blonde she looks so good as a blonde". I wanted to smack him then, so I'm not going to watch her tonight)

"Miss Rap Supreme" on VH1
"Egyptian Conjoined Twins" on Discovery Health
"National Heads up Poker Championship" on the who cares network
"Reign of the Gargoyles" on some channel I never watch.

"Head to Toe Runway Show" on QVC. You see, I have a theory about TV shopping shows. I think depressed people watch them. You don't have to go anywhere, you can watch in your yammies, you can eat and drink cocoa while you watch AND shop. Yep. It's for the depressed. Right after Tim died, I became a little obsessed with QVC and Home Shopping Network. I have memories of watching it ALOT. The people were SO nice, and happy and what they said MADE SO MUCH SENSE. Everything was so happy and positive and it just felt good to have that manic chatter on. I just sat there glassey eyed, with my cocoa, and my phone. And my credit card. I bought these containers that I was going to store fabric in that seemed like such a good idea at the time. I bought TWO BOXES of them. One of the boxes is sitting behind me, in the den closet unopened after 4 years. I also bought (this is embarrassing) a Scunci Steamer because I was absolutely CONVINCED that I was going to need it. Ask me how many times I have used it. I'm sure I would use it twice a day were it not for THE DEAFENING NOISE it makes the entire time it is on. We're talking migrain loud. I also bought a fruit dryer that I sent back when my right mind returned and I realized what in the heck am I going to do with that?? PEOPLE! I WAS VULNERABLE! These stations and infomercials prey on the vulnerable in our society (pitiful widows). So you see, I'm not watching "Head to Toe Runway Show" tonight because I'm not in a depressive, vulnerable state any more, and if I tried to watch it I would honestly think Who in their right mind watches this ridiculous tripe? I don't mean to offend, but if you watch QVC or HSN you honestly need to get yourself some help. It is a sign. A big fat pink neon sign. Blinking. Off and On. In your face.

As you can see here, I really needed one of these after Tim died to steam clean all of my kid's toys. My youngest was a senior in high school at the time. And yes, I do have the handy carrying case made of heavy duty rip-stop nylon.

Lookey here... I have become distracted from the diversion. Part of the master plan. Focus on the list Mommacita!

5. Eat another peanut butter cookie
6. Wonder how the people in the entertainment industry are dreaming up shows about gargoyles and peyote. Are they merely experiencing Procrastinative Diversion and turning it into a money making scheme?
7. Make all of the TV Show titles in this blog have a different color.
8. Remind myself that it is 9:17 so get crackulating
9. Remind myself that it is 9:18 so get crackulating for reals

Conversation With an Idiot

Self: I just finished a blog post
Irrational Self: I wonder if anyone has commented yet

Self: Stop thinking about the comments
Irrational Self: You should just go look. It's been 10 minutes now.

Self: This is overtaking my life
Irrational Self: Maybe someone has said something funny

Self: I think I should go a day without posting because I am becoming an ensy beensy teensy bit weird about it
Irrational Self: Someone is lying to themselves. You're ALL the way weird about this

Self: Regardless, I need to be fully aware of every situation because there is blogging potential in everything that happens.
Irrational Self: You're becoming like those women who buy scrapbook paper with matching stickers and then dress the kids in clothes that match the paper and the stickers and then take them to the zoo and then take pictures of the kids in the clothes (that match the paper and stickers) and then create a scrapbook page that is entitled 'Animals at the Zoo' so that you never ever forget the good times had by all at the zoo. Plus you've become the master of the run on sentence.

Self: Is my irrational self is starting to make sense?
Irrational Self: Um. Hello. You almost wrote a blog today about having skin tags removed.

Self: The skin tag removal was chock full of good material.
Irrational Self:

Self: I need help
Irrational Self: I concure

10 Things I Would ask Tim if He Were Here Right This Minute

1. So Mitch and His Lady Gloria Tibbitts, are they not just the cutes?

2. Did you hand pick Matt for Leigh?

3. Do you watch me while I sleep, drool, snore?

4. That Polygamous Bunch in Texas: Your legal take?

5. Who are you hanging out with?

6. Are Graciethecat and Bobbin for Apples there?

7. Was there a big ta-doo when Gordon B. Hinckley made the cross over?

8. Are you able to read my thoughts?

9. Should I replace the deck?

10. Is there any way you could manage to take out the garbages? FYI Garbage day is still Friday. Oh but you knew that because you're reading my mind now. Anyway, get cracking on that garbage project.

Post Birthday Musing

I'm 53 now.

When a girl is a girl, she does girlish things, but when she's a woman she puts away the girl stuff. Or whatever that saying says. I've been contemplating the last two days, what it is that I have to put aside as I get older. And because every pancake has two sides, I have also been thinking about what, if anything, I gain.

First of all, I'll never ever go to sleep again without one of these:


After your mother in law rear ends you on a family vacation (don't even get me going on that story) and after you yourself drive your new family van into a light post, and after 15 years have passed, you need a pillow made out of this stuff to take care of the residual neck pain. You pack it in your suitcase whenever you go anywhere, you sleep on it ever single night for the rest of your life, and you testify to all of your friends over and over of it's benefits until they all buy one too. And when you go on your sewing weekends you all buy pretty satin fabric and sew little pillowcases for them. I'm grossing myself out here. Old Lady City, table for one.

Next on the agenda for Geezerville is this:
I have to draw my eyebrows on every morning.

I know, I know, that picture is creepy, but it's creepy that I have to draw on my eyebrows every stinking morning. Where did they go? I've always been fair of face and hair, and I have always used a pencil, however I have to use TWO DIFFERENT ONES now. One to put the color on, and one to keep it on. If I don't use the second one, then my eyebrows just slide off...to who knows where? Do they evaporate? Have you heard of eyebrow evaporation before? Because I have it now. Is it a medical condition?

Which brings me to the next thing: medical conditions. While I'll give you that I don't need a pregnancy test ever again; as one grows older, one's ears start perking up to medical conditions that begin to plague you and your peer group. When I was young, we would all sit around and tell birth stories. The bigger, the scarier, the more screaming the better. It didn't matter how many times we heard a story of birth, we always listened like it was for the first time. We were horrified yet couldn't seem to cover our ears. We had to hear it. We had to speak it. And our stories got better with age. I was able to tell birthing baby stories that covered just about every single way someone could birth a baby. I can't really tell you at what age we stopped with the birthing of baby stories, but stop it has. We've moved on to more fertile ground.

We still have to hear it, and we still have to speak it, however the subject has switched from giving life to watching it go haywire. You wouldn't believe some of the things I've heard. And, I hang my head in shame to admit this: Shared. Head stuff. Mouth stuff. Cyst stuff. Bowel stuff. Goiter stuff. Vein stuff. Stuff growing where it doesn't belong stuff. And the ever popular night sweat stuff. It is not pretty. And from what I hear, all roads lead to Depends. I never thought I'd hear myself say this, but I sure do appreciate my bladder. viva los bladders. VIVA LOS BLADDERS!!!!!

I think I might have sounded a little out there and lunaticish just now. Despite all this, there's something worth rejoicing over. I rejoice over the fact that I'll never ever ever ever have to wear, or can never ever ever ever be made to feel like I should wear anything like this Or this: Between that, the no pregnancy test thing, and being in the middle of the viva los bladder window, I'd say I'm living pretty large.


I knew it. You all wish you were 53.

Five Three

Today is my birthday. Happy Birthday Mommacita. I've enjoyed all 53 years with you. Oh, how lovely a person you have become.

Your sister in laws put a picture of your rear end in a swim suit on a quilt and you only threw a small fit. Your daughter and her husband moved to the Caribbean and you just smiled and waved goodbye, instead of hanging on to the tail of the plane with your fingernails. And toenails. You are so healthy mommacita! Your sons lived for two years in 3rd world countries and you just put their pictures on the frig and said in your emails to them how exciting it was to hear that they'd been arrested, or had been placed in hiding because they had a mentally deranged stalker or they lived next to a polluted river. Remember how great you were through all that Mommacita? Remember how you stood in awe of yourself? No? How about this one: Your granddaughters live two states away, however you are able to use your grandmotherly wiles and convince them to sing to you over the phone whenever you want.

Mommacita, as the kids are saying now a days, You rock. Put on your yammies, crawl under your down comforter, and smile at the ceiling. Go ahead and eat a chocolate covered fortune cookie from a pink box and purr. Tomorrow you can put on your spanx and face the world.

The Truthiness of Wikiality

Last night, I was working a shift at the temple. I had a cheese curd (still wanting some of those BTW) moment. I was listening to some guy give a talk and he started talking about Wikiality.

Having just written the cheese curd blog, my ears perked up, because right now I'm hyper- sensitive about what I don't know. Guess what? I don't know squat about Wikiality.

I'm a participating member of this human race. I think I need to know about Wikiality.

I race home and google it. Now I know all you young hippster below 30-ers are all out there yawning and rolling your eyes. You've watched the Colbert Report. (Pronounced: Coe-bear Re-Pour) In fact you probably watch it when it runs again for the second time later in the evening, after your parents have gone to bed. But as for Me, and Mine, the hippster doofuses over 50?

Wikiality-less. Well, probably not all of you over 50 are hippster doofuses. I might be the only one, because I watch pretty much only Gilmore Girls Reruns.

The concept of Wikiality derives from the theory of cultural relativity and is grounded on the idea of "truth by consensus" or "popular truth." Wikiality represents "A reality where if enough people agree with a notion, it becomes the truth." "For example, Pluto stopped being a planet when, by a majority vote, astronomers stopped treating Pluto as a planet." It is a term that was born (at the hand Steven Colbert) thru the loins of Wikipedia, the online encyclopedia, which is an online source of information that anyone can edit, so theoretically, anyone can edit the truth. Afterward, if enough people agree with any user's edit, or at least accept the Wikipedia version as true, it becomes true.

People People People. Didn't your mother ever read you "The Emperor's new Clothes"?

Hey. Let's get together and change some factoids into truth:

Let's have men feel labor pains instead of women,

Let's have chocolate and lettuce trade calories

Let's have water turn into gasoline

Let's have the sun be pink because my granddaughter loves pink and I'll bet yours does too

Let's have cancer not be deadly, instead, lets tell people they're LUCKY if they get it

Let's have headaches be fun

Let's say in our blogs that I watch only Gilmore Girl reruns on TV.

Let's say death isn't final

Let's say cigarettes won't hurt us

I live in a state of vulerability, wondering and stewing about what I don't know, but now what I do know is that Wikiality is running amok amoungst us. Running amok amoungst Him and Her and Them and You and even (when I wikiality myself) ME. I've just turned it into a verb.

The Wikialitites may tell me this and that, when in truth, the this-es and that-es that the Wiki's tell me may be nothing more than something born of Wikiality. And thus I am forced to wallow in truthiness. Did you get that??? TRUTHINESS

I'm in my corner quivering.

And my nose is running.

Thank goodness, once again, for this man, one of my heros:

President Thomas S. Monson. Slayer of Wikiality and devour-er of Modern Day truthiness

What You Don't Know is a Cheese Curd

I read a blog by my new cyber best friend Kristen this morning that made mention of: "a Culver's double deluxe burger with everything and cheese curds on the side"



I did not know what cheese curds on the side were so I asked her this in my comment:


What is 'cheese curds on the side'? Is it a fancy name for cheesey french fries? Is it cheese fried all curdy like? Is it a side of cottage cheese? Is it something I've never heard of but simply must try? Would others feel sorrow for me because I've never had them/it? I like cheese so I think I might like it/them and now I will not be able to stop thinking about why oh why I never had a cheese curd on the side.

I'm 52, and I should have already had something called cheese curds on the side. Not to be obsessive.


My cyber best friend Kristen said this:

Miss Mamacita - you have not lived until you have had an order of fried cheese curds. Basically they are squeeky Wisconsin cheese curds, breaded and fried, so when you eat them they are a melted molten fire ball of cheese with a cruncy outside. Heaven......

My question now is: What other experiences are out there that I don't know about? I thought I had experienced alot of life: marriage, giving birth, raising kids, having them publicly embarrass you, (not for years now because they don't live in my town anymore and when they visit I keep them sequestered) joy, pain, death, swedish chocolate, tillimook carmel toffee crunch ice cream, toilet paper on my shoe, the list goes on and on. But now I'm tormented by all the other cheese curds out there. What don't I know about?


I fear there's alot, and I'm not sure what should be done.



Could you all please blog about the stuff I don't know?

Look below the conference blog

Here I am making more embarrassing blogging mistakes. I wrote a tribute blog to the Timmers to mark his birthday. I wrote it friday and saved it to draft to publish today. I don't know how to change the date on a draft, so it published BELOW the post I wrote yesterday entitled "Soap Box". WHY WHY WHY???

Maybe i'ts because of you. Maybe you're supposed to watch conference AGAIN.

Maybe it was TIM, hocus pocusing things so you would watch conference AGAIN. Or maybe you ignored watching general conference and Tim made hocus pocus on my blog so you would watch conference. This because of YOU.

http://www.lds.org/

I would suggest President Thomas Monson's closing remarks on the Sunday afternoon session. I was quite touched, and when he started talking about his wife in a coma, well I just blubbered, it being Tim's birthday and all.

If you want to have a remember Tim time, scroll down right now until you see the blog entitled "Get out the Kleenix, it's April 6th" and have at it. Pretend it says April 6th and let us never speak of this again.

Soap Box

If you are blog lurking today, maybe you should be thinking about watching thisand listening to him

Get out the Kleenix, it's April 6th

Today is the Tim-o-tee's birthday. sigh. I just love that guy, and not a day goes by that I don't miss or think of him. Several times. Thanks be to Margaret, his mom, for giving him life and nurturing all that was good in him. I'm raising my glass (of sparkling cider) to all the things I love about him:


His sparkling good looks and scintillating personality. (His description BTW)
His 180 lbs of twisted steel and sex appeal. (His description BTW)
The seal laugh (it has been passed on to all my boys)
Those soft green eyes
Beautiful hands (really beautiful hands)


Everything was always fun
Something was always funny
We laughed every single day


Wise wise wise
Down to earth. He was as comfortable as an old shoe
Organized. His paper clips were separated into small, medium, and large
Wasn't outwardly annoyed with living with someone who's paperclips were jumbled all together


Always kissed me hello, always kissed me goodbye, and always kissed me whenever else he could get away with it

Knew the answer to any gospel question
Was a friend to anyone
Was particularly fond of holding my hand


Could flare his nostrils. Taught my children to flare. I'm the only non flarer. I'm more than OK with that


Loved his Athletic self
At Family Home Evening, had the family filling out these during March Madness

Did the Superiority Dance if his bracket was the most correct. Sort of flaunted it.

Was a rabid BYU fan.

Played tennis or Basketball every day at noon, so his sports didn't take up family time

He had a year round tan he was able to aquire, despite living in a rainy place, from the tennis at noon

He had a quirkey fondness for his year round tan from the tennis at noon. Oh, you better believe that there was some vainity there

Honest and respected lawyer. He returned all his phone calls. He had a court appointed client in prison send him a birthday card.

Loved to say "Hot Chillies" (a brand name for long underwear) over and over to annoy me when he was putting on his Hot Chillies to go skiing. This happened every single time. There was emphasis on the hot. The first time he did it, I told him he was saying the words Hot Chillies a little too often and doing that made him kind of weird and creepy. He lit up like a Christmas Tree, stared directly into my eyes and whispered Hot Chillies in a gutteral voice. This ritual proceeded every stinking time he ever pulled those Hot Chillies out of the drawer. Again and Again with the Hot Chilies. David inherited the Hot Chillies and I've heard the words Hot Chillies come out of his mouth more than once. May the legacy continue, but only if it takes place in someone else's house.

Loved his Family in word and deed

Always served willingly

Fearless missionary

Coached 100s of games for 100s of years

Went to his High School graduation with a wire in his tassel so it stood straight up.

Listened to his big brother Tom on his high school graduation day

Loved his sibilings and mother with intense loyalty

He always made me feel like I was the most important person in the room

When he was a 21 year old baby, he engraved on my wedding ring, "Your number 1 always". He spelled you're your. I didn't notice until after he died. I don't know why, but I was just so glad it was spelled 'your'. It made it feel like he had really been here. There wasn't a minute that went by that that inscription didn't feel true for me. This was a man that knew the logistics of how to love someone, and taught us all how to do it better.

Cheers and Happy Birthday to my Tim-o-tee. I will always and forever love you. Earth life was not nearly enough time. Thank goodness for that eternity thing.

It Warn't no Pic-a-nic any Which Way you Slice it

I survived the dentist. You knew I would. I came home and snuggled under my crocheted afghan and started to watch an Oprah that was about a man, who was really a woman, who had decided to change it up and become a man, who got pregnant, because apparently when you change it up, you are still really a woman parts wise. Only you bill yourself as a man. I think that's how it was presented. I was so confused. I switched (not teams, stations) to a Dr. Phil that was about mothers who are momzillas and control their children too much. Oh, you can bet I will be referring any and all of my children to THAT episode if they EVER wish to bring up even the tiniest little hiccup against my mothering skills. Watching TV can be just as bad as dental anticipation.

Big and Fat Squared with a Baby Thrown In

Today there's going to be a little bit of whining. If you're not in the mood, then I suggest you pack your bags and move on to the next blog.

I have to go to the dentist today to have a filling redone. Lets say up front that I don't have anything against the dentist. He is the father of my daughter in law, and so again, I don't have anything against the dentist. He's great. He even whistles while he does his thing, which is kind of comforting and sweet actually. And I don't have anything against dentists in general. One of my sons is studying to become one, (although he's thinking about orthodontia, and WHAT GOOD IS THAT GOING TO DO ME????) and I know they do their best and without them we'd have wooden teeth like George Washington, and alot of pain before that. But I just hate going because I am a big fat baby. Empasis on big, and fat, and baby.

It doesn't hurt that a month ago I had a root canal (and 2 rounds of 2 different antibiotics) that was so bad they almost couldn't save the tooth, and then a week or so after that I had a chip of bone that worked it's way out the side of my gum. Underneath my tongue. It took about 2 weeks. Now that was a sparkling good time ladies and gentlemen. (They called it a bone spur, and I don't know about you, but who came up with that name? You tell a patient that there is a spur (immediate visual of spikey sharpy pokey hurty thing) in their MOUTH? A spur in the place were you definately DON'T want things to POKE you? Are you freaking kidding me???)

So try and convince me that I'm supposed to not be a big fat baby about letting someone stick metal tools and drills in the vicinity where all that happened. I'm sorry, but no deal. I'm taking a bunch of motrin before I go and I'm paying the extra cash for the nitrus. I know there's a recession, and Sally Orman said on Oprah to curb our expenditures, but I'm broken and beyond. Enough is enough is enough.

My hair will look like this when I'm laying there except for the few pieces that will be sticking straight up, (not because they have product in them but because I'm scare-t.)