Tag Archives: baby

Nazis, Floss & IUDs

23 May

13188-12196I’m not exactly sure when my dental phobia started. I don’t remember being afraid as a kid; but somehow, over time I have come to think of dental offices like little Guantanamo Bays. You’re there to get your teeth cleaned, but go ahead and ask for my PIN number and how many people I’ve slept with while you’re at it, because let’s face it, this is one step from ‘enhanced interrogation’ (both my PIN and the other number are very low for your information). Maybe it was watching Marathon Man? I recall watching that and Silence of the Lambs on a date night with an old boyfriend. That’s a bad idea (the boyfriend and the first movie choice). Stick to Buffalo Bill and putting the lotion in the basket but avoid Nazi Dentist plot lines. Trust me.

I’m pretty sure that Brittany wasn’t a Nazi dentist. I’m also pretty sure that Brittany wasn’t old enough to buy Plan B without parental consent. I don’t feel old. I don’t think I look old? That is, until, Brittany, who just got through reading “Are you there God? It’s me, Margaret” during her lunch break, calls me back from the waiting room.

Eff!!! Where’s the usual broad? The one that talks too much and ends every sentence with a tone that sounds like a question. “It’s so nice outside?.?.?.” Asking or telling? Asking or telling? Every conversation with her has been awkward for two reasons. One, her hand is in my mouth. Two, I have no idea if she needs a response or is stating fact. I thought she was horrible, but now, Britt Britt wants to go poking around in my mouthhole. A gift horse is always greener? How does that go? Yeah, I shouldn’t have mentally eye-rolled during my last visit, because now, karma is here to kick my ass.

“Sooooo, I’m Brittany, I’m like a temp, just fillin’ in. If it looks like I’m fumbling arrround, it’s cause I don’t know where they keeeeep things, but TRUST me, I totally know what I’m doing.”

Perfect. I’m totally at ease, Britt.

I immediately begin every hygienist conversation with a disclaimer that I don’t floss enough. And, of course, I will floss more. Yes, I know how important it is. Yes, I know how to do it. No, you don’t need to demonstrate. I swear I will quit throwing glass in the cardboard recycling, call my grandmothers more often and floss. Jesus Christ. Leave me alone.

But this time, the disclaimer is legit. “So, since having the baby, I feel like I’m lucky if I brush my teeth twice a day, so I know I’m not flossing enough.” (Old Question Talker hygienist had kids so she would have laughed, gave me the ‘mommy’ nod and said something stupid but she would have known that I actually DO BRUSH MY TEETH TWICE A DAY.)

“Ohhh, you should reeallly brush your teeth twice a day. I’m so serious. AND you reeeally should floss. It helps, like sooo much. Seriously, it totally does. Annnd, the baby gets better bacteria from your mouth if you have better bacteria in your mouth so you want better bacteria in your mouth, you know?”

I want to kill you. And your parents for having you.

“Soooo, I see that you want gassss?”

“Yep.”

“For a cleaning? It’s like not a filling or anything. Do you get nervous? Are you nervous? Do you get nervous? Is it like, anxiety? You must get nervous? Are you nervous? Here, let me take your blood pressure.”

148/98.

“Oh, you are nervous.”

By this time, I’m no longer nervous….more homicidal than anything. And then I let her in on a little bit of what’s been rolling around in my head for the last 4 ½ minutes.

“I just came from the gynecologist’s office, where….they tried, tried….to place an IUD, BUT!! Hahaha!!! My “iron clad” cervix wouldn’t allow it! BUT! Not for lack of trying!! Sounds awesome, right? Sure does! Thanks, Britt! And, I’m a new mom, so I never sleep or get to drink or take drugs….so more than anything, ANYTHING, I want to feel a little loose, you know what I mean? (No, she doesn’t, because kids don’t use that term for what I’m getting at) I want the gas so I can just chill the fuck out. That would be super!”

I thought using a swear word would ‘connect’ us; like an older sister letting a little sister see behind the curtain. Look, we could be gal pals, B! I’ll throw down an F bomb and she will immediately friend request me and ask if I wanted to go to Happy Hour. Totes funsies.

Yeah. That didn’t happen. Instead, she turned into a Nazi dentist. Oh, she gave me the gas alright. But just enough so I could tell it was on, but not enough to do anything. What a bitch. The old lady used to turn that shit up as high as I wanted. I always denied feeling anything (a trick my brilliant father taught me) and eventually when my face was beet red and my eyes were rolling back in my head, Question Talker would go to work.

Instead, Brittany tried to place that IUD……in my gums.

I miss you Question Talker. Statement, not query.

The Art of War (on dog shit)

4 May

ImageThe sun is shining, the house smells of fresh coffee, the baby is cooing and examining her hands like Hunter S. Thompson on a mescaline trip….so, needless to say, life is good. Our only problem today, the only thing that can change our focus from the smells of fresh cut grass and BBQ, distract us from the promise of a treasure hunt at a nearby garage sale or the kiss of sun on our pasty Oregonian shoulders….the only thing….are the two barking shit ninjas posted up on the couch, waiting, plotting, scheming to launch another sneak attack of baby carrot sized turds in our home.

My beloved dogs, who at one point not that long ago, I would have thrown myself in front of a train for, are now formidable opponents in a game of Dog Shit Battleship. I didn’t like that game when it just involved plastic destroyers and now it’s being played with canine feces and I’m losing. I don’t know how to get the upper hand? Our first mistake was thinking that rescuing a couple of Chihuahua mutts (to be clear, my husband’s idea) was going to end in anything other than a house full of yapping shit machines.  Don’t even get me started on the pi$$. (I hate the word pi$$…but it’s the only word that fits.  I also hate other words that start with ‘p’, like ‘peck#r and pu$$y’. Awful. I love a swear word or a tasty superlative, but if it starts with a ‘p’ I’m likely to cringe).

I don’t understand these little assholes. Rita and Diego have a giant backyard to drop a deuce in; a wide expanse of green to take care of their nasty business. Is the backyard too big?  Does it feel like that part in Dances with Wolves, where John Dunbar Costner crawls up over the ridge to see a million buffalo? Is it just too much land to consider? Do they ponder their minuteness as they venture past the patio? Are they expecting tatonka to charge up and catch them with their pants down? Maybe that’s why they prefer such locations as sticking it to, (literally) sticking a turd to the front door. Diego pushes his tiny b-hole up against the door, craps, and walks away. One or two stick to the door and the rest roll down like those sticky balls you used to get in a box of cereal. When you open the front door, you’re greeted right off the bat by 2/3 of his last crap being scraped across the floor. If that doesn’t work for you, how about right where you will put your feet when you swing your legs out of bed? Too obvious? OK, perhaps on the only portion of brown design on the throw rug, to ensure it’s perfectly camouflaged, like a dog crap duck blind. But my personal favorite, in the baby’s bath chair.  In her chair? The entire yard. The entire house.  But nope, in her chair. Sonsofbitches.

The bath chair was the final straw. Only the baby is allowed to shit in that chair. This means goddamned war. With Sun Tzu as my guide, I will learn my enemy and beat them at their own game. I will stop just short of pooping in their kennel.  Or will I? Only the barking shit ninjas will know.

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