Two first class tickets to Hell, please.

I'm evil. And I love it.

Two days ago I was enjoying the spring-like weather. Something about the crack in the death grip of winter always gives me a new found motivation to to leave my house and get shit done.

I was reading an article on cnn.com about how Vegas is practically giving away hotel rooms and the airlines are following suit in the cheapness.

Just for the hell of it I looked up what it would cost to sneak out there this weekend for a quick and dirty getaway and was severely disappointed to find that we'd have to fly out of Seattle or LA to get these supposed "great deals". Bah!

I mentioned to Jim that it would be fun to go somewhere this weekend. The girls have Monday off and we could send them to his parents' house and take off.

And that is when things took a turn for the crazy.

You see, Jim knows a guy who can get free passes to Disney World.

Totally joking Jim said, "We should go there for the weekend and not take the kids."

After we stopped laughing maniacally we gave it some serious thought.

I didn't think he would really call that guy and see if we could get the passes, but sure as shit Jim called me an hour after he got to work to tell me that we would have them in hand in a couple of days.

Jim knows someone else that works for a hotel chain that happens to have a property about 2 miles from the Magic Kindgdom and whattaya' know? We can get a room there for next to nothing!

It all came down to airfare which, after all was said and done, cost more than I like to pay but this was so last minute I really can't complain. Considering the deal we are getting on the rest of our stay, I just decided to suck it up and pull the trigger.

We're going to tell them that we are going to Chicago...which is true. We are flying out of O'Hare. We aren't even telling his parents where we are going just in case they slip. They know we are catching a flight, but that's it.

All photographic proof of this trip will be hidden in a safe deposit box until our children are old enough to be charged as adults for stabbing us in our sleep for leaving them home.

This whole thing happened so fast and it is seriously fucking with my Type A personality.

I'm pretty excited, not just because we really dig going to Disney World, but also to actually be getting away--just the two of us. We never ever do stuff like this, but here we are.

Happy (almost) Spring!

By the way, I hit someone on a bike a couple weeks ago

Yup. Just as the title states.

I'm thankful for two things:

1) The girl I hit is OK.
2) It totally wasn't my fault.

I was driving Mina to school and was at the four way stop a few blocks from my house. I waited for my turn and, just as I let off the brake to go, I had a college coed on my hood. Not in a teenage boy fantasy Whitesnake video kind of way either.

It happened so fast. I seriously did not see her until she was right there splayed across the front end of my car.

She got right back up and started apologizing to me. I felt like an attempted murderess.

A witness across the street called 911 and they were there in like 3 minutes.

The cop was super nice and kept asking Mina if she was alright (she was).

Basically, the girl wasn't watching and didn't stop at the crosswalk before riding through. There was no way I could have stopped in time. The witness, the cop and even the girl all said it wasn't my fault.

I held it together until I had to call Jim at home and tell him he needed to give Audrey a ride to preschool. Then I started a lovely hysterical sob in front of Mina. And still, she held it together.

It took me a whole weekend to process the whole ordeal.

Monday I took my car in for an estimate on the damage. My car came away with some hefty scratches and a dent. I wasn't really going to do anything about it, but my insurance agent said I really should as this would seriously lower my trade in value.

TWELVE HUNDRED DOLLARS.

We're turning it into her parents' insurance. There's no way I would be able to get it fixed otherwise. Since the cop said it was her fault, her Mommy and Daddy get to pay for the fixin'.

Except that her Mom isn't being real forthcoming with the info. My agent said she's, and I quote, "being real North Shore cunty about it".

Apparently Mommy doesn't understand why we would "go to all this trouble on a 6 year old car".

HA!

Sorry I can't trade in my lease for the newest Jag every other year. Some of us have to drive older cars that they worked very hard to get paid off.

So Friday will be two weeks since the accident and I still haven't heard a word from their insurance. I can't really do anything about it until their person comes and does their own assessment of the damage.

Part of me thinks they might try and fight it. Can they do that?

More importantly, is there a possibility I can come away from this with a new car?

She's already planning her escape

Mina wrote this note to Jim and left it in the mailbox for him to find this moring (without any help from me):

Mom is Varry crase TOday
DaD WD You Help me
P.S. I luv you.

Spring Break: Not what it used to be

I'm this close to building a cagefighting ring in the backyard and selling tickets.

I may need more medication come Summer vacation.

Playing Catchup

This weekend I went up to Chicago with my friend Travis to see a "band" named Girl Talk at the Metro. What a clusterfuck that was.

Don't get me wrong. I had a fabulous time. We stayed with one of his oldest friends and her husband and I couldn't have asked for better hosts. The evening was a late celebration of the husband half of our boarders.

They had a little get together before the show, and hired a limo to take our tipsy asses into the city.

Travis did my hair and makeup and the end product was stripperific. I loved it.

The show wasn't slated to start until 11pm, so I was leery that I was even going to make it there without falling asleep. When we got to the Metro, the line was wrapped around the block so we hit a nearby bar to kill some time.

Sometime after midnight I looked up at one of the television screens to see that Obama took South Carolina with 55 percent. Suddenly I caught my second wind. How amazing is that? I was positively giddy.

I was so excited that I nearly forgot that we still a show to attend.

At close to 1:30 in the motherfucking morning, we stepped foot into the show. I didn't really know what to expect. I'd never even heard of this "band" before, but it was a free ticket and a weekend getaway so who am I to complain?

That was a joke. I'm totally going to complain.

The show was basically a dude on stage with a DJ setup, playing his CD and pretending to spin records. I think.

I was so confused.

The music was fun. It was basically "mash ups" of intertwined riffs and samples of everything from Elton John and James Taylor to Britney Spears and--I swear to the babyjesus--a snippet of a Tones on Tail song. Crazy.

Travis and I agreed that the whole ordeal made us feel elderly, or "oldsters" as we lovingly referred to our posse for the night.

The people watching was amazing though. I am such a stare queen in situations like that, and I was not left hanging for a moment.

I will say that while I joke about feeling old, I know I'm not. I am however too old to deal with the shitastic bathroom situation at the Metro. It was gross the last time I was there (13 years ago. Mazzy Star.). The full magnitude of its gut wrenching nastiness is even more apparent now without a cloud of smoke to cover it up.

We didn't get back to our hosts' house until almost 4 in the morning. Christ, who do I think I am?

The whole night can pretty much be summed up by the mental image I have burned into my retinas of a girl and her friend parting the crowd just fast enough to puke at my feet.

But seriously, I had a great time. Next time though, I think I'll go to the early show.

Best.Birthday.Ever.

I had far too much fun at my slumber party. Probably more fun than a grown woman should legally be allowed to have.

No, fuck that. I did deserve it. And my wonderful friends deserved a night of drunken revelrie as well.

Photographic proof of our night. LOTS o' pictures.

Flowers from my husband before he got the hell outta' Dodge.


I made some pretty cupcakes:


Enough?


It started off innocently enough:
"Hmmm...do I start with bourbon or wine?"










Present from Travis. He thought I needed a new gym bag. Inside the gym bag were colorful cigarettes and vaginal wipes. I love him.



My husband HATES celery. Hates it with a burning passion. This one is for him.


Who's a Pretty Barbie Birthday Princess? I AM! Thanks to Meghan.


Things went downhill (in a good way) quickly. Soon we were drunk.

Apparently I thought something we really fucking hilarious. I wish I could remember what it was.




No pillow fights, but Rachel got smoochy.










Phil is mysterious.


My dogs wanted us to shut the fuck up and go to bed.


But I made Ichabod play some Wii.


Full contact Wii.




Me. 3AM drunk in three parts.







34 is gonna' be a good year.

Oh My

I read in the paper today that the woman who owns the place that I board my dogs was arrested for animal cruelty.

Before I go any further, I want to state for the record that I do not think she did it. I just can't.

Is she a little rough around the edges? Yeah. Could I see her attempting to poison a person? Maybe. If she got pissed off enough. But an animal? No fucking way.

The article states that there are several witnesses putting her car at the scene. She does drive a huge, white SUV with gold trim and a vanity plate. It's wouldn't be hard to miss her behemoth vehicle even in the dark. But what the article doesn't say is who these witnesses saw behind the wheel. I'm holding onto the hope that it wasn't her driving--that someone else took some grudge or fight too far and borrowed her car to settle the score, unbeknownst to a woman I've trusted my dogs to more times than I can count.

The saddest part, as a friend of mine pointed out, is that no matter the outcome, her dog grooming/boarding business is going to suffer a major hit and may not recover at all.

Part of me wants to take my dogs over there right now to prove that I don't believe that she could ever be capable of hurting an animal.

I just hope I'm right.

Salad! Po-ta-to Salad!

If the Andrews Sisters did yoga:

Proof that I have not lost my badassedness to motherhood*

On Thursday nights I meet a couple friends out for a drink. I don't make it out every week but when I do, it's a nice break in the week--especially in these last few months with all the house craziness.

Yesterday was particularly deserving of an adult beverage. I took the girls to the pool in the morning, then took them grocery shopping, then had to get home to wait around for the home appraiser. My girls really should have laid down for some "quiet time" because they were really wiped out from swimming, but I knew they would get interrupted by whoever was coming over to appraise the house. So, no nap.

Nevermind that the guy was an hour and half later than he said he was going to be, and my kids were practically clawing at their face in exhaustion. When Mina gets overtired, she takes on all the characteristics of someone with Tourette's Syndrome, randomly shouting and screeching. Audrey just whines and cries at every single imagined infraction of the universe.

Add to all of this the fact that I was on day one of Bleed Fest June '07, and even though I had taken enough ibuprofen to put down a racehorse, I could still feel my shitty baby purse cramping away.

By 5:30, the noise level in my house had reached monkey house proportions, and I was ready to put my head in the oven.

By the time 9:30 rolled around, I was more than ready to get that drink.

I got to the bar and strolled down to the end to find my friend and her husband waiting. She got up to play some songs on the jukebox, so I followed her over to chat. While we standing there, some drunk fuck stumbled by and literally stopped in his tracks and proceeded to give her a full body leer. He was gross and grizzled and smelled like ass. It was kind of funny the way he didn't even try to hide the fact that he was checking her out head to toe.

We shrugged it off and went back to picking songs.

When we sat back down, Drunk Perv happened to be sitting a couple seats down, across the L-shaped bar. My friend than told me that Drunk Perv had been sitting there the whole time she had been there, trying to make conversation with her husband and her for a good hour. By the time I got there he was so drunk, he was now just staring at us. He might have been drooling. I don't know. It was kind of dark in there.

After trying to ignore him and talk with my friend, I couldn't take it anymore. It's really hard to have a conversation when someone is boring holes in your breasts with their eyes, and not even trying to be subtle about it.

Finally, the day caught up with me. All the yelling and crying and waiting around and trying to pack and make lists for the next day and thinking about my surgery and already being so tired from it all spewed out of me.

"YOU NEED TO FUCKING STOP IT RIGHT NOW!"

"Wha--"

"I don't know if you're staring at her or him or me or WHAT, but you need to stop fucking staring over here because it is seriously creeping me out."

"I'm just listening to the music..."

"I don't care what you're doing, but you need to stop staring at us while you do it."

So he got up and stumbled out of the bar.

I don't know what came over me. I mean, that's something I always want to say when this type of situation comes up, but I never do. Sure, I've had my share of "incidents" in the past, but it's been years since I got to break a bottle on someone's head, put a cigarette out on someone's back, hit someone in the head with a pay phone receiver or break a broomstick jabbing someone in the back....but I digress.

I'm an adult now--an adult with two small children. I'm not supposed to yell at drunken slobs for skeeving my friends and I out--or am I? Who's to say I can't still throw down (verbally only-I don't feel the need to physically harm anyone unless they pose a threat to my family)?

I feel pretty good this morning.


*That picture is from NYE 2005, and yes that is a Girl Scout shirt and sweater.

Dear Loud Lady in my exercise class today

It is not necessary to "whoo hoo" your way through the entire class. When the instructor yells out, "How we doin'?!", I believe this is somewhat of a rhetorical question. Please do not count the remaining reps of an exercise out loud, especially when you are two counts behind. That is the instructor's job if she chooses to do so. You are not her Ed McMahon, so please refrain from bellowing "HOOO-WHAAA!" at regular intervals throughout our time together.

This is your first and final warning. If you are to continue in this fashion, I shall be forced to retain photographic evidence of your prominent camel toe and share it with the blogosphere.

Thank you in advance,
Chaylene

They make pills for this, don't they?

It appears someone is interested in the house.

They are a young couple with a dog, no kids. The husband is a pharmaceutical rep. (I'm assuming that isn't code for "drug dealer"). They are looking for their first home. That's pretty much all I know.

My realtor took them through the house after the wife emailed her for an appointment about a week and a half ago. They've since questioned her on the average monthly bills and wiring.

From what my real estate agent told me, the wife is in love with the house (especially the wood floors) and the husband seemed very interested in finishing the walk up attic for an office.

So, why aren't I jumping up and down? They sound serious, and they are asking the type of questions we asked about the house we just purchased. Realistically, this could be it.

In the back of my mind, I can't let myself get excited. It's almost if I think "This is it!", I will inevitably be let down.

Maybe my calmness is a sign that this really is it...but since I'm thinking in those terms, it won't be. I don't believe in omens or signs anyway, but I want to. I also want to believe my horoscope when it says, "You will have the most amazing sex of your life on the 17th" or "Your peers worship your wisdom and beauty" or "Your ass looks fabulous today!".

I'm a realist to a fault. That, combined with acute fits of pessimism and a chronic case of fuckyouitis makes it really hard for me to enjoy things.

Whenever I go on vacation (which is a rarity), I literally get knots in my neck muscles from trying to remember what to pack. I make extensive lists, then worry I've forgotten to put something on those lists. By the time I am able to relax, I then have to start the list-making and stress all over again. I hate hate hate having to get to the airport so much earlier than necessary. Maybe I'm just a hopeless control freak?

So, all this to say that I am not getting my hopes up about these potential buyers. Really, it's easier this way. If they don't buy the house, I am not too let down. If they do, I'll be extra excited.


Then I get to worry about moving.

Are you really that suprised?

Ann Coulter is running at the mouth again, not that I thought she ever stopped.

If you read the article, it is obvious she tries to backtrack at the end, but the damage is already done. Maybe the hormones aren't working correctly. Maybe she's angry science hasn't yet come up with a way to remove her Adam's Apple. Maybe, and I think this is the key here....

Maybe she's just saying what's really on her mind.

Don't get me wrong, I am not applauding her vile vitriol. I think she is the epitome of cuntiness. But I have to give her credit for her outstanding example of making a complete fucktard out of oneself in the name of Conservatism.

I wish more "right wingers" would follow in her footsteps.

They sugar-coat the spew with their "hate the sin, not the sinner" bullshit, but the truth is they don't like Gay people or really anyone who doesn't buy into their fairytale. And why would they? I don't really care (or maybe it's more of a fear factor) for people who collect Longaberger baskets or who followed The Grateful Dead or Phish around back in the day. The difference being that the people I don't like chose to love overpriced schlock and annoying jam bands.

I'm fine with the fact that people like Mr. Coulter don't like me or people I call my closest friends. I'm especially pleased when they make their case publicly. It just isolates them more and more from normal people with reasoning abilities above a second grade level (no offense to any second graders out there).

Nothing would make me happier than if they got ol' Tranny...I mean Annie to speak at the Republican National Convention come election time. Hell, give her a government job--maybe put her in charge of the Protest Banner Committee. Anything to drag the far Right deeper into the swamp of unelectability.

Less work for me, I say.

Throw down

Yesterday, as I was pulling out of the driveway, I noticed that the house two doors down had a "For Sale" sign in the yard.

Let me tell you, she's itchin' for a letter bomb in a bad bad way.

It's not the fact that she's selling her house that bothers me. Hell, there's homes for sale all up and down the blocks surrounding mine. It's the fact that she's priced 20,000 dollars below my asking price. Bitch.

I looked up her house to do a "comp" and saw that she's got 4 bedrooms (I've got 3), one bathroom (I've got 2 full bathrooms), and no garage (I've got a 2 car, detached). On the outside, it appears we have similar square footage, and both our yards are fenced.

My only consolation is that I know who her realtor is, and she is straight up cu-razy. How do I know this? She used to be my realtor once upon a time.

When my husband and I were looking for our first house, we started out looking around on our own. After going to one fateful open house, I somehow managed to get hooked up with Sarah, The Craziest Realtor on the Planet.

At first, she was like any normal person who sells houses. She looked up homes in my price range and set up viewings. She even drove me around in her own car. After a month I was tiring of the process, but she was nothing if not tenacious.

Sarah would call me about a new listing and come pick me up to look at them. The most memorable house she took me to was a cave-like shack off Main Street. The people who lived there either didn't know we were coming over or didn't want to sell their house. Not only was there an unmade bed in the living room, but a sink full of dirty crusty dishes in the kitchen sink. And it smelled of cat piss. Being well past my drug-addled party days, I passed on that one.

Eventually, I decided that Sarah wasn't helping much in the home search, and decided to go it alone, but not before she took me on one last round of viewings.

I met her at her realty office to pick up the info sheets. Her husband was there and decided to join us. He was a big bear of a man with a porno moustache, a toupee-like mop on the top half of his head and a glorious mullet on the bottom half. He gave me the creeps, but since I didn't have to be married to him I figured I'd let it pass.

As soon as he got there, he asked me if I wanted to see what he got his wife for her birthday. Hoping this wasn't some kind of trick, I feigned interest. After reaching into the inside pocket of his Member's Only windbreaker he produced not a chloroform-soaked rag, but a jewelry box. It was a diamond necklace.

"Wow, that's very nice. Happy Birthday Sarah."

"Yeah, heh heh heh. Guess I'll be getting some tonight, eh?"

"Um, yeah. Good for you big guy."

It was going to be a long fucking afternoon.

First stop was a house that I actually found myself. It needed a LOT of work. Basically it would have been a rehab project for my husband and I, and it was priced accordingly. Sarah, Mr. Sarah and I took a look around and marveled at the potential.

Then Sarah decided that she and her smarmy husband should buy it themselves and flip it. So much for that.

On our way to the next house, Sarah decided that I needed to see her house. I won't lie to you, I was frightened and contemplated my escape. However, Mr. Sarah was in the back seat and I was convinced he would be able to reach his big bear arms out the window to scoop me back into the Lincoln Towncar if I attempted a dive.

Even though this was the first realtor I've ever worked with, I knew taking clients to one's home wasn't common protocol. When I asked her if she had forgotten something (like the duct tape and blindfold), she told me she just wanted me to see her house.

I should clarify that my price range was about one fourth of what her home probably cost. It wasn't like she was showing me something comparable to what I was looking for. No. She just wanted to show off.

We spent about a half hour there while she gave me the tour. I was stunned by how unprofessional (not to mention creepy as hell) this all was. I was on guard the entire time. I didn't know these people and I was in their house alone. My husband was at work and didn't know where I was. No one did.

I wasn't worried about getting killed. I was worried about getting propositioned.

After that day, I stopped returning her phone calls. A couple years later, they ended up buying a church (but still continuing their realtor business). Turns out, Mr. Sarah is a minister. You saw that one coming, didn't you?

Now Sarah is my neighbor's problem. I almost feel bad for her, but then I remember she's low balling me and I feel a certain sense of satisfaction.

So, good luck Asshole Neighbor! I'll be going to your first open house and pooping in your closet.

Fair Warning

When I was in junior high, my best friend was a girl named Leigh. Her sister was 5 years older, and was a really good sport about hanging out with us sometimes. Once in a while, she would share some little known facts with us.

For instance, there is a bone in the penis. I mean, why else would they call it a boner?

Also, she warned us, never never NEVER eat ketchup in front of a boy. It reminds them of period blood, and they will get grossed out.

Let's just say I lost my virginity before she did.

Sunday Bloody Sunday

Yesterday I got a call that someone wanted to see the house. My husband took the girls to the gym with him and I stayed home to clean up and get the dogs out of here for the showing.

I tend to get a little insane when someone's coming to see the house. I don't know why I get so freaked out. Most people aren't looking at my furniture, paint choices or underwear drawer (Are they? Gross.). Most perspective buyers are checking out the "bones" of the house (ie; the furnace, water heater, roof, appliances, etc.).

Why do I feel like they are judging me instead of the house? It's like I'm getting ready for a date before people come over for a look. I get that same nervous giddiness that invariably turns to bitterness before they even walk in the door.

"Oh goody! Someone's coming to see the house! Must clean, must tidy up. I hope they like the house. I hope we get an offer this time. Oh shit, there's a piece of lint on the stairs. Where did this lollipop stick come from?! Why can't everyone pick up their own shit? I can't keep this up. How can I be expected to have this place perfect all the fucking time? Goddamnit! Fuck these people! If they don't like my house, they can suck a fat cock!"

Rinse and repeat.

I've just about gotten the pre-viewing clean up down to a science but, being in a half-crazed (and usually rushed) state of mind, sometimes things slip through the cracks. The last time someone came over, I forgot to take down one of the baby gates. It wasn't a big deal, and no mention was made of it.

Yesterday I was finishing up and getting ready to put the dogs in the car. This is quite an experience in itself. Pugs aren't generally known for hiding their emotion. When I get out their harnesses, they know they are either going for a walk or getting a ride in the car, both things that send them into a frenzy of snorting, panting insanity. I knew they were going to send dog hair flying about during the harnessing process, so I decided to get them in the car before taking the baby gates down and doing a final scan to make sure I didn't forget anything.

Part of keeping things ready to show is emptying out the upstairs garbage cans. I try to look around the house and pay attention to things I would notice--like empty garbage cans. I don't want to look at someone's used q-tips, so I figure most people don't want to see mine.

This week, to borrow a little junior high slang, Aunt Flo is here for a visit. I visited the upstairs bathroom before leaving the house and, not wanting to leave any garbage up there, carried my little "package" downstairs with me with the intent of putting it in the kitchen garbage (which is hidden under the sink). Before anyone gets all skeeved out, I did wrap it in toilet paper and then the cutesy pink plasticy wrap stuff on top of that.

I scanned the living room on my way down the stairs and noticed some toys behind the couch that needed to be stashed, so I set what I had in my hand on the little phone stand next to the stairs.

The realtor said she was coming over around 10:30 and it was coming up on 10:15. One last look around and I was out the door. Since my husband had the girls with him, I was excited to drive around by myself. Sure, I had the crazy dogs with me, but they generally calm down within a few minutes. I had downloaded the latest This American Life onto my iPod, and couldn't wait to listen to it. I was going to get a latte too. I might as well have been going on vacation!

I don't ask for much.

Ten minutes down the road, it hit me.

If I'm pretty sure no one wants to look at my used q-tips, I am damn sure no one wants too see a USED PAD on the phone stand.

A million things ran through my head. There was really no explaining this away. This was not a forgotten baby gate.

I looked at the clock: 10:25. I had to speed. The dogs jumped up to the front seat, sensing my fear. I worried that I would get pulled over and started picturing me trying to tell the cop the truth. Certainly they would be grossed out enough to let me go. Maybe I would get a police escort back to the house?

I pulled in the driveway and thankfully they hadn't shown up yet. I tore ass to the back door, ran inside and there it was.

Crisis averted.

We haven't heard anything back from them (yet), but at least I know it isn't because of a forgotten piece of garbage.

One time, I almost killed a dentist.

One morning about three years ago, I woke up with a toothache.

Being one of the millions of Americans without dental coverage, I tried to ignore it and eat ibuprofen to mask my discomfort.

A few days later, I was dizzy with pain and decided enough was enough. I called around to try and find a dentist to fix me.

It was a scary venture for me. I'm embarrassed to say that before this, I hadn't been to the dentist for close to twelve years. On my list of favorite things to do, having someone dig around in my mouth doesn't break the Top 50.

There are a lot of dentists in this town, but only one who could get me in that day. A little research would have clued me in to the fact that I was making a BIG mistake by settling for this guy. But I was desperate and in an ever-growing amount of pain. I was afraid something was really wrong and I didn't want to end up toothless. Not a good look.

I arrived at my appointment, filled out the required paperwork and waited in the closet-sized reception area. The staff was cordial and professional, complete with Stepford Wife smiles and demeanor. They called me back and took me to my chair.

The minute the dentist sat next to me, I didn't like him. The tan, the foo-foo highlighted coif, and his creepy girl hands gave me a shiver. I chalked it up to my general disdain for dentists and moved on.

His evaluation was that, since I grind my teeth in my sleep, I needed his patented end all-be all cure. This device, he told me, would most certainly help my toothache and stop me from grinding my teeth--GUARANTEED (or my money back). Oh, and it was going to cost me a very large amount of money. So much in fact that I'm not even going to say what it was.

I should have laughed in his Ken Doll face. I should have told him to shove his patented device up his asshole device. I should have, but I didn't. I was hurting, people. I was desperate. I was stupid.

This "cure" was an exercise in humiliation. It was supposed to fit over my top two front teeth to keep me from grinding my teeth at night--but I was supposed to wear it all day, every day.

I know I can be a little vain, but this thing went beyond vanity. It was straight up ridiculous. Not only did it impede my speech, but it looked like a prop from a beaver costume.

He wanted me to come back in two weeks to "re-evaluate". After paying the exorbitant bill, I headed out to car and promptly put my new, very expensive plastic toy in my purse where it would stay until I threw it away a few weeks later. I felt like a sucker. I let this guy talk bullshit to me and sell me his snake oil. I could have gotten one of those crazy plate things at a fucking Walgreens to stop me from grinding my teeth (if that was even the problem to begin with).

When I later went to another dentist (who I love) and told him this story, he told me what this other dentist did was WAY over the top--that I was "over treated". It seems that Dr. Fuckface has a reputation for pushing his fancy device on a lot of patients. It's a status thing I guess. The more he sells, the better he looks. Maybe he's trying to be famous for making people look like assholes while bilking them out of tons of money. I think he'd be better off as a televangelist. He already looks like one.

In the two weeks between my initial appointment and the follow up, I learned a lot more about this guy and none of it was good.

*He once ran for state representative--as a Republican.
*He is a convicted wife-beater.
*I don't know the whole story on this one, but he had his prescription writing privileges revoked a few years back.

On the day of the next appointment, I was ready to rumble. I tend to get weepy when I am angry, but I was determined to keep my cool and give this asshole the 'what for'.

When he asked me how things were going, I told him that I wasn't happy with my treatment, and I didn't think the device was the right decision. The fact is, my tooth got better the day after I saw him (without wearing the bucktooth dohickey). I had a stressful week that week. Sure, I grind my teeth when I'm having a bad week. I didn't need a dentist. I needed a glass of wine and a good night's sleep.

Nothing bothers me more in life than feeling like I've been taken advantage of, and that's how I felt. I concluded by telling him that I wanted my money back per the guarantee clearly printed on the info sheet. I knew it was probably a stretch that he would actually honor the request. I couldn't really say it didn't work because I didn't use it, but he certainly couldn't say it did either.

He was livid!

You would have thought I asked him to put his dick in a vice. He angrily explained that his success rate with the device is 87%. I reminded him that 87 does not equal 100. It was at this point that I saw the spittle in the corners of his mouth start to foam up, and it was ON.

I knew I couldn't back down if I wanted any chance of walking out of there with my dignity intact (and at least part of my money refunded), but this guy was fuming. It was as if no one had ever told him 'no' before.

He practically ripped the paper bib off of me, and refused to make eye contact with me. He started pacing back and forth and his breathing got all weird. For a half second, I considered the fact that he could very well raise his hand to me. With all the adrenaline I had going, I so could have taken him down. I eyed the tool tray in case I needed to fight dirty.

At this point, I didn't care about the money anymore. Getting this Republican, wife-beating asshole this worked up was worth every penny. I wish I had it on video to enjoy again and again. This was quality entertainment.

He then had the presence of mind to show me the door, but it wasn't over yet.

"So, I'm not getting my money back then?"

I then told him that since he wasn't going to give me my money back, he had to give me my records and x-rays. This about put him over the top. He stood at the door, seething and ordered one of the techs to fetch my paperwork. He was breathing erratically and finally looked me in the eye, trying to stare me down or intimidate me. All that did was make me giggle. His face was red, he was sweating, and he had that pouty-lip thing going on that my two year old does when I tell her she can't eat the gum she found stuck to the playground equipment.

Because I was so proud of myself for keeping my cool and also for the added bonus of ruining this asshole's day (and possibly his whole week), I decided the occasion warranted a little cherry on top. In the most patronizing tone I could muster I said,

"Wow. Must you be such an infant about all this? Can't we be grown ups?"

I truly believe that if no one else had been in that waiting room, he would have literally kicked me out the door.

Then I definitely would have gotten my money back--plus punitive damages.

I'm kind of crazy right now

We are selling our house. The sign is in the yard and we are getting calls to come see it. It's hard to keep the house in "show condition" with two little kids and two dogs. Every time someone wants to see it, I have to not only get the house picked up and spotless but also get everyone out of the house for a while.

There's a place down the street where we board the dogs when we go out of town, and they offer drop-in Doggie Daycare. Sounds ridiculous until you actually need it. It's cheap too. Five dollars a dog if it's under four hours. Totally worth every penny. It's either pay the ten bucks or drive around with them and the kids in the car.

Normally I would see such a thing as a challenge or some kind of character-building exercise, but I don't really think my sanity needs any needling.

Added to all this house-selling craziness is the fact that my two year old is going through an "evil stage". At least I hope it's a stage. She can't ask for something. She whines for it. If I tell her no, I get full on hellfire. I'm trying to be patient--really really trying. My older daughter went through this exact thing about the time we brought baby sister home, so I know it ends. Right now though, I feel like trading her in for bag of sand.

My dogs have been a little off lately as well. I think they're all freaked out because the furniture is in different places and half the stuff that is normally laying around is gone. My male dog has this disgusting habit of licking my female dog's ears. It makes her ears stink and the sound he makes while doing it makes my skin crawl. It's gross.

Right now all of them are running circles through the house. They are screaming and laughing and it sounds like a herd of livestock are stampeding through the house.

But they are not fighting or crying or whining (or licking), so I really shouldn't complain.

My new favorite website

Parents, listen closely--the Homosexuals are trying to get to your children through the music they listen to. Don't believe me? Lookie lookie

I am constantly in awe of Fundamentalist Christians. When do they have time to sleep with all this soul-saving?

I grew up in a fundie household. My parents are still very much into the Jesus thang. I am not. We don't discuss it.

I remember my father's dire warnings about Dungeons and Dragons when I was younger. He told me that kids got so into the game that if their character lost an arm, they would cut off their own arm! He said it was an evil game--the "devil's work".

Had he told me that only dorks played it, it would have made more of an impact. All this crazy talk he was throwing at me only made me want to play it more.

Other failed attempts by my Dad at molding me into a good Christian soldier:

1. "BOO for booze and NOPE to dope"

I tried my first cigarette in 6th grade, had my first drink in 7th grade and smoked pot for the first time the summer after 7th grade.

2. "Sex is a sacred act between a man and a woman, united in marriage in God's eyes"

I held off being a complete slut until college, but I more than made up for lost time.

3. "Vote Republican"

Um...no.


I haven't been to church since I moved away from home. My parents don't even ask anymore.

When I got married, we went the Unitarian route. We thought about doing a Justice of the Peace, but I wanted something a little more traditional. We thought about having a ceremony outside somewhere, but I am way too anal. And seeing as I can't control the weather (yet), that idea was nixed.
Even with my complete disdain for organized religion, I really wanted to walk down an aisle on my father's arm. The problem was no church would have us if we wouldn't declare our undying devotion to the big Dude upstairs. I couldn't fake it just to get use of a gorgeous sanctuary. I didn't think lying was a good way to start off a marriage.
Luckily, the Unitarians came to the rescue.

They had a few ceremonies to choose from. We were also free to write up our own. We ended up taking bits and pieces from a Lesbian commitment ceremony they had performed there recently. It was really beautiful, talking of love, equality and two people joining together, but still staying two separate people. It was perfect.

When my Dad found out about it, he was disappointed. He didn't get it, saying "Well, may the force be with you."

Pretty funny for a stodgy old coot.

DSM

Living with a two year old is like living with an unmedicated schizophrenic: confusing, unpredictable, a little scary, but at times widly entertaining.