Search This Blog


Tooth Fairy

I stopped eating when I heard the elderly lady behind me say to her aging companion, "You don't wanna lose another two teeth, do you?"

She went on to repeat this several times to her companion, like he was deaf. As it turns out, in addition to dental problems, his hearing was not so great either.

"You don't wanna lose another two teeth," she droned. For crying out loud, lady, I am trying to eat my breakfast and you have to start talking about losing teeth?

This sort of wrecked my eggs over medium. I couldn't stop picturing the guy behind me and his potentially missing teeth.

And that made me think of dangling teeth.

I was once seated by a host who was not just missing teeth, but his were actually hanging by a thread. Seriously, after he seated us, I quickly checked around the table just to be sure he hadn't left his lateral incisor behind.

If I hadn't spotted onion rings on the menu, I think I would have gotten up and left.

What is it about teeth, or the lack of teeth, that leaves me with a belly ache?

When you are a little kid, you actually get praised when you lose a tooth.

"Oh, you lost a tooth; you are such a big girl (boy) now."
We tell our kids to be sure to put that polished little gem under their pillows for the Tooth Fairy.

Tooth Fairy, my ass.

You know it is going to be a slow wine night when the Tooth Fairy is involved. You have to wait until the kid, who suffers from ADHD, finally drops into a toothless sleep. Then you have to creep into his room and pray that you will find the damn tooth, which invariably, you won't.
Then you'll lift his sweaty little head to stick a five dollar bill (inflation) under his pillow.

The next morning you'll feign total surprise when your kid comes out, proudly showing off his reward.

And later, when he comes back out holding that damn tooth, sobbing and slobbering accusingly that the Tooth Fairy is a sham, you'll be prepared.

You'll decide on the spot that it is time to get real with your kid. Tell them the truth about the economy. Time for the cold, hard facts.

You'll explain that the Tooth Fairy, like many business owners, has had to cut back on staff. So she now makes these midnight runs on her own and, in order to fly light and conserve fuel, she now opts to leave the little pearly whites behind. Lack of cargo space.

Your kid will look at you with those big trusting eyes and think about that for about half a minute. Then, pragmatism winning over minor details, he'll recognize that the money is the important thing, and skip off. He or she will run along, half wondering to himself, that if the Tooth Fairy is that busy, maybe she'll forget that she has already made a stop at Little Johnny's pillow. And the opportunity for a little "double dipping" rolls into existence.



Sneak Attack!

So there I am, minding my own business, getting my mail, which by the way, I had to drive my car to my mail box- yes, I know it is right there at the corner, but lately I've taken to "event dressing" and getting the mail just doesn't qualify as an event. But it just won't do to have the neighbors recognize that, well... my "sleep to street" wear, is looking a little like yesterday's. Anyhow, I get the mail and right away I realized there was something wrong. First off, a typical mail day will be loaded with bills and threatening notes from people who used to be my friends. You know like the once really friendly people over at American Express, yeah, I guess they really didn't love me. Man, in the old days they'd send me little gifts- but they just dropped all pretense of late. Oh, and my old pals at the IRS, yeah they were only pretending to like me too. I feel so used, degraded and somehow, a little cheap. If that doesn't just show you who your real friends are, nothing will. Anyhow, back to the mail- there were no letter bombs, no strange white power leaking from the corners of the envelopes, there was just one single post card. It was from someone I knew years ago, but I'd managed to avoid since moving across state. You think you can hide, but somehow, someway, they manage to "sniff" you out. The card read that it was my "last chance". Last chance for what- right? Nothing gets me in a bad mood quicker (except when I run outta wine) then when someone tells me it is my last chance- final opportunity, blah,blah. So, back to the oversized post card, yeah, you guessed it, Weight Watchers was telling ME, that it was my final opportunity. Did they know something I didn't? Kinda made me look around to make sure no one was watching me stuff the card into the front seat of my car- right next to the bag of marshmallows, which was directly adjacent to the box of Rice Krispies. Imagine that, I was getting ready to make myself a "treat" and Weight Watchers stuffed their big fat face into my arena letting me know I was hanging by a thread. Well, I've got news for you WW, even with your final offer, I am just not budging. No, I've
had it with those meetings where you get in line and wait to get the bad news. The "counselor" glances at your current weight and then goes to open up your little card that you'd hidden so well in fear someone would find it and post it on Fbook, that you'd almost forgotten where you'd put it and then it hits you- you put it in a zip lock baggy filled with old meatloaf- no one was going there. Anyhow the counselor opens up that damp tri-fold card and lets out a little tsk, tsk. She looks up at you with her bright red lip stick, "Awe, honey, you had a bad week, now don't let that get you down and make you feel bad. A nine pound gain can happen and after all, you missed last weeks meeting, now don't you worry." Worry, I thought, this makes me wanna go pound some Cheetos. After all I'd sacrificed and I gained weight? Must be my thyroid...


A Whine a Week...

I have finally come up with a good idea. I know, it has been months since anything even remotely resembling a good idea has crossed through this mass of atrophied grey matter, let alone an epic idea, like the one that hit me while I was cooking up some eggies this morning. I finally decided what I was going to start blogging about- in order to get my book deal going. Oh, I know, I toyed around with Oprah and somebody beat me to it. And I briefly thought of channeling Paula Deen, since we have so much in common and all. But then that whole Julie and Julia crap happened and I felt doomed. Two good ideas and someone else had to get them before me. Maybe it was all the online Scrabble I was playing- "had it kept me from realizing my full potential?" Well, evidently not! On to my brilliance, which once I fully explain, I think you all with agree- freaking genius!

The first person I told about my idea was daughter Judy, Oh, and you all need to know that is not her "real" name, but since I am going to be getting what I think is a lot of publicity and all with this new idea, I decided it was better to start early to protect my young from being savaged from the paparazzi and such. Yep. That is my true nature and initial instinct- protect those around me.

OK. Back to my idea. I decided I was going to write about a new wine every day! There is it, simple and yet dazzling. I could write a book about what I do in my spare time AND possible get paid for it? And who said that expensive Catholic education would not someday pay off? Now, when I told daughter Judy about my idea, she was less enthusiastic. She cautioned me that a bottle a day, while not an unreasonable quest for her talented mother and most certainly obtainable, and quite possibly something I could do with one hand tied behind my back, as long as it wasn't my wine glass hand. But... she coached me that perhaps it was just a little overly ambitious. Not because I didn't have the time or that she thought I wasn't up to the task, "Au contraire," she assured. No, she was certain it would be possible for me to work in a bottle a day even around my somewhat gruelling Real Housewife's reruns and my quick trips to Publix to sample their always present "Apron Meals," but only and this is the part she stressed... "if I made up a schedule and stuck to it." Her only concern was if it just wouldn't present as a problem to work seven days a week. And she reminded me about the long hours I was putting in on Face book and after a bit, I agreed. My reader would be better served to limit myself to one Whine a Week. Of course, she agreed that there would be nothing at all wrong with getting a few blogs ahead, just in case something got in my way and possibly interrupted my drinking schedule. I concurred, better to be prepared for disaster then to meet disaster unprepared. I would put together a schedule and then pack my "preparedness" pak. It will be similar to a hurricaine preparedness pak, but this one would carry a different set of survival items. I'd pack the bag with a nice loaf of French bread, some Gouda cheese and a set of "rabbit" ears for quick release of those pesky corks. The best part of this whole idea, since all of this is "work" related, I should be able to "write off" my supplies as a business expense, right?


Self Improvement

So. Here we are in the middle of a recession and I finally come to and realize I left something behind in that "old economy". Gone are the days of $500 photo-facials, gone are the instant botox eye lifts, missing are the twice weekly mani's and pedi's. And Nordstroms, yeah-gone. Saks-closed. Missookie- dead to me. And my body? Declared M.I.A. At first, I didn't even notice! I was walking around in the new economy completely ignorant to what I'd left behind. Oh, there were little signs, like when I was walking around Publix in the bakery section one day and I heard a tussling behind me. At first I thought someone was going to challenge me for the last remaining eclair, I quickly turned, ready to say, "I saw it first", but there was no one there. Puzzled, I wondered, could that have ass settling in? Nah, I thought, that is just ridiculous. I mean, whose ass makes a swishing noise? I had failed to recognize the seriousness of my situation. And that failure could have been the result of the fact that I was walking around licking the Cheetos dust off my finger tips and just had no idea of the problems yet to come. See, with Cheetos dust, it just makes it hard to see clearly. And then, before you know it, you are mixing Jack Daniels with the Cheetos and you feel really, really happy and you hardly think about the things you used to have. But before you get all self righteous on me, thinking, "How could she do this? She has really lost her mind". Let me tell you this my friends, I once moved and ended up storing my washer and dryer. Two years later when I opened that dryer it was full of clothes! I never even knew I was missing anything. So, what I am trying to do is make it clearer for those of you that just can't possibly see yourselves as missing- it happens. Believe me, if I can leave a dryer full of clothes behind for two years- I can walk away from something I was bound to lose anyhow. Especially when you think, "Oh, I will be right back". You know, that old, saved- triple saved, step on a crack-crap"? But then, slowly you start to come around and "Shut the hell up", is the first thing you think to yourself. I mean ignorance can be blissful, especially when it is chased by a fifth of Jack Black- right? So, here I am smack dab in the middle of the worst economic times of my generation and it hits me. " Shit on a stick. Someone call 911. Houston, we got a problem." Uh-ho, the bow-day has left the building... But getting serious, you cringe and think, "Self, put down that bag of Frito Lay and do something"! Knowing that these times call for crafty thinking, you wonder as you slowly lower the coke bottle, "Are these things still refundable"? But really, what do the tough do, when the times get tougher? I say, they go get a pedicure and contemplate a way out. Nothing makes me open to new ideas more than when someone is rubbing the callouses off these hoofs. Pure bliss. Of course, one thing leads to another, as it usually does in these situations and next thing I know, I am once again, flat out on one of those Asian beds and then RIP. Mission accomplished. Step one was admitting I had a problem> Step two- rid yourself of any unwanted body hair. There was only one small problem, my lip, it must have been very attached to all that peach fuzz, because it proceeded to throw itself a righteous little fit! If I told you that 24 hours later, I looked like I'd had bad lip injections, that would be an understatement. Just think of that wall hung loud mouth talking Bass fish and you get the picture. But, here's the deal. I knew the job was going to be hard when I took it, so buck up babe. Next step in the mission, off to get the locks coiffed. I'd made the switch to a new salon a few months earlier and up until that very moment, I'd been happy. It is important that you understand the term, "Adding insult to injury", because at that very salon, with my throbbing lip, my new stylist decided- and without any prior communication, that I'd look, "sassy" with blond streaks in my hair. First off, I seriously can't begin to explain to you what I want to do to someone who tells me I look sassy. What the hell is sassy? I will tell you what it is, sassy is a term you use for someone who just doesn't have it in them to be a "Cougar". Sassy is a nice way of saying, "Welcome to the world of cruise ship hair you old hag". I turned to face the mirror and after pushing down my upper lip, so I could get a good look, I almost cried. I looked like a menthol smoking, Budweiser drinking convenience store clerk. You know the sort, they hold their bright red vinyl cigarette pack in the same hand as their lit cigarette, smoke swirling around their Aqua Net head. Really, they are lucky the whole picture doesn't just self implode- so much alcohol. And actually, I have done a poor job of describing what I saw. Because I saw 50 points of my IQ, in a big damn hurry, running in the opposite direction as polyester and middle age, that by now had lept up onto my lap and settled themselves happily around my hips and thighs. I didn't find my body, my body had found me. Crap.


It's your birthday, it's your birthday.

Well, well, well. What'd ya know. It is birthday week! Self woke up Monday morning and began planning her week. "What to do, what to do"? I was thinking mani & pedi, for sure. But the whole mani-pedi has become less of a birthday treat and more of a necessity these days. Not that I don't enjoy the whole, "so pritty, like chilleader" thing. And actually, at my last pedi, the ladies gave me a little bottle with a secret green potent mysterious liquid inside. They told me, "You put everywhere it hurt, it make it more better". They cautioned me to only use "very little", so strong, dangerous for you, mama. Unfortunately, that was after I'd quickly "blessed" myself with the stuff all over my body when she turned to buy some veggies from the little guy that walked in hauling produce. I figured, like most Americans, "If a little makes it more better, hell, who just wants more better"? I mean how do you quantify that? I knew what I wanted, I wanted it to be, "All fixed, all better". That was sometime prior to them laying me flat out on a table wanting to show me what my eyebrows would look like if I agreed to permanent makeup. Not wanting to offend and somewhat looking forward to lying down and having someone fawn all over me, I agreed. However, once I heard a razor blade gently re-shaping my brow, I got scared. "Who were these people and what had I been lead into"? It was that damn green liquid, must contain some sort of hallucinogenic. So, yea, I needed to stay away from the pedi shop, at least until my eyebrows grew back. Not that this birthday was a milestone or anything AND not that if this year were to be a milestone, that anyone outside of the birth parents and a few bro's and sissy's that can still add and subtract would know. No, I am a low key sort of person and you'd have to water board me to get either my weight or my real age stated out loud. And since both are in the gasping range, yea, No.
Birthday's coming and going are a bit like weight; If you lose a couple of pounds you get all happy and when your birthday approaches you start to get happy too. You start to sing that little, "It's my birthday, it's my birthday" song in your head, just to get geared up. I typically start that song at the beginning of the birthday month, but each to his or her own. But then your birthday comes and goes and you wake up the morning after- typically a little fuzzy (after all it was your birthday) you briefly wonder about the half brow you are now sporting and you go to get dressed and feeling every bit of your new age, you realize that you didn't just gain a birthday, you gained every one of those six pounds that you'd starved yourself over leading up to the big day- BACK- again. Crap on a stick. Happy freaking birthday.