Bleeping Toys That Should Have Been

Since blogging about my daughter's toys, I have thought of something I have wanted to say about Barbie for years.  I mean, freaking, flipping, bleeping YEARS.

So my daughter, Cressy,  likes Barbie.  But she also likes some of the other ones.  She has two Monster High Dolls, Frankie Stein and Draculaura.  For those of you without children or with children who are too old to appreciate the finer qualities of the doll, these are actual toys who are reputed to be the daughters of Frankenstein's monster and Dracula.  They go to Monster High and have all kinds of girl issues that are related to being monsters' daughters.  (I can only imagine since I am not a monster's daughter, only a perverse writer with a wonky sense of humor.  "OMG, my leg just fell off."  "Are my teeth in your neck, like, for real?")

Draculaura

Frankie Stein

So there's those two.  Is it just me or does Draculaura and Frankie Stein look a little slutty?  I had to tell Cressy that she couldn't wear a skirt that short today to school but she took it well.

Anyway, so Cressy's got those and she's got a Bratz Doll, which is a whole different kind of slutty.  Also she's got a buttload of Disney Princess dolls like Snow White in a mini skirt and Cinderella ready to do ballet.  (Funny I don't remember ballet in the movie while she was scrubbing the floors and singing to the mice and the birds and getting repressed by her step-monster.)

But hey, I've got a suggestion.  (Actually I thought of these years ago.)  The reality line of Barbies.  Seriously.  Cressy's got a Dentist Barbie.  (She has high heels and a kicky smock, but she's by God a professional.  And I'm pretty sure she doesn't have elephant fingers.)  There's also a Vet Barbie wandering around somewhere.  That's veterinarian, not veteran, incidentally.  (Although Barbie looks more like a Vet tech, I'm not complaining because at least she has a job with some benefits and makes slightly more than minimum wage.)  There's even an older Barbie (in age, not appearance) who was traded in a toy swap with the six year old fiend from hell living next door.  I think it's is one of the Olsen twins (the Barbie NOT the fiend) but I'm not sure.  It's someone I'm supposed to know.  There's a couple of Fairy Barbies and they have their own DVD's, which make me want to ralph when Cressy brings one out to watch.  (Yes, vomit magically appears in my mouth when I'm forced to watch 'Fairytopia.'  Try it and you'll understand.  I've been tempted to magically 'disappear' this DVD, but haven't managed to pull that off yet.)  I almost bought Twilight Barbies for Cressy but she thought Edward looked "Really freaky, Mommy."  Maybe Cressy knows something we don't.


Look, he does seem freaky.

 Back to the point of the blog before I really get sidetracked.

The Reality Line of Barbies.  (Attention Mattel.  This is parody.  Don't sue me.  Parody.  Couldn't be more made up.  It's supposed to be funny.)  If Mattel can't take a joke, they should just go look at the bottom line of their bank account.  No matter what hilarious crap I come up with here, you'll still be making beau coup loads of money.  (And suing me might get you my collection of old Harlequin Presents and a vintage swinging tail cat clock.  Seriously not worth it.)

First up, Hooker Barbie.  This one is for all those budding young women who want to get into a real service industry.

Then we have Pimp Ken.  And let me be the first to say that I didn't have to dress him up like this because he came this way in the box.  (REALLY.  This Ken came this way right in the bleeping box.  I did not have to dress him this way.)  This is sparkly silver lame and all he needs to be a stereotype is the pimpy hat.

And just because we're on a theme here.  She gets caught and this is what happens.  (Pimp Ken got away in his Coupe de Ville, because he saw the po-po coming down the street and his Coupe's got a V-8 under the hood.)  Prison Barbie:

But I'm not done.  Oh, hell no.  Fat Woman is on a roll.

The reality line of Barbies includes some down-to-earthiness, not just melodramatic stereotypes.  After all, we want to be able to touch all the children, right?  We have Fast Food Barbie.

And if there's Fast Food Barbie, then there's got to be Welfare Barbie:

And I've thought of other people to offend, too.  There should definitely be a Transvestite Barbie, or in this case, Transvestite Ken, which is a lot funnier than Transvestite Barbie:

Of course, just for me, there's PMS Barbie (What every growing girl should learn about):

Yes, PMS Barbie is wearing sweat pants and fluffy slippers.  Fellas, if you don't know about this, then you've never been married or you live under a rock.  (Hey, I make a point of warning HIM, the poor bastard to whom I'm married, that the BIG event is about to occur and that it would behoove him to take shelter, say, in the Bering Straights in a Russian fishing trawler, but does HIM listen to me?)

So kids, today's lesson.  It's fun to have a blog.  You get to play with your daughter's Barbies and take pictures of them and make fun of them while your daughter is at school.  Isn't life wonderful?

And BTW, I was thinking about a FAT WOMAN Barbie, but I couldn't make one beautiful enough to suit me.  So phfft.

Finally, Barbies who didn't make the illustration cut: S&M Barbie, Serial Killer Barbie and/or Serial Killer Ken, HIV Barbie, Mortgage Company Barbie (She's the one who calls to tell you your house is about to be auctioned off), Redneck Barbie (I should really do that one.  I'm thinking of all the accessories that could go with it.), Stripper Barbie should definitely be there, Pirate Barbie popped into my head complete with peg leg, eye patch, and dreads, Punk Barbie, Depression Barbie (comes with Prozac), Bulemic Barbie (you could make her eat and then throw up, what fun.) and Zombie Barbie, because I'm thinking of Cressy's story 'Attack of Alligator Girl and the Zombie Kids.' (Go read that blog.)

There, have I left anyone out?  Feel free to make suggestions on any one I didn't offend.

MORE KooKoo Bird Madness

The KooKoo Bird business won't leave me alone.  See 'Guilt and Mommyhood OR How My Daughter Got Sick During Spring Break OR How Raising Children is Like Getting Pecked to Death by a Chicken.'

Here's the bird again, in case you missed the previous blog:

KooKoo Bird:
Amazing Toy OR invention created
by a man who wanted subtle revenge
against a pregnant woman
(Lots of Freudian implications here.)

I defy anyone to say that that bird does not look ticked off.  That bird looks miserable.  And an egg comes shooting out of her ass.  Furthermore, the egg may be rammed right back up into her body and it's permanently attached.  Of course, she's pissed off.  Her life sucks.  And here's a demonstration by Cressy on how KooKoo Bird works.  Except Cressy says the egg gets, and I'm quoting, "Pooped out," by KooKoo Bird.  (OMG, this bird needs Metamucil badly or maybe Vaseline.)

All of which makes me think of some of her other weird toys.

And I took photos for clarification.  Behold the rubber chicken.  A rubber chicken of dubious comedic origin...or is it?  No one really knows when the rubber chicken started being funny.  Some comedian said, "Oh, my God, a plucked chicken is hilarious.  I shall use it in my act.  I will swing it about and people will think it funny.  How can I go wrong?"  Should have patented it, bubba.  According to Wikipedia, the authentic resource of impeccable veracity, "A rubber chicken is used as a prop in comedy. The phrase is also used as a description for food served at speeches, conventions, and other large meetings, and as a metaphor for speech making."  Oh, how can I go wrong with using Wikipedia as a source?

The Rubber Chicken in question

There ya go.  From Wikipedia.  Must be gospel.  Or close enough.  But at the end of the article was a section about rubber chickens in the news.  "During the fifth end break (curling's version of halftime and/or a seventh inning stretch) at the 2006 Winter Olympics in Turin, Italy, a man ran across the ice wearing nothing but an online gambling ad and a strategically placed rubber chicken. Chief referee Keith Wendorf tackled the man, and an umpire covered him with a coat before he was led out of the arena by the Italian police."  I like this.

A naked guy with a rubber chicken placed across his schlong while running across the ice!  (At least he was getting paid by doing guileful and cleverly placed advertising.  Of course, I'm thinking NO ONE was looking at his chest.)  (I see two problems there and one involves cold shrinking certain anatomical parts.  The other problem is that how big was the actual rubber chicken?  I hope for the guy's sake that it was a BIG rubber chicken.  You know, comparatively speaking and all.)  Having allowed my mind to go into that lurid direction I felt compelled to look and see if photographic proof existed on the Internet.  And lo and behold, it does.  Here he is.  (For those interested, this is Mark of the Rubber Chicken fame.  His website is www.thestreaker.org/uk and he likes to show his saucier side at large public events.  His parents must be so proud.)

Okay, he wasn't technically neked,
He's got shoes and socks on.  And
the BIG rubber chicken.
Yowza.  What exactly does
that expression on his face mean?

I've stopped to consider how I got from KooKoo Bird and the Magical Pooping Egg to naked guys running across the ice at the Olympics with a rubber chicken placed across their little weenies.

Ah yes.  Rubber chickens.  My kid's weird toys.  My train of thought goes wacky sometimes but I have a lot of help.

So back to the rubber chicken.  We went to Pier I one day.  I like to look in there.  Cressy went in because they have a small toy section.  And because we give her a small allowance, she bought this.  (Hey, it wasn't porn and/or grain alcohol, so I'm thinking it's not negative.)

The Rubber Chicken in question again.
Sorry about the blurry bits but
the chicken kept moving.

Initially I was like, "It's your allowance.  Whateveh."  I mean, I looked at the rubber chicken, but truthfully since I was enjoying a rare moment of mommy shopping in the actual store that mommy likes instead of the stores that Cressy and HIM likes, I didn't really think much about the toy.  Pier I.  Yessirreebob.  I was shopping and looking at things I wanted to look at, instead of Lego's or rocket missile components.  (Wow, the thrills in my life.)

I didn't think that Cressy appreciated the long and varied history of the Rubber Chicken.  After all, Cressy doesn't even know how to get to Wikipedia and I'm pretty sure she missed the 2006 Olympics.  (Her main interests in 2006 included Baby Van Gogh and chasing Siamese cats across the living room while laughing insanely.)  So I asked, "Why do you want that, baby?"  "Because it's funny, Mommy," was her answer.  Ah, simple answers are often the best ones.  I should have asked what she thought was funny about it but I missed that opportunity.

But later when I got home, I heard a suspicious giggling.  I went to enquire as to the state of funniness and she showed me this.



One turns the rubber chicken over
and squeezes.  Great hilarity ensues.
Yes, that is some thing coming out of it's ass.

 Yes, this isn't merely a rubber chicken that can be placed strategically over a naked man's genitalia.  But if you squeeze the poor plucked rubber beastie, out pops a large balloon like object from the vicinity of the rubber chicken's aft area.

Squeezing Rubber Chicken's guts out
or rather, her egg out.

And if one squeezes REALLY hard, out pops that.  See above.  And it's hard to tell from the picture, but that's a little yolk that floats to the top in the midst of a bunch of cloudy white stuff.

I could make a correlation between the KooKoo Bird and the alien-like egg that shoots out of her nether regions and the Rubber Chicken with the rapidly expanding balloon-like growth that pops out when generously squeezed.  But I don't think that Cressy was aware that the Rubber Chicken had that feature when she bought it.  Unfortunately I can't say the same about KooKoo Bird.  (She had seen the commercial and it was on her mind.)  But I can say that KooKoo Bird's popularity has dwindled swiftly once the indecent thrill was gone.  My blogging interest in Rubber Chicken has rekindled Cressy's interest in that toy instead.  Now there's sound effects that go with the exploding ball of white and yolky ickiness that threatens to explode if pressed too hard.  (Cressy's internal reasoning: Mommy thinks this is gross so this is something I should really continue to play with.  Yea, grossing Mommy out!  Maybe I can make her blow chunks.)

Yes, I'm OFFICIALLY grossed out.  But I suppose this is really my fault because I let her buy it.  WTFWIT?

Guilt and Mommyhood OR How My Daughter Got Sick During Spring Break and Barfed Her Toenails Up OR How Raising Children is Like Getting Pecked To Death by a Chicken

Spring Break had occurred.  Our daughter, Cressy, had been counting down to it for weeks.  ("How many days until Spring Break, Mommy?" "Twenty-seven."  "How many days until Spring Break, Mommy?" "Still twenty-seven."  "How many days until-" "Still twenty-seven.  Stop asking or I'll make you eat broccoli.")

Then when the blessed event finally happened, all went well.  ("How many days until the Easter Bunny comes, Mommy?"  "Seven."  "How many days until the Easter Bunny comes?"  "Six but there's the calendar.  Stop asking me and count yourself."  "Hmm.  Hey, Mommy!  There's six days until the Easter Bunny comes."  "Mommy.  Still six days until the Easter Bunny."  "Mommy.  Why is your face turning purple?  That's so weird.")

And a couple of my mommy friends saved my bacon.  They were having an early Easter egg/dinner/get together for mommies event.  Yea!  I could converse with adults whilst my child played and frolicked in wild abandonment at someone's house with other girls her age.  I could drink a glass of wine.  One mommy friend was making ziti and another was making stuffed shells.  I could eat and gain five pounds instantaneously.  Plus I could finally come to one of their events because I swore that I would.  (Serendipity had played me false and I was afraid they were going to stop asking.  Pesky stuff like meteors falling out of the sky on top of the house and crap like that kept happening.)

Then it was the night before.  Everyone went to bed.  I was asleep.  I was having a bizarre dream about a purple lamb that changed into a girl and then into a pink lamb.  (I swear I have the most odd dreams.)

Pink and purple lambs were frolicking with abandonment.  (I'm loving that phrase.)  Dimly I registered something.

I was determined to keep in the whole purple/pink lamb dream sequence.  It was fun.  Nothing was chasing me as I tried to run away in knee deep sticky glue.  Our house wasn't getting repossessed by Cressy's Girl Scout leader.  (Another very odd dream.  Go figure that one out, Freud.)

But alas.  It was Cressy.  "What's wrong, baby?"  She stared at me with big eyes.  "I have had a calamitous event of magnanimous proportion, Mother.  You shall arise and attend me."  Not really.  What she really said was, "I threw up."  I believe I was supposed to give her an award.  So I got up, helped her clean up.  (Kid did good.  She threw up in her garbage can instead of on her bed.  She deserves a medal for that.  That's the first time that happened.)  Then I cuddled her for a bit.  She went back to sleep.  Then she threw up at three AM.  Then she threw up at five AM.

HIM, should I mention, slept through the latter two vomitous events.  Deep sleeping bastard.

So in the morning I give her Kool Aid (Grape of course) mixed with pedialyte.  She sipped it.  Once or twice every five minutes, just like Dr. Spock says.  So what happens?  She throws up again.  And again.  And again.  We had to trade off the garbage can with a big Tupperware container so I could clean the one out while the other one was in use.  (Not using the Tupperware container EVER again.)  Then she announces her stomach hurts and she tromp-tromp-tromps off to the bathroom and has diarrhea.  Whoo-hoo.  It's a double event.  Since she's not keeping anything down or in, I call the doctor.  Then I call my mommy friend and tell her we're not coming for the Easter Egg/Mommapalooza.  Cressy is NOT happy with either call.  She doesn't want to go to the doctor.  She does want to go to the Easter Egg-A-Thon.  Life is patently unfair.

So after we got back from the doctor, who said, "Kids got a tummy bug.  Keep doing what you've been doing," we broke out the big guns of entertainment.  First was the air mattress in the living room so she could lie down and watch TV without moving around a lot.  I had to get three blankets out plus one pillow.  (I had to fluff properly too, and there's definitely more than a little OCD genes in that kid coming from HIM.)  Then that was followed by virtually every stuffed animal in the immediate vicinity being transferred to the air mattress in the living room.  Our living room became the black hole for stuffed animals, sucking them in from as far away as Toledo.

What was left of the living room
after Hurricane Cressy hit it.

Whilst the fun was commencing and I had visions of cleaning up the living room until I was ready for retirement, Cressy said, "I told the bug in my tummy to leave, Momma.  And now it's in my throat.  So I spit it out."  Just as I was about to get my mind around that she started putting animals in the time-out chair for falling off the air mattress.

Apparently, any hapless stuffed animal who had the misfortune to fall off the air mattress was a bad example to the rest and had to go into time out.  Look, I even made a video on my droid for posterity.

Does this look like a kid who was just barfing up her toenails?  No, she doesn't.  But I saw her barfing up her toenails.  More than one time.  And I saw her other dirty, sinful business, so this was like the shortest, least extreme tummy bug EVER!

Seriously, hours earlier this kid was sicker
than dog doodoo.

So I made an error.  It's a typical parenting error.  I felt so bad that she'd missed the Easter egg festival and other mommy event that I said I'd take her to the store the next day and she could pick out a toy.  Her response, "Really?"  I said, "Yes, really."  You could see the little hamsters on the wheels in her brain working furiously going round and round and round.

The next day, SHE HAD NOT FORGOTTEN!  Au contraire, she could have quoted me verbatim.  I think she did quote me verbatim.  She was sorry that she hadn't gotten a written contract and video proof, but it didn't matter because she remembered every last little word.  "We're going to the store, Mommy," she said triumphantly, knowing that I had painted myself into a corner.  "The toy store."  "Umm?" I said because I hadn't yet gotten any caffeine in my system.  "The big toy store," she qualified.  "The one far away," she added slyly.  This kid isn't stupid.  "Then," she went on, "we'll go to Joe's Crab Shack."  (One reason for this is that she knows that Joe's Crab Shack is right down the street from the large Toys R Us and two is that children will be at the Joe's Crab Shack play area and she loves that.)

I think I was impressed that I was awake and that the world was still turning.  I didn't fight it.  I just went to get a large cup of tea with which to fortify myself.

So we went.  She picked out a toy.  We did Joe's Crab Shack.  There was a boy there she played with and fun was had by all.  The waitresses and waiters even danced.  Those poor silly bastards really have to work for their minimum wage.  (I should have broken out the Droid but I didn't think of it.)

When we got home Cressy showed me the toy she'd purchased.  And let me just say that I have comments.  Lots of comments.  I don't know where to begin.  But I took pictures with my Droid for emphasis.



The alleged toy for said sick girl.

 So the KooKoo Bird looks pretty innocuous, doesn't it?  But look it says on the box, there's a surprise inside!  INSIDE!  It's got a funky name, too.  This one is the Orange-Crested, Bug-Eyed Fezziwig.  (Bet you think I'm making this up.  Ha.  I don't have to, because other people do.)  So far, I'm okay with the toy.  But then I get a gander at the surprise.

Looking at KooKoo Bird's aft area.  Warning:
Not for those sensitive readers.

So one tips the bird over and looky, looky.  There's an area where it appears to have Velcro.  (God, I wish I'd had Velcro when something was shooting out of my aft area.)  Something may be inside.  All one has to do is to squeeze.  (I had a strange impulse to pant like a dog and resist pushing.)

Does this seem a little disturbing?

And when one squeezes, something begins to come out.  Could this get any better?  Someone better have cigars and champagne, let me tell you.  And where's the OB doc when you need one?

OMFG.  It has an alien egg.

Squeeze a little more and...poof...out comes an attached egg.  Seriously, there's a cord and it's attached so our offspring won't lose their offspring.  The KooKoo Bird, with some squeezy assistance, has had an egg.  And it's loaded.

The exhausted mother KooKoo keels over while
the baby has a yea-moment.

And the KooKoo Bird has given birth to a weird little miniature of itself.  Of course, the bird makes a funky noise, too.  (I really wish I'd had Velcro down there when I gave birth.  No, I had stitches, and believe me, nothing is ever the same.)  And look, you can stuff the bird back into the egg and shove that egg right back up that bird's derriere.  (This is not a true to life lesson for 7 year old girls.  She's going to be really shocked when she finds out how untrue this really is.)

KooKoo Bird Again.
Tell me honestly, doesn't this look like a really,
really, really pissed off pregnant woman on
the verge of losing her mind and/or
giving birth?

Here's the kicker.  This is what I know without even checking the facts for authenticity.  A man invented this toy.  He invented it while his wife was in the ninth month of a particularly hormonal pregnancy and then he giggled.  He giggled his ass off.  When he was done giggling his ass off, he giggled some more, and then he went and presented it to the toy company who decided this was great fun and a potential wonderific money maker of gargantuan proportions.  After all, it says on the box to collect all of the KooKoo Birds.  (Good thing Cressy skims over the words on the box and doesn't take commercials too literally...yet.)

Anyway, I can't wait to see what happens tomorrow.

The Act of a Demented Woman OR How I Dropped the Portable Phone Into the Potty OR How the Portable Phone Magically Threw Itself Into the Commode

It was a cold day.  President Obama had just said something stupid on the news.  There was a celebrity having a massive meltdown in a motel room somewhere by snorting tequila and ingesting Drano with a little lime twist on the side for effect.  HIM had left for work.  Cressy was in school learning about important aspects of the educational system that will be instantly forgotten as soon as she stepped off the bus.  I was at home, doing stuff, important stuff that need not be mentioned in this blog unless it suddenly becomes highly amusing.

I was carrying around a portable phone.  You know, a phone without a cord.  For those of you who were born after 1990, this means there used to be only phones with cords and we didn't get to wander out into the yard with it until it was out of range of the base set.  Also there wasn't any cell phones that weren't the size of car batteries.  (We used the extra long cord for our phone to torture the cats.  Not in the way you think.  We'd wait until the cat walked across the cord.  Ladedah.  Then we'd flip the cord up and the cat would leap straight up into the air and backwards because something strange touched their tummies.  It didn't hurt them and it was funny.)  Anyway, it was a portable phone.

This is the phone.  It look very innocent,
doesn't it?  However, it has an...agenda.
(Shh.  Don't speak too loud.  It might hear you.)

I made a grievous error.  I took the phone into the bathroom with me.  I set it upright on the corner whilst I did my dirty, sinful business.  After I was done I flushed the toilet.  (Good thing, too.)  Then I swung around and knocked the phone into the john.  (It's a small bathroom.)

The scene of the crime.  One can see how setting the
phone on the counter was a tactical error.
Or was it really a conspiracy?
We should call Oliver Stone.
(I bet you didn't really want to see my
itty bitty bathroom, but too bad.  It's my blog.)

So there I was, standing above the throne, considering what to do about the phone that had just been knocked into a pot full of water.  It was split seconds of pondering.

Immediately I went into the 7 stages of WTFDID? (What The Fuck Did I Do?) and WTFAIGTDAI?  (What The Fuck Am I Going To DO About It?)

Stage One is shock and denial.  I stared down into the commode and furiously screamed, "NO, I did NOT just do that!  No, it couldn't possibly be happening!  No!  No! NO!!!"  I pulled out large hanks of hair and contemplated running off to become a Buddhist monk or maybe a stunt actor in Hollywood.

This isn't about Stage 1 but I thought it was funny.

Stage Two occurred seconds later.  This is pain and guilt.  "What can I do about the poor phone?  Is it suffering?  Will the garderobe break if I try to flush it down?  Oh, how can I make amends?"  I stared dismally into the toilet considering the aspects of how the phone felt about being ruthlessly tossed into the yucky waters of the stool.

This doesn't have anything to do with Stage 2
but I couldn't help myself.

Stage Three involves anger and bargaining.  "Can I blame this on someone else?  No, no one else is home but me.  Cressy is speaking completely now and isn't subject to bribery after the fact.  HIM is completely sober and I can't fool him into thinking HIM did it on a drunken binge.  This is so fucking unfair!  If God will raise the phone out of the lav right now I will become a nun!  Or I will become better about tithing!  Plus I won't kill any more spiders."

Stage Four is depression.  "Oh, I'm so upset that I knocked the portable phone into the crapper.  Why did I bring the phone into the bathroom?  I think I'll go hide my head under the blankets in the bathroom and pretend that I suddenly went into a coma."  I bowed my head sadly.  Oh, woe is me.  Horrid, wretched depression over the stupid phone falling into the porcelain throne.

Running with a theme here.

Stage Five is the upward turn.  "OH, fuck it. I'm fishing the goddamn thing out."  So I did, taking immediate action and not allowing myself to hesitate.  If the toilet hadn't been previously flushed, that phone would STILL be in there to this day.  Nuh-uh, there was no way I was going in after the phone if the privy was still full of you-know-what.  Hell, it was bad enough as it was by association.  Don't get me going on the germs and crap that come out of the amenity.  Or off the phone for that matter.  Double yuck.

Stage Six is reconstitution and working through it.  I broke out the plastic gloves, the Lysol, Q-tips, and a brand new roll of paper towels.  I briefly considered a flame thrower and the HazMat Team but decided I would get in trouble if I went there.  The phone was getting cleaned off and it was serious business.  I wiped, sprayed, dabbed, rubbed some more, emptied out the battery compartment and did some interior wiping.  I dipped Q-tips into places I didn't know had existed previous to this incident.  If the damn thing didn't work after that, I would own up to it, vow never to bring a phone in the bathroom again, and go buy a replacement.  Possibly I would do it before Cressy or HIM came home.  "New phone?  No, it's just...really shiny."  "Hmm.  I don't know how all the telephone numbers got erased from that unit.  Must be something really weird."

Stage Seven is acceptance and hope.  So I waited patiently for several hours.  Then I went to test out the phone.  It was the moment.  I pushed the button on it.  It made a sound like a man whose weewee was caught in an industrial sized zipper.  (I'm told this is a baaaaaad sound.  I'm also told that this sound can make other men's testicles re-ascend into their pelvic cavities.)  It whorped loudly and then farted.  (I swear!)  And...I got a dial tone.

The angels began to sing somewhere.  (I had left the television on and a religious show had come on.)

My Trip to the Dentist OR How Much Do I Love Getting the Six Inch Long Needle Shots in My Mouth While the Dentist Has His Three Very Large Fingers In There at the Same Time

Wow.  I think I told the story already.  See the title.  But no-oh.  I'm not finished.  Oh, hell, yes, I have much more to add.

Warning: This blog contains the word, 'fucking.'  As a matter of fact, I use the word, 'fucking,' SEVEN times.  It truly emphasizes how I feel about doctors and dentists.  Now I can say it's used NINE times because I used it two more times in this warning.  Haha.  Blogging is fun.

It was a balmy April day.  I went for a cleaning.  Whilst my teeth were being cleaned, the hygienist talked about 1)getting married in Las Vegas next year, 2) why she can't grill on her little balcony of her apartment, 3) why she can't sleep in her apartment because she needed darker curtains, 4)how she bought 'black out' curtains and whoo-hoo, they were only ten bucks someplace, 5) how everyone she knows wants to go to her pseudo-elopement wedding in Las Vegas next year, 6) how she was going to have to find a chapel to find room for all the people who are coming, 7) how she wants to buy a house but is hesitant to go out looking, and 8) something about her mother being too motherly.

All of that was done while dental tools and/or fingers were in my mouth AND I couldn't say anything.  I made grunting noises.  ("Urk."  "Snortle."  "Uh-humm."  "Nerdle.")

So that frustration aside, the dentist comes in.  I'll call him Dr. N, Jr.  Dr. N., Jr. inserts digits, and not in a nice way, and tells me that one really old filling is coming apart and needs to be replaced.  I'm able to talk by that time and say, "Well, it's probably like thirty years old because it's been that long since I've had one."  Whereupon, Dr. N, Jr. has to one up me and says he's seen ones much older.  The upshot of it is that I have to come back to do the fillings later.  ("Well, okay, if I have to.")

Dr. N., Jr. explaining the difference
between kinds of teeth.  That's a twinkle
on his own tooth, too.
Notice the highly technical chart he's using.

So a week later I'm back.  This time I'm in the chair and it's Dr. N, Sr. doing the work.  The problem with this is that Dr. N., Sr. has what I call elephant fingers.  Normally this wouldn't be an issue, but I've been told by the dentist and by the hygienist that I have a narrow arch, in fact, the narrowest arch they've ever seen.  (This equates to having a small mouth which isn't normally a problem.  If I enter a contest to see how many hot dogs I can shove in my mouth at the same time I would have a problem.  Which leads me to relate a theory I have about women who are very popular.  They all have large mouths.  I told HIM that I thought it gives men certain ideas about, shall we say, getting a particular act done.  I think it's psychological for men to associate a big mouth with it.  However, HIM related to me that a small mouth would be more advantageous in that particular situation.  That was a good save on his part.  HIM: 1 point.  Me: 0 points.)

So Dr. N., Sr. numbs it down with a large Q-tip covered with something brown and smelling medicinal.  Then he brings out the needle.  This is the biggest fucking needle I've ever seen.  And I've been around the block.  And the needle goes into my mouth.  Now my mouth has been numbed just for the needle, and I suddenly understand why.  (It's the biggest fucking needle I've ever seen and it's going into my mouth.  I abruptly understand why some people have to be put unconscious during dental work.)  He applies pressure but oh, hell, he's not done.  He goes in for another spot.  Then a third.  (It's my personal belief that the needle was large so that he wouldn't have to stop for a refill.  Example of a dentist saying something wrongity-wrong to a patient, "Sorry, but I have to stop to refill the six inch long needle with more medication.  Can you wait?")

By that time my upper lip has gone numb.  But I've got spit accumulating in the back of my throat and I'm about to drown.  He hauls his assistant in to apply suction to my spit.  (Dentists have suck work but the assistants really have the icky jobs.)

Once I'm clear from choking to death on my own saliva they run off to parts unknown while the medication takes effect.  (I can only assume they didn't want to listen to me gripe about the size of the fucking needle.)  So I took a picture with my Droid.

My View From Dentist Position 1
(Is that a speck of blood on the lamp?
Hmm. How did that happen?  That's why there's plastic
on the handles, fyi.)

Then I took a picture of my view of the water tower out the window where I had to sit for ten minutes while I lost feeling in my complete lower jaw, the bottom part of my nose, my tongue, and one of my ears.  Seriously, it made one of my ears numb.

What a View.  I think a happy face
on the side of this building would
help dental patients immensely.

Would this have been so hard to do?

And hey, here was an advertisement for the practice's Facebook page and their website on the ceiling where I HAVE TO LOOK because I don't have a lot of choices at this point.  Gee fucking whiz.  After being tortured by them for a while, I was really ready to go there and 'friend' them.  Not.



This is what I was forced to look at while
I had elephant fingers in my mouth.
I blacked out the website names
because I didn't want to get sued for libel
although it's a true story.
I swear.

When the doctor came back in he was fully ready to diminish any enjoyment I would ever have from going to the dentist.  (Having a hard time trying to think of a single good moment at the dentist, any dentist.)  The drilling of the old filling commenced.  The smell of burned dog hair filled the room.  The sound of a tooth being ground away was like a shrill siren piercing into the depths of my brain.  Another assistant popped in to say that water was magically filling the back room and it was not in a swimming-pool-yea-manner, or in other words, there was a leak in a place there wasn't supposed to be a leak.  The assistant who was vacuuming my spit from the back of my throat vanished in a blur while Dr. N., Sr. proceeded to tell me to keep my mouth open.  (My mouth was open; what he really wanted was for me to open it more.  Bet he has to say that a lot.)  And hey, it made me think of a new drinking game.  Every time the dentist says, "Mouth open wider," or "Keep it open big now," I get a shot of whatever alcohol is handy.  At the end of the session I should have to call a cab for home and not be feeling any pain from the dental work involved.  (I'm not sure if the dentist would want to stop while I did the shots.  But the hell with what he's happy with.)  (And btw, remember narrow arch, narrowest arch ever seen?  This mouth on this fat woman only opens up SO FUCKING FAR and not one lip stretching/tearing milliliter more.)  So there Dr. N., Sr. was drilling happily away and my throat was filling up with spit and probably blood and tooth debris and things I didn't want to think about.

Fortunately the assistant came back in and plunged the little vacusuck instrument into my mouth before I started to gag.  Then Dr. N., Sr. swabbed something greenish-blue on my teeth and said it was antibacterial or antifungal or antidepressive or antisomethingorother.  They would be back in a few minutes to do the fillings.  He said, "Keep your mouth open."  (Where's my fucking shot?) There I sat in the chair.  I took a picture of the dental tools because I wanted a record of the vicious things they were using on me in case I had to sue.

Do these tools look like something Joseph Mengele
would use?  I think they do.  And I think those white
tubey things on the platter are earplugs for the dentist
to be used when the patient starts to scream.
I swear.

It felt like the left half of my face was drooping onto the floor and I could still smell burnt dog hair.  (Did you know that drilled teeth smells exactly like burnt dog hair?  How do I know what burnt dog hair smells like?  Well, it's a long story and not very pretty.)  I was finally relaxing again when the doctor returned and this time pulled out a clamp to keep my mouth open.  I'm not sure exactly how he managed to leverage this clamp into my mouth but it involved pressing on my forehead with his elephant fingers while swiping around the inside of my lip with his other elephant fingers.  The inside of the clamps managed to hit the one area of my mouth that wasn't numb and pinched it viciously.  A shoe horn of some sort might have been involved.


I was making odd noises while the bottom half of my body was levitating into the air.  It looked something like a scene from the exorcist, except there wasn't a priest.  And I wasn't throwing up pea soup.  (Give me a little time.)  And I wasn't screaming obscenities because that would have been difficult considering the copious amount of things in my mouth.  (Although I was thinking several obscenities VERY HARD!)

This is my ass moving upward without
any logical means of support.
It's a physiological mystery.

So what happened?  Dr. N., Sr. pressed harder on my head.  (I still have a red mark on my forehead and it was from going to the freaking dentist.)  He muttered something about keeping my mouth open.  (I had lost track by this time of the count but the hell with it.  Everyone have a shot!)  Then he said something about keeping everything dry.

This is the point in time where the assistant attempted to murder me by shoving the sucky tool down my throat.

 

 At that time I nearly blew chunks.  (People say I exaggerate things.  Truly, I don't need to exaggerate things.  They just happen anyway.  We should have another shot here because it seems medically advisable.)

So then Dr. N., Sr. plunged something that looked like a laser gun in my mouth and said, "Mouth open bigger."  (For those participating in the drinking game.  DRINK YOUR SHOT NOW!)  I didn't even get a please then and I think even the doctor's teeth were a little gritted at that time.  I couldn't keep my mouth open if I had wanted to and besides that's why he had the FUCKING clamp in there.  He banged both upper and lower teeth getting the X-Ray gun-Jetson Tool in my mouth, and muttered something I couldn't hear.  (Half the time I couldn't tell if he was talking to me or the assistant.  I can only assume that, "Keep your mouth open," was NOT meant for the assistant unless they have a very special relationship.)



Then it was done.  My back hurt from arching up.  My shoulders hurt from clenching.  Needless to say my mouth was aching but it was still mostly numb.  (They tried to hide the three bloody lumps of cotton by quickly snatching them away but I ain't blind.)  I was warned not to eat anything for a few hours.  (Like I was hungry.  I couldn't even tell if my mouth was open or not.  I couldn't even speak properly.  If a cop happened to pull me over on the way home, he would have had to do a sobriety test because I couldn't have talked to him legibly.  "But ossiffmpph, I wuzzz ats denmoogle.  Nargle burf.")

At least Dr. N., Sr. didn't bitch about my weight.

The Titalating and Thrilling and Horrifying Story of Mermaid Pirate Girl, er, I Mean Mermaid Ghost Girl, er, I Mean, Mermaid Monster Girl!

As told by Cressy.  Written by Cressy.  Editorial Content by Cressy.  Illustrations by Mommy but greatly influenced by Cressy.  Directed by Cressy.  Everything not implicitly mentioned is by Cressy.  The best boy was also Cressy.

Once upon a time, there was a Mermaid Pirate Girl.  (Those are supposed to be seashells on her nibbles, yes, I meant nibbles, because that's what the 7 year old called them.  I know they don't exactly look like seashells, or nibbles for that matter, but try and go with it.)

Wait, wait, wait.  I was informed that Mermaid Pirate Girl is now...Mermaid Ghost Girl.  (I had no idea that Mermaids turn into ghosts.  When I asked how the mermaid had died, I was told, "It's very sad, Mommy.")

Wait.  Wait.  Wait.  There's been another editorial change.  Mermaid Ghost girl is now...Mermaid Monster Girl.  (Cue scary music here.)  (Those nibbles are starting to look like coconuts with stripes.  Or maybe hand grenades?) (Also, little note here.  At this point in time there were two 7 year old girls and one 6 year old girl in the house and they felt compelled to wander in while I was illustrating and put in their nickel's worth.  In fact one of them wanted to draw the hair on the below Mermaid Monster Girl, and that's why it looks like it does.  I'm telling you, those critics on Amazon and Barnes & Noble have got nothing on 7 and 6 year old girls.)



Then there was a guy in a boat, just rowing along minding his own business.  Let's call him, 'Bob.'  Bob was a fun guy.  He liked to row.  So he went out and rowed a lot.  (I'm thinking that Bob is A) unemployed, B) without a girlfriend and/or boyfriend, or C) slightly weird.)  Also he liked rowing in the ocean.  But Bob didn't know about Mermaid Pirate Girl, I mean, Mermaid Ghost Girl, I mean, Mermaid Monster Girl.  Right, Mermaid Monster Girl.

So la-de-dah, Bob was rowing along, doing his thing, wondering why the sky was blue and why the oceans were bluer.  Also he was wondering how he could get a better deal on a 47 inch flat screen plasma television set so he could put it in the basement where he lived with his dog, Porcupine.  (Long story about Porcupine.  Long, ugly story.)



Bob was suddenly attacked by MERMAID MONSTER GIRL.  (Don't blame me for the color changes on Mermaid Monster Girl; it's the director.  She keeps changing her mind about special FX.)  Anyway Mermaid Monster Girl didn't like dogs named Porcupine or big screened televisions that were plasma.  Furthermore, men who lived in the basement of their parents' houses really fiercely ticked her off.  Bob decided that discretion was the better part of valor and dove into the water.

And Bob swam like a mutherfu-, well, let's just say Bob was highly motivated.  But then so was Mermaid Monster Girl.  She thought Bob looked like he would tell good jokes and be fun to hang out with so she thought, 'I'm gonna grab him and he'll be my bee-yotch.  Also we'll watch the movie, 'Beaches,' together.'

So Bob was making noises that dogs several counties away could hear because Mermaid Monster Girl wasn't explaining anything about Barbara Hershey or Bette Midler.  She was just showing her sharp, fangy teeth and holding up clawy hands while chasing after him.

Just then, Bruce the life guard saw that Bob was being chased by Mermaid Monster Girl.

So Bruce quickly applied a fresh coat of water resistant sunblock to his entire body, not forgetting the tips of his ears or in between his toes.  Then he valiantly jumped into the water to rescue Bob from Mermaid Monster Girl.  And Bruce cleverly used his Mermaid Monster Phuuee Spray to deter Mermaid Monster Girl.  (I bet you didn't know they made spray like that.  Well, they do.  Especially for blogs.)  Mermaid Monster Girl said, "Gee, that stings," and was, thus, deterred.

And so Bob and Bruce lived happily ever after.  (I'm not sure if Cressy realized the connotations here but I said, "WTH?" and went with it.  Happily ever after is happily ever after, after all.

And so Bob and Bruce walked into the sunset.  And don't worry about Mermaid Monster Girl because once she went on a Ben & Jerry's eatathon and got over Bob, she went on to find a Mermaid Monster Boy, or should that be a Merman Monster Boy?, of her own.  (Some say it was Bill Clinton but others said that was all propaganda written by jealous Republicans.  "I did not have a sexual relationship with that Mermaid Pirate, I mean, Mermaid Ghost, err, I mean, Mermaid Monster Girl.")

The End.

Illustrator's note: One day when Cressy is old enough to realize that I'm liberally 'adding' to her literary artistic vision, I'm going to be in a lot of trouble.  But not now.  ;)