Monday, November 28, 2011

Stuff That Amuses Me OR Things That Make Me Snort Peas Out of My Nose and Not in a Good Way

My daughter, seven years old, Cressy, brought home an art project she did last week.  As an artist, I'm always interested in what she does.  She showed me the project.

The wings are attached by little metal dohickeys that allow the wings to go up and down.  So it can fly.

I said, "So, you did an eagle.  Good job."  But UH-OH! The mother train had derailed dramatically.  I did not automatically see the artistic visionary process that a seven year old had portrayed in crayola a la carte.

"It's not an eagle," my little budding Van Gogh announced to me.  Her tone was deadly serious.  As a mother and parental unit, I had made a grievous error in judging too quickly.  I looked again.

"Looks like an eagle to me," I said, wondering if I was stuffing my feet into my mouth.  (Contrary to popular belief, fat women can, in fact, insert both feet into their mouths AND at the same time.  I ought to know.  I do it frequently.)

My daughter cast a death glare upon me.  Sometimes I forget she's only seven.  She's got that glare down to at least sixteen.  Maybe even thirty.

"It's not an eagle," she said again.

"Oh kay," I said carefully.  The death bell had tolled for thee, me, whatever.  (Dead mommy walking.)  "What is it?"

(Here it comes.  It's a good one.)  "It's a zombie eagle," she said with a straight face.

I looked again.  "There's blood coming out of its mouth."

See.  I've pointed out the blood.  One can see how I might have initially missed this important aspect to the drawing.  One can see, but obviously a daughter CANNOT see how I missed it.

But Cressy wasn't done outlining her artistic creativity with the national bird of our country.  "The pink stuff is...brain juice."  (She paused for melodramatic effect.)

You see, if you previously read about the Cressy rules concerning zombies you would instantly comprehend her reasoning.  See 'The Origin of Zombies OR Why We Must Never Drive Past Graveyards at Night.'  Specifically, Zombies eat brains, brain juice and cereal.  (Not any icky kinds of cereal like Wheaties and Corn Flakes.  But the good stuff like Captain Crunch and Count Chocula.)  Therefore if they eat the brains there's going to be brain-stuff all over the zombie eagle's chest.  (Mommies are, apparently, clueless concerning zombie eagles.)

"You mean brains," I said.  Obviously I had missed some integral details on my daughter's magnum opus.

"No, it's brain juice," my only offspring announced as if I was stupid.  (I suspect to her I was.)  "The zombie eagle ate the brains, so it's only juice on its feathers."  (There was a silent, "Dumbass," on the end of that statement.  What was I thinking?  After all, it wasn't a zombie eagle with a bib.)

Now I'm picturing a restaurant just for zombie eagles.  (Maybe zombie turkeys or zombie pelicans, if they're lucky.)  Red Brains?  Pink Brains?  I'm certainly open for suggestion.

Again, I've come to the realization that no one switched my daughter at the hospital.  This is all on me.

Thursday, November 24, 2011

The Attack of the Moth Beast From HELL OR Happy Thanksgiving to Insects OR Happy Thanksgiving to the Rest of You, Too!

In the last few years there's been an ongoing battle with a gigantic, enormous, beastly pest in my house.  (No, not HIM.  Although HIM, the man to whom I'm married, can be a pest, he isn't the pest of which I speak.)

Not cockroaches, silverfish, ants, or alien hordes from the Dagobah System.  (Okay, who got that reference?  Go ahead, admit you're a technogeek from the seventies.)

No, it's #$%@^&!!! moths.  Little vicious heifers called meal moths.

Apparently these fiends from hell get into various pantry food.  (Dry pet food, rice, cereal, anything not battened down with iron clippies that would make a dominatrix howl.)  They lay their little eggy vermin and then they take over your house.  (I was wondering who was TIVO-ing Desperate Housewives.)  Did I mention these little sh*theads are only 1/4 inch long, fully grown?

Well, they are.  1/4 inch FULLY FRICKIN' GROWN!!!

How to get rid of meal moths?  Pray, light your house on fire with napalm, and rebuild in Alaska, where hopefully the little f**kers can't follow you.  (No guarantees because they probably got into your luggage, so you should just burn all of your belongings and move into a hut in the wilderness instead.  Get used to wearing leaves.  Learn that adage: Leaves of three, leave it be.)

I have to clean out the pantry of anything that's open.  I did this four times already.  I have to spray the nooks and crannies with a special insecticide.  (Which sounds bad considering the area is a PANTRY, which allegedly contains foods that WE eat.  Chemicals near food we eat = badness or possibly a third arm growing out of my back-ness.)  Then I put out these little traps that emit pheromones and trap all the boy meal moths.  (The lady moths are going to be pissed with me.)

Finally, the creme de la creme.  We'll have to wait for NINETY #@$%^*!!!! days because that is how long the eggs might continue to hatch.

I'm told the rotten little bleep-bleep-bleeping-bleeps get their danders up and find other food sources until you get lazy with the cereal/catfood/whatever again.  So I have to put those little smell-good-to-boys traps in every room.  For ninety days.  Ad nauseam.

At least it's not bedbugs.  Did I mention we're eating out for Thanksgiving?  Possibly Chinese food.

Anyway, I'm thankful for free speech.  Also HIM, Cressy, my favorite relatives who read my novels, my sister, my blog, all of my marvelous fans/readers, and the fact that I get to epublish pretty much what I want.  Screw the meal moths.  Life is good.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Monday, November 21, 2011

Randomness OR Randomivity OR Stuff I Just Thought I Had to Talk About

Just waiting on my editor/proofreader to send me back Bubba and the Missing Woman.  I have to be patient because she's such a nice person and she has a family and she does such a good job for me.  But she emailed me and said she was having a hard time editing the manuscript because she was eager to find out what happened to Willodean.  I can understand.  I get lots of email about that very same subject matter.  Also get emailed about when, when, when is Bubba 3 coming out on Kindle/Nook/ereader of your choice?

I would put a specific date on it, but I don't want to do it because there's always the chance it might be late.  Not because of the editor/proofreader, of course.  (Her name is Mary and SHE'S GREAT!  She's uber nice and she catches 99% of everything.  She even checks for consistency, because well, with everything going on in Bubba, it's hard to remember who had cornflower blue eyes and who had peacock blue eyes.  Seriously, Mary caught that and she's right.  So not the same color.)  (I also have other readers doing their thing to make sure I didn't step on my metaphorical weewee but I won't mention names.)  But it comes down to my favorite saying of all time:

Stuff happens.

Except I don't usually say, stuff.  I say something else with four letters and usually in a sarcastic manner, because you know, stuff happens.  It happens all the time.  I'm standing there, minding my own business and a meteor drops on my head.  (In reality this would be a positive thing because those guys on Meteorite Men say one falling on an actual person would be like, an expensive thing.  Of course, it wouldn't be good for me since the meteor landing on my person would likely hurt me or even worse, kill me.  And hey, I'm mentally picturing the best gravestone saying, ever.  But my family would be set.  "Yeah, Mom died, but we got a million bucks for the meteor that hit her, so it's all gravy.")  So there ya go, stuff happened.

I should knock on wood because I don't want stuff to happen.  I want Mary to finish.  I want to make my corrections.  I want to look at the finished product and be all silly and happy and weird because I'm finally FINISHED with Bubba 3!  Then I want to put it on Amazon, Smashwords, and BN and run outside and yell something completely bizarre so that my neighbors will be absolutely certain I am, in fact, insane!  (Things I might yell: "Yellow monkeys are taking over the White House!  Should we save Obama or let him eat bananas?!" or "I have become frantically spastic with my need for a hot fudge sundae!" or possibly "Who wants to go skinny-dipping in the Potomac with the Speaker of the House?"  (Well, I had to ping both Democrats and Republicans, in all fairness.)

Wait.  I lost my train of thought.

Stuck on gravestone epitaphs

Oh, yes.  Stuff happens.  When I lived in El Paso one of my Hispanic friends said that in Spanglish they say, "Kaka pasa."  I like that, too.  Kaka does pasa.  A lot.

Anyone have a headache?

And today I have an excellent illustration of that concept.  I have undeniable proof that stuff happens.  All the time.  To me.  Dammit.

Here's the photo.  This is an actual photo that I took with my Droid in my kitchen:

Does anyone need a hint as to what this is?  It's something sitting inside a microwave oven.  Specifically, my microwave oven.  Okay, the hell with it.  It's a container of Chinese food sitting inside my microwave oven.  AND it's been somewhat charred.

How did this happen, you ask?  Shit happened.  Excuse me, stuff happened.

Oh, the hell with it again.  It's HIM's fault.  Yesterday I saw HIM put a cup of coffee inside the very same microwave oven with a metal spoon still in the cup.  I naturally protested.  "The product guidelines do not recommend the insertion of metallic objects into the oven area for safety reasons," I said.  (Not really, but I'm pretty sure I thought it.)

HIM said, "It's okay.  I do it at work all the time."  (Well, sure HIM does.  It's their microwave.  Not ours.  If their shit blows up and starts a fire then well, it's just an office casualty, right?)

I said, "Well, okay, but I thought metal and microwaves don't go together."

So HIM microwaved his coffee to volcanic intensity and the spoon did not spark or blow up.

Fast forward to today.  I took the container of Chinese food out of the refrigerator and thought, Well, HIM did it with the spoon.  No problem.


Well, more than one problem.  The first problem was that I walked away after pushing the button on the microwave for sixty seconds while I was speaking to my sister on the phone.

The second problem was the picture above.

Apparently a spoon in a cup of coffee is not the same as a Chinese food container with metal handles.  I'm told that the paper was ignited by the metal handles.

You see.  Stuff happened.

On the brighter side, the fire seemed to have put itself out.  Or maybe it was the Chinese food inside the container that put it out.  And the microwave wasn't even scorched.

On the bad side, I had to throw away the Chinese food because it didn't look appetizing with ashes all over it.

I should have knocked on some wood.

Thursday, November 17, 2011

Pain in the Ass Man Rides Again!

I know.  Short title.  Where's the sarcastic OR?  Where's the pithy add-ons?  What's wrong with Fat Woman?

I will tell you.

Reference the recent blog, "S**T People Ought to Know OR Oops, She's Sharing Again and Not in a Good Way."

With the systematic invasion of the 'rent in law, came the titillating return of Pain in the Ass Man.  For those of you who are new to this blog, I will explain that Pain in the Ass Man is HIM.  HIM is the man to whom I've been married for 28 years.  HIM is also the unfortunate target of many a humorous blog.  HIM's alter ego is Pain the Ass Man.  Pain in the Ass Man is a local superhero with many powers.  Not the least of these super powers is the ability to piss me off in three words or less.  (Sometimes it doesn't even take actual words.)  (As an example here is a recent answer to a question from me: "I don't know."  Voila.  My brain short circuited in three words or less.  It helps to have the stupid expression shown with the words slurred together as HIM could not possibly be bothered to answer legibly or intelligibly.)

Ta-dah!  Pain in the Ass Man RIDES AGAIN!

Fat Woman usually responds to the "look" thusly.

Back story all told, Pain in the Ass was mysteriously renewed when there was a sudden onslaught of the in law.  The in law may also be viewed as Pain in the Ass Man's infrequent sidekick, Grouchy Old Man Boy.  Grouchy Old Man Boy also has super powers such as the ability to ignore anything out of Fat Woman's mouth or the equally mysterious power of If-I-Don't-Look-At-You-Then-I-Don't-Have-To-Respond-To-You.  (My personal favorite is the I-Refuse-To-Stay-In-The Same-Room-As-You ability that enables Grouchy Old Man Boy to dematerialize from any area which Fat Woman is present and transmogrify into any area in which Fat Woman is absent.)

(Some of you may be wondering how I managed to get this blog past my husbandly censor.  Well, let's just say HIM may not have been consulted in the writing of this blog.)

During the recent super hero reunion of the crabby ones, HIM strangely relocated all of his bathroom gear into my bathroom.  This is otherwise known as Fat Woman's fortress of solitude.  (Not that calling it that stops our daughter from banging on the door at inopportune times.)

I don't know why HIM had to move his stuff to my bathroom.  Possibly it's the OCD-ity-ness in HIM that cannot allow him to share his bathroom with a visitor.  But HIM had to invade my personal space with his manly he-items strewn all over my counter.  (I remember when we were looking at houses to buy and I thought having a bathroom with each bedroom was excessive.  Hahaha.  Not anymore.  There are three of us in this house and believe me, I think we should each have our own personal teetee room and a fourth one for visitors.  I don't care if I have to clean four bathrooms.  It would be worth it.  Totally.)

Still with me?  I'll summarize in case I wandered too far.  The in law came.  Pain in the Ass Man returned.  Pain in the Ass Man violated my inner sanctum.  (Okay, I know what you're thinking and you've got a very dirty mind.)  Fat Woman became cranky.  Combine that with a special feminine time of the month and you've got the recipe for total nuclear Armageddon.  HIM should have presented me with a one-way ticket to the tropical island of my choice and a box of chocolates.

Instead he started up with the stupid roll of toilet paper.  (Bet you didn't think you could get divorced over toilet paper.)  (Somewhere, someone got divorced over a roll of toilet paper.  I'm going to google it and see.)

I believe I've already mentioned HIM's preference for having the paper go over the top of the roll whilst hanging on the holder.  Well, once HIM invaded my bathroom, HIM simply took the roll off the holder in a blatant attempt to avoid the over or under theorem.  Why?  It's a small bathroom and HIM says, "I can't reach the holder when it's right there 2 inches away from my elbow."  (Craftily, HIM avoided the over or under bomb by utilizing the whole removal of the TP method.)

Okay, nothing to explode about, right?  But then HIM takes the toilet paper when HIM's done and puts it on the back of the toilet's tank lid instead of back on the holder.  The next person in the bathroom may or may not see the toilet paper out of reach and sets about her bathroomly business before realizing there is NO LONGER a roll of toilet paper on the holder.  The toilet paper is NO LONGER within reach of anyone except a card carrying member of Cirque du Soleil.  (The contortionist who literally CAN kiss their own tushies.)

HIM's response to my dilemma of not being able to bend backwards at a 90 degree angle: "You should have looked where the toilet paper was before you sat down."

That was the point of self immolation.  "You should have looked where the toilet paper was before you sat down."  That statement.  That very statement of doom.  Now I'm the first to admit that statement was way more than three words, but it had the same impact.  You see, according to HIM, it was my own fault I couldn't reach the TP because I hadn't...looked...first.

"I had the TP on the holder," I said.

"I can't reach it there," HIM whined.

"I know a place where you can reach it," I replied, thinking of a very specific locale upon HIM's anatomy.

Realizing that HIM was damned, HIM fled, screaming over his shoulder, "I'll NEVER touch your TP again!"  (Not really, but it really flows well in my imagination.)

Moral of the story: Don't mess with a woman's toilet paper.

Monday, November 14, 2011

Iz Takez Another Tripz to Target OR How Your Brain Melts in the Toy Section OR How I Haven't Yet Squeezed All the Milk Out of This Particular Carton

Yes, there was another trip to Target.  Accompanied by my only child I quickly found myself in a wretched predicament.  There was no escape.  I could see the haunted expressions on the faces of the other parents similarly trapped.  They looked at me as if I could help them escape but it was too late for all of us.

We were in...the TOY ZONE.  (Cue Rod Serling here.)

One would think that I'd pretty much siphoned the cow dry on the toy humor but I've got pictures and lots of commentary to prove that, in fact, I have not.

Oh, where to start?  I'm obliged to comment.  I can't not comment.  I'm pretty sure not commenting is a crime in twenty states.  Also it gives me itchy feelings down under and I'm not talking about Australia.

Evidence piece number 1:

We were in the Lego aisle.  Lego's loomed at me from all sides.  There were Toy Story Lego's, Star Wars Lego's, Atlantis Lego's, Lego's that I didn't give a poop about, and then there was the Alien Invasion Lego's.  I cannot help but wonder what wondrous brain came up with this one?  Was this sterling example of toy inventiveness perhaps also the owner of an aluminum foil hat?  Wait, there's more because even Target noted something about this set that I did not.

Yes, right there next to the 29.99 it says Lego ABDUCTION set.  It's on the little label attached to the metal shelf.  You see, even Target knew something was amiss and labeled it accordingly.  (And by God, it says UFO Abduction on the front of the box.  See the first photo.)  See those pictures on the box.  It shows a little Lego figure being abducted by the alien ship.  Just like that.  So much for aluminum foil hats, suckers.  (HIM commented that this set needs duct tape and clothes line for authenticity but what I really want to see is the little tool the Lego's people came up with for the aliens to use for probing.)

But wait, there's more toy-ity madness.

This peach was on sale!  For only $5.98 you can purchase Sweet Talkin' Ken for your little princess.  This fun guy will teach your daughter that not only does she need a boyfriend (It says it on his little t-shirt) but she should hold out for one who is a SUPER BOYFRIEND and he talks back to you in his own dulcet-toned voice.  So you can say, "I luv you," and Sweet Talkin' Ken will murmur that sweetness back to you in his voice.  (Other lines I suspect Sweet Talkin' Ken of saying: "You don't really need all those clothes, baby," and "If you loved me you would.")  And look, right behind his head, it says he's the "Ultimate Boyfriend."  Take note, boys, you've got a hard act to follow with Sweet Talkin' Ken plowing the street.

But I'm far from done.

This baby is from the truly creepy line of babies who talk to you.  I want to point out on the package on the lower left it says, "I really eat my doll food," and ickily, "I really 'pee' and 'poop'!"  OMFG, the doll comes with packages of "food" that the proud owner feeds to it's Chuckiness (that's a demonically possessed doll missile aimed at the toy industry) and there's a photo on the back showing the baby-puke-green colored crap that comes out of its odd, teensy, butter bean, plastic butt.  Isn't this just the funnest doll ever?  (I remember having a doll that one fed water to and she peed out the same water about a minute later, but how do you clean the insides of this craptacular piece of child merchandising?)

I had to take a picture of this one because it's from The Empire Strikes Back.  (Kudos to George Lucas for still raking in merchandising monies thirty-odd years later.)  Han rescues Luke in the freezing cold and has to slice open his tauntaun in order to keep Luke warm until Han can put up the shelter.  (Can you believe I didn't have to google any of that?)  Well, this version doesn't have any tauntaun slicing options.  I mean, really.  Pooping babies emitting green crap = okay.  Light-sabered, gushing intestines of made-up creatures = not okay.  Really?

I'm not sure how we ended in this aisle but I couldn't help notice this WWE wrestling guy.  (Not for that reason, you pervs.)  It's the doll's expression.  I mean, he looks like he's about to do what the Baby Alive above was doing with the icktacular green food except in a more solid state.  I don't watch wrestling but did the doll makers check with this guy (this man with very large muscles and a nasty disposition?) before settling on the expression on this doll's face?  Seriously, he looks like he wishes he had the stuff the Baby Alive doll was getting so the steroids would stop constipating him.  Just saying I'm glad I don't make dolls for the WWE.

As this picture clearly illustrates, we wandered though ALL of the toy aisles.  I didn't go willingly.  So when Cressy was about three years old she would watch Thomas the Train as it drove about the island and did strange train things and made bizarre train faces.  Therefore, I cannot fathom how a talking, creepy-ass train gets on a pirate ship.  Well, I suppose it's weird that the train talks to begin with, but let's just take it to the next level.  Thomas the Pirate Train pillages the Spanish Main.  The toy maker's response: "Hey, it works for three-year-olds AND we can sell more toys."  I can't help but notice that Thomas the Train needs a big, freaking life vest 'cause when the pirate ship is sunk by Her Majesty's Navy, he's going to the bottom like a freaky-faced, train shaped rock.

I took a picture of this because this weapon of minimal destruction is the one I want to use on the squirrels who raid my apple trees in the spring.  I want to open my bedroom window a crack and fire with this automatic foam dart gun.  It's got automatic pump action and 12, count 'em, 12 foam darts to shoot.   "SAY HELLO TO MY LITTLE FRIEND, YOU RAT-EFFING SQUIRREL BASTARDS!" I might yell in a particularly antagonistic moment.  (Hey, I wanted to make apple pie and I got one stinking apple last summer because of those flea ridden, acorn hiding nut heads.)  (Note to HIM: Christmas present for me.  Buy extra ammo.)

And here's the extra ammo.  That's what I'm talking about.  I'll foam dart their little bushy tails all the way to the fence.  (That needs to go in a Bubba book.)

This Ken doll had a little lipstick stain on the photo on the box.  I thought it was not in good taste.  And is it me, or does Ken look a little happy to be in the box?  Shouldn't he be, like, Barbie's very cheerful friend, Ken?  Or maybe *Ken*?  Look at him.  He's wearing a pink tie and ready to do a Latin dance step or possibly a Marlo Thomas imitation.  Hey, I don't care if he's really *Ken* but let Mattel be honest about it.  *Ken* should just come out of the plastic closet already.  Mattel, you're not fooling anyone with the little lipstick stain on *Ken*'s cheek.  After all, anyone can put lipstick on.

HOLY SHADES OF YAKUZA, BATMAN!  Naked Barbie boobies!  (Kids, look away from the anatomically incorrect boobie lumps.)  Finally, here's a Barbie I didn't see at Target.  I read about it and HAD to include it in this blog.  Apparently, this special edition Barbie is somewhat provocative because of her extensive body art.  She's called the Tokidoki Barbie and initially sold for $50.  Fortunately for me she's all sold out and is going for about $400 on eBay.  Here she is with her clothes on.  Pink hair and all and funky little dog/thing.  (Is it a cactus costume?  I do not know.)

Enuf said about toys.  After all, it's the season and if you've got children, well, you're just hosed.  Like me.

Okay, one last thing.  There was a comment from the Peanut Gallery about how I should have covered the fake little, non-sillicone having, plastic tatas up.  So here that is.  I don't think it's better, but WTF?  However, it is funnier.

Thursday, November 10, 2011

S**T People Ought to Know OR Oops, She's Sharing Again and Not in a Good Way

Events happening in my life.  1) I'm trying to polish up Bubba and the Missing Woman, 2) I'm experiencing a visit from an in-law, and 3) the magicalness of a visit from the physiological fairy of femaleness has descended upon my entire body.  (If you cannot figure out #3, talk to your mother, sister, girlfriend, wife about it.  She'll explain it.)

Warning: Men may be appalled by this blog.  But if you happen to be a man reading this far and if you want valuable, need-to-know information and a strong constitution, then read on.  However, be prepared to have too much information imparted from a female perspective.

My daughter, Cressy, was watching a show about super novas on the science channel and it turned out the knowledge from the show was extensively valuable and insightful in understanding the feminine mystique.

Okay, stick with me.  I'm about to meander down a shaky train of thought.  (Seriously, this is the metro that goes through the twisty turns and under the river without rhyme or reason.  Often it will stop for no reason and then something bad happens.)

Isn't this a funky train?  Pay special attention to the red eyes of the
train engineer.  It's a clue...

HIM, the man to whom I'm married, went with me to Walmart yesterday and slug-a-bugged me for a yellow VW Beetle.  I immediately retaliated by kicking him in the ankle.

HIM said, "Why'd you do that?"  (The kick wasn't that hard so he wasn't really harmed or alarmed.  Initially.)

I replied, "I warned you my period started."  (Most women are saying, "Oh, of course.  I understand completely now.  May I suggest the completely justified use of a bazooka on HIM?")

"So?" HIM said.

"Do you remember the show Cressy watched about how a star shrinks and shrinks, compressing all that mass into an insignificant portion of its former self and then blows right the eff up?"

"Yes," he said warily, sensing a trap.  He'd watched it, too.  (Cressy had really gotten into that particular show.  Little does she know how it will impact her later in life, specifically around the ages of 12-50.)

"Imagine my uterus doing exactly the same thing.  Universe = uterus.  Uterus = universe.  Same exact thing."  (I imagine I just lost about five men here who clicked the red x when they read the word, uterus.)

The horror in HIM's eyes was nearly palpable.

There.  A perfect metaphor for that inexplicable time when women go through 3-5 days of discomfort, hormonal surges, and other yuckiness that doesn't need to be explained.

I warned HIM and he slug-a-bugged me anyway.  He had to pay the piper.

Universe = uterus.  Remember, men.  This is a basic truth.

Saturday, November 5, 2011

The Return of the Dentist FROM HELL OR There She Goes Again OR Now That She's Done With Bubba She Will Write Blog Silliness Again!

Fat Woman in the magical forest.  Notice the sparkling
trees, hence the magicality.  (Yes, I made up a word.)
Once upon a time there was another visit to  Fat Woman was frolicking along in a magical forest minding her own business when suddenly I was captured by an evil dentist and his henchwoman hygienist.  They dragged me off to their black fortress lair, also known as the dentist's office and they called it an 'appointment.'  There, I was chained to a chair and forced to have my teeth cleaned and also have x-rays.  It was wretched torture of the most malignant type.  (I may be exaggerating here.)

I imagine the evil dentist as a giant tooth.  Look how
white he is.  (This is kind of like having a mascot
that is what you're selling.  I.e., a chicken selling
chicken products.  But it's my blog and my illustrations
and my brain.)
The dentist said, "You have two cavities.  They must be filled.  You will come in next week for the ritualized maiming and torturing of your mouth for this cataclysmic event."  (No, he didn't really say that, but it was implied.  You know, people often say things to me that are implied.  It's implied that it's implied.  If you understand that, you're a very special person.)

So two weeks later I was frolicking in the magical forest again, minding my own business when suddenly the demonic dental imps snatched me again, forcing me to return for the dreaded 'follow-up.'

I should have put sparkles on the giant monster tooth's teeth.
Just saying.
There I was in the chair.  I got Junior this time.  (He, who is a dentist and DOES NOT, thankfully, have fingers the size of elephant's legs, unlike his father.)  I mentioned something about his father, Senior, and here was the comment I got in response, "Dad's the best dentist I know."  (Sure hope they didn't read the other blog I wrote about dentists because I beg to differ.  No, I don't beg but I damn sure differ.)  Then he said, "My technique is different from his."  (I didn't know how to take that but since I was already in the chair and my mouth was open, I went with it.)  (You're trapped there, you know.  Once you're in the dental chair, and your mouth is open, and those tools are an inch away from your flesh and blood, what are you really going to do?  Leap up and say, "You know, I've changed my mind about the whole dental is good thing.  Let's just stay friends."?  I don't think so.)

Oh, yes, Junior's technique was different.  He whipped out the big needle without numbing my mouth first and plunged it into my quivering flesh.  (I mean the inside of my mouth.)  I think I swallowed my tongue for a few minutes and I'm sure I heard it scraping against bone.

Junior dug around for a few hours with the needle.  (It might have been thirty seconds.)  He pulled back, got another needle, which looked bigger than the first one and hummed while he waited for the first batch to start numbing me up.  Not sure what he was humming but it had a rhythm and you could dance to it.  (I was concentrating on the pain in my jaw.)

Back to the needle in my mouth.  The second time was all pressure and my ass was levitating into the air.  (The next time I get a cavity, I'm just going to take a muscle relaxer before I go.  It'll probably be easier on everyone involved.  If you come home from the dentist and your entire body hurts from tensing up, then pharmaceutical assistance wouldn't be amiss.)

Junior disappeared for a bit and everything on the left side of my face slowly went numb.  This time my ear didn't go numb, but I don't think I could feel my nose.  By the time Junior came back I was drooling down the side of my face.  (I wouldn't have known except that the stream of saliva made it to the flesh that could still feel.)

Junior didn't use the clamp to hold my mouth open which was a positive for him.  But on the negative side he kept telling me to open my mouth up more.  (Like the last time, we could have played a drinking game for the three thousand times he did say it.)  Do I really need to repeat that this fat woman's mouth only opens so damned far and not one skin-ripping, jaw-popping, screaming inch further?  (Well, I don't think I do but I did it anyway.)

Then came the drill.  Oh that magical drill of supreme happiness that whirls into my heart.  Not.

It was the drill of death.  Apparently my narrow arch (I'll remind everyone that the dentist tells me I have the narrowest arch he's ever seen, which equates to a small mouth and not a lot of room to work in) prevented Junior from using the BIG drill.  (I'd like to point out that the one he did use looked BIG enough for me.)  (There's a joke here about size matters but I won't go there.)

And for some reason Junior didn't have a handy assistant with which to suck out my accumulating spit.  So occasionally he had to stop and vaccu-suck my mouth.  I would have signaled but I was busy trying not to drown.

Cue the burning dog hair smell.  This is always such a fun part of the visit.  I could see (I could!) smoke coming out of my mouth and it wasn't the good kind of smoke like when you just took a hit off a doobie.  (Not that I've done that for twenty-five years.  I swear.)  Seeing smoke come out of your mouth is rather alarming when you haven't done anything that would normally accompany such an event.  Plus it goes right past your nose and you can't help smelling it and it does not smell good.

I was too busy trying not to swallow that I got this foul taste in my mouth from burning tooth debris that I very nearly yakked in the dental chair.  Now while it's true I don't like the dentist, (It's true.) I've never actually had to keep myself before from barfing on an office visit.

I had to stop Junior so I could make my gag reflex stand down.

Fortunately he was at the filling part and put the drill away.  I'm not sure if he was impressed that I didn't puke on him.  (It probably would have made an impression if I had.)

Anyway, it's a full week later and my jaw where I got the first shot still hurts.  Also I haven't paid the bill yet, so isn't life full of funness and joy everlasting?

Back to the magical forest to play with unicorns, or maybe man-eating dragons, or something less dramatic than dentists.

Wednesday, November 2, 2011


Well, the title pretty much says everything.

Except remember, I need to proof it.  HIM needs to proof it.  Several friends need to proof it.  My professional proofreader needs to proof it!  But it's all GRAVY!  Life is good.  If you hear sirens around my house it's because I am out dancing in the street yelling bizarre things in celebration!
Okay, it's a short blog.  But I'm SO HAPPY!  Rainbows are, in fact, shooting out of my butt!

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