Speaking Toothfully

According to the comedian Sarah Silverman, “Death arrives in the gums."  As of late, I have been open to the “dental experience."  I feel like a foreigner when sitting in that chair or, at least, the village idiot.  I don’t understand tooth speak.  I hear words like lingual, canine, localized and my mind draws a blank.  Why do they call the teeth at the back of your mouth wisdom teeth?  Do they exhibit any wisdom whatsoever--NO!  Most people get their wisdom teeth removed anyway so why not call them.. absent.  Or name them something that closely describes what they are.. a-pain-in-the-ass.  My dental ninja found one area of suspicion in my mouth.  I was told to keep a close eye on it.  It is a pit in a tooth at the back of my mouth.  I was surprised to know that (just like in real life) drama happens inside the oral cavity.  There is at this moment the potential for a crime to occur in that pit while I am unaware.  I want to be good and brush gently, but when I grab my toothbrush I transform into this superhero.  I become the avenger in the war against gum disease and all that excitement rises to the surface.  I end up brushing hard and with ferocity.  I confessed this misbehavior to my dental ninja. It will be difficult to change, but I have faith.  I can do it.  

Heart Day Dad

“Remember the Alamo. Never shake hands with a rattlesnake. You know my love is with you today, yesterday, day before yesterday and within 24 hours of tomorrow. However, my love can only extend 72 hours beyond infinity.  Okay, so take it for granted.  You got it, kid?”  These are some of my favorite quotes from my daddee-o.  The revered Monsieur Longfizzle or Dr. Jackovich Langhorn if you will.  

Today is Valentines Day.  A typical American holiday that celebrates love or coupledom.  When I think of love, I think of my dad’s actions growing up, from the time when I was a tiny sparrow of girl to now the full bloom of adulthood.  My childhood was truly hunky-dory-dandy.  It was satisfying to the max like a glass of ice water during the hot-dog-days-of-summer.  I remember my first day of school.  My dad and I walked hand in hand to the front door of the school building.  My nerves were distracted by his wearing a large fake nose.  It stood out from his face like Pinocchio.  The whole time I was begging him to take the nose off, but these days I would not trade that memory for anything.  I have treasured the numerous JL cards I received over the years, each one bright, creative and original.  I recall interviewing him when I was in the sixth grade.  I tried to be like Barbara Walters.  He was a celebrity and played the role to a tee.  Unfortunately or fortunately, depending on your point of view, I could not stop laughing.  My whole person shook with laughs as he came up with responses that were beyond anything I could ever imagine.  Luckily, this explosive memory was recorded and I still have the cd.  At 15, while most kids were babysitting or picking their nose, I travelled to NYC with my father.  We embraced the cold weather, the celebrity sightings and the cussing cabdrivers.  I recall us navigating the streets of Manhattan while eating Filet-O-Fish sandwiches from McDonalds.  The holy grail moment came in Radio City Music Hall, whereupon Annie Lennox’s song “Money Can’t Buy It” rocked every fiber of our being to its rhythmic, lyrical core.  We left dazed and dazzled.  Music has always been a connect for us.  While still a teenager, dad and I would frequent a popular club that pulsed with music and energy on the dance floor.  Dad was always the first one out on the floor.  I eventually joined in.  “Those who hear not the music, think the dancers mad,” was the saying on one of the cards I gave him during our footloose, fancydancy years.  I recall how happy I was when my dad got a brand new silver Volkswagon bug.  As long as I could remember, he drove that old 74’ VW bug.  The color silver was significant because it was my parents 25th wedding anniversary.  It was fitting for a person that gave as much as my dad to finally receive such a worthy gift.  I recall being moved by my dad’s story of a precocious four year old hospice patient that he was caring for at the time.  He went above and beyond the call of duty for this little girl.  When asked why he did it, his response was “I just imagined if one of my girls were dying, how would I want them treated.”  In an instant, that story reminded me of how much I love my dad.  It reminded me of the W. H. Auden poem that goes... “He was my North, my South, my East and West..”  He was my school week and Sunday best.  Don’t forget pancake and cartoon Saturdays or the many fun runs! He was my laugh and is my joy.  His personality was larger and brighter than the moon.  I reflect on these memories as his birthday approaches very soon.  I thank God for that light you shine on me.  Happy 60th!

Snow Long, Farewell

The remix below is based on Twas The Night Before Christmas poem by Clement Clark Moore and the “So Long, Farewell” song from The Sound of Music.  The “flavorful expressions” in italics are words from UrbanDictionary.com.  

Twas the day after Superbowl XLV, when all through traffuck

Every creature was stirring and it did vacuum (or suck)

The Green Bay Packers stockings were hung from the pickup with care

In hopes that the “beer fairy” would soon be there

The teachers were back to work in their usual place

The memories of snowbooking & boregasms put a smile on their face

Snow long, farewell, auf Wiedersehen, give it a rest

Next time around I will build a bigger internest

OH! Sugar Honey Iced Tea! I exclaimed, as I saw the arch douche go down 

Steelers Quarterback Ben Roethlisberger can get out of town 

Meanwhile back at the ranch, my whole family is under-the-influence of Twig

Even though he is only 11 pounds, his effect on us is B-I-G 

We are wearing Twig goggles, 24 hours a day, 7 days a week 

I see the joy of motherhood growing in my sister so-to-speak 

Now Monday! now Tuesday, Thursday and Friday in my sight! 

On we go! Dash away! The promise of family makes everything right!

Golden Nuggets

Historically Sunday has been the day of rest.  My Sunday experience was full of rushing from point A to point B.  It was full of almost peace.  I had a rendezvous with my chum Susan.  We drove in a train formation to Arlington where there was a happy meditation center.  From the front door you could clearly see “Jerry’s world” all dressed up for the upcoming small community event.  You might have heard of it.  It’s called the Superbowl.  Smiling faces greeted us as we walked inside.  We slipped our shoes off, all the while giggling like school girls attending our first NSYNC concert.  Marshmallow colored walls framed the rather large worship room.  My eye immediately was drawn to the temple shaped wood and glass case.  Inside were enormous buddha figures.  Some were smiling.  Some looked like they had recently been reprimanded for misbehavior.  They say silence can be golden, well in this case, the buddha’s were.  The shine of the golden skin cast a spell on me that was so strong I could not look away.  Suddenly, a small caucasian monk walked quietly in. His figure was hidden underneath long yellow and maroon robes.  He bowed repeatedly, then moved up front to speak.  His voice was soft, but powerful.  The sound of it was calming.  He spoke of love and kindness.  It sounds cliche right?  A buddhist monk talking about love and kindness is as predictable as a cow eating grass.  Have you ever noticed an unhappy cow though?  An unhappy monk?  Exactly my point.  The nuggets of wisdom that my mind did embrace include:

1. Kindness does not expire.  
2. Delusion is like a disease of the mind.  
3. Learn your faults but do not identify with them.  
4. Be mindful of my potential.  Be mindful of others potential.
5. Look for kindness. 
6. Do not focus on faults, rather focus on kindness and potential.

We sat there listening intently.  Unfortunately, I had to exit sooner rather than later.  I whispered goodbye to my friend.  I moved to the door as quietly as ants at a picnic.  In the hallway, I found my shoes exactly where I left them.  It took all of 2 seconds to slip them on.  Outside, the sun and sky looked kind and full of potential.  Once I was inside my marshmallow sized vehicular transport, the journey to work began in earnest.  I navigated through the streets of Arlington purely on instinct.  Eventually, the landscape became more and more familiar.  It took 20 minutes for me to arrive at work.  It was unfortunate that the peacefulness of the monk’s message did not stay with me longer.  My mind had already slipped back into it’s normal state of agitation and anxiousness.  Happiness is difficult to hold onto.  I believe it was 3 hours into my shift before I felt happy.  It wasn’t anything that anyone said to me.  I think my disposition cheered due to singing.  I find that singing at work somehow helps me to not-feel-like-a-slave.  My coworkers laugh with me, not at me, but I know deep down they want to sing too.  They are simply not as bold and outgoing as I am.  As we say in Texas, you can warm your socks in the oven, but that doesn’t make’em biscuits.  The end.

Status Free

Why do we focus our attention on status in today’s society?  On Facebook, every 6 months you are asked to update your “status.”  In a relationship? Single? When 2 people standing close together approach my register I have to ask, “Are you together or separate?”  These might be total strangers to each other, but now they must publicly declare the status of their relationship.  I saw a sign in the parking lot that read “Single Parking Only.”  I breathed a sigh of relief that me and my car fit that requirement. However, my mind did ask the question why.  Did the maker of that parking lot want the married ones to stay home?  The parking lot had status.  Single majority rules.  I am very aware that live evolves.  What I don’t get is why we must be so quick to define it, name it?  I literally broke up with Facebook because I no longer wanted the world wide web to know my status.  I can’t break up with society.  I simply must live my own private life, no names, no definitions and hope that the status, the drama from society does not pull me down.

Santa Socks

Clothes do not make the man, but they do communicate a message.  I breezed into work today dressed in what “looked like” standard uniform: khakis, polo button down shirt, black slip resistant shoes but something was not right.  As I moved, you might have seen the shine of color: white, red, and green.  You might have seen the smiling face of jolly old Saint Nick. When I was dressing (at the butt crack of dawn) I decided to be political.  I wore Santa socks on a “non Santa” day.   It was a bit of a gamble on my part.  If my secret was discovered I could have been written up.  I must be honest though, wearing those socks added strength and zest to each move I made.  How can you not love Santa?  He is a mammal.  Otherwise, known as an air breathing vertebrate characterized by the twinkle in his eye, the facial hair, and round “bowl full of jelly” figure.  One thing you must learn about me is to expect the unexpected.  

Tortilla Chip Predator

A woman walked up to the register.  Her shirt said in big bold letters London, England.  I smiled and said, “I love London!  Do you know that is where Peter Pan is from?”  She looked at me doubtfully.  “Well he is not from there originally...originally he was from Neverland but when he grew up, he moved to London to become a regular chap..” She laughed.  Her smile softened the lines on her face.  Later a man and his young son came in to order 2 vanillla lattes.  I told the boy...”Do you know vanilla builds character?  Thats why your dad has a lot of character.  Are you hyper yet?  How many fingers am I holding up?”  (He answered correctly.  I was holding up 4 fingers.)  Later I sat with my friend Susan in her warm cozy kitchen.  On the table in front of us sat a dish with peanuts, a smaller dish with cubes of cheese, and two mugs of tea with crazy twisted straws sticking out.  We sipped and talked about life.  Her fingers busily cracked the shells and poured the nuts into her mouth.  Life and love go hand and hand so, of course, the subject of relationships came up.  I did not touch the food.  At some point she said, “Are you sure you do not want any nuts or cheese?”  I declined.  I confessed that over the weekend I had gone “nuts” with the volume and content of what I ate.  Quesadillas, beer, sausage, sandwiches, pizza, tortilla chips and salsa, you name it... I probably consumed it.  At this point I pulled my shirt up to expose the pooch of a food baby in my belly.  She laughed at the “smallness” of my stomach.  If I were a predator, my prey would be tortilla chips.  The triangular shaped, finger licking, sand colored, crunchy and salty snack that, when coupled with salsa, satisfies some primitive part inside of me.  I am always “open” to chips.  Some people collect coins or stamps.  I collect tortilla chips and salsa.. inside my belly.  Susan again laughed.  As she inhaled nuts and cheese, her delight in witnessing my “crazy self come out of my shell” was apparent.  One of the teenagers I know is taking diet pills.  She confessed the other day when we were at work, saying that she is trying to lose her “love handles.”  Why take pills? “Well I keep having all these cravings.”  “I know what that condition is called (having cravings) that is called real life.  I am 31 and sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night hungrier than a blind man in a sugar shack.  Guess what I do to fix it?  I don’t pray, love..I eat.”  Right now I see the evidence of my midnight foraging on my night stand.  1. empty cheese plate  2. one cupcake paper minus the cupcake... Yesterday Stan whispered something about me being a deadly assassin to the other workers.  I said, “Did you call me a deadly ass?”  I gave him a real ugly look to show my disapproval.  He laughed.  “No, I said that you really put the ass in assassin.”  (Well I thought, if you can’t beat them, join them.)  My response, “Thanks.  You really put the i in dick.”  Recently, I had the pleasure of teaching 2nd graders.  There were twenty pairs of eyes trained on my every move.  Furthermore, twenty sets of ears listening to every sound I make.  I felt so special.  (Random thought, It is always easier to be honorable when you are treated honorably.)  I enjoy having an audience. I understand now why teachers covet the 2nd grade.  I would love to go back but I must wait.  I must wait for the “right” school to notice, then want me.  I must plant that seed, water it, give it light, shower it with loving words, then step away and let it grow.  It takes time to get your first teaching job.