Air travel is a lot like checking into a hospital. It reduces one to a state of helplessness and our basest needs and emotions.
Like the hospital, the airline has us under its control as soon as we check in. We hand over our rights and dignity and accept conditions we would normally rail about. They can limit our personal baggage, how many outfits we will be wearing over the next few hours or days, promote the invasion of our physical space by assigning us to a narrow space with strangers on either elbow and pressing their knees into our backs. We are subjected to incarceration in a large but cramped capsule for as long as the airline and crew deem necessary. The top guy can order us to be strapped down.
If the temperature is uncomfortable we have little options or control. We can sweat and moan quietly if it's too hot, or we can whine for a scrap of a blanket if it's too cold. They control when and what we eat, and they even interrupt our sleep-if we can manage any- to see if we want anything.
On a recent four hour flight we were served sips of liquid sustenance in tiny cups filled with ice and tossed small bags of pretzels. It reminded me of the little cups of juice that accompany bland, starchy hospital meals.
However, DH and I did find a source of comfort on this flight, but we may have detracted from the experience for those immediately around us. We listened to comedy on the "complimentary satellite radio".
I don't know if it was because we were hopped up on ginger ale, pretzels, and high altitude, but we both got really hysterical while listening to Seinfeld, followed by Jeff Foxworthy - an interesting lineup. DH got carried away first and started that crying kind of laughter. He was trying to muffle it and just teared up all the more. This got me going, but thankfully I was in the window seat and could giggle and choke into the corner. Finally, I tossed my jacket over DH's head to shield his contorted hysterical face from other passengers who were starting to turn and look.
Whew! I miss the old days when we all had to watch the same mediocre movies together. At least we could commiserate as a plane-trapped community.
DH and I finally got some self-control back. And while the plane slowly taxied up to the airport after the flight, and the temperature rose to an uncomfortable level, a flight attendant announced for all passengers to "please lower your window shade to keep the cabin cool and comfortable for the next flight".
Ha! Maybe some A/C or a new compressor would be more effective?
And next time, I'll remember that Dramamine, airplane snacks, and Seinfeld are a dangerous cocktail.
Disclaimer: The above is my not so humble opinion and personal experience and is not intended to reflect the subjective experience of other airline passengers. It is also meant to be mildly entertaining and not necessarily wholly factual. I understand that the airline industry provides us with a very valuable service and has a tremendous responsibility to the public. I realize that the cost cutting efforts that airlines employ are in order to keep air travel affordable.
Random attempts at humor writing by a lefty.
6/17/2010
7/31/2008: Encounters with Bloated Egos
You know, some people value humility as a virtue. Some of us even get through life fairly well while stunted by a modest self-esteem. At the very least, most of us begin to realize as we become more mature (somewhere between 5 and 19), that the world does not revolve around us - even if we sometimes forget this wisdom while we are behind the wheel of a car.
Then there are others. Those whose sense of self-importance has somehow become bloated out of proportion. Either that or they just cannot reconcile themselves to the fact that they are not the center of the universe.
I encountered a few of those people this week. My spouse and I attended a conference at a nice beach resort. We flew out of a nearby small, regional airport and then changed planes in Atlanta and flew on to our south Florida destination.
While waiting for our puddle-jumper at the regional airport, we were forced to listen to a know-it-all doom and gloomer. He was on the far side of middle age and stood with his back against the wall near the gate. He was spouting his years of collected expertise to a man next to him and to anyone else within earshot - which was almost everyone in that small airport.
He was apparently an ex-flyer or mechanic. He talked on and on about all the terrible things that are going on the airline industry today. He advised his quiet new friend that the safest place to sit on an airplane was above the wings. He gave a quick lesson in aerodynamics and flight emergencies. He told a charming anecdote about flying next to a woman who was ridiculous and naive enough to think there were holes in the wings when she saw the flaps down. He boasted that he could close his eyes on a flight and tell EVERY MOVE the pilot and co-pilot were making.
And, of course, he knew when they were making wrong moves.
I have to tell you, thinking he was flying with us made me feel so much more comfortable once I discovered he was actually on another flight.
Then I ran into, almost literally, another person of the-world-better-pay-me-homage persuasion at the resort. We had a free afternoon and were heading to the beach, coming down the elevator in a 6 floor hotel. As the elevator doors opened on the ground floor, a woman in beach attire rushed the doors. She almost ran straight into me. Now, I could be mistaken, but I thought elevator etiquette required that you let passengers off before you step onto the elevator. So why did she roll her eyes and let out a short, exasperated snort when she had to pause for me and other passengers to get out of her way? I mean, she's at a resort, in a bathing suit, coming from the beach or pool, and she only had to wait for the elevator to come down 5 floors - at the most. Are you late for your afternoon dose, lady?
Then, on our flight back, there was "The World's Most Important Mom" (WMIM). As the plane touched down and we were given permission to use our cell phones, she immediately made 4 or 5 phone calls in about 3 minutes. The first was to the individual who was supposed to meet her at the airport. She apparently believed she was important enough that she shouldn't be made to wait at all, because this individual was informed that if he "left the house now" he would be there by the time she got her bags. I want to assume this was her husband, but there was no "Hi Honey" or "thank you" or "love you". Just the terse info that "We just landed" and that he should leave the house now.
She then made her second call, but did not get an answer. So she immediately called a third number and said, "Are you talking to my daughter?" World's-Most-Important-Mom then relayed to her seatmate that the reply had been, "I was."
She then calls her daughter back and says, without any preliminary greeting, "YOU need to get your priorities straight! Your mother is more important than your boyfriend."
Sitting in the seat in front of her and overhearing this (I couldn't help it - she was talking so importantly.) I almost laughed aloud. What alternate universe does she live in? Seriously, does she really think her daughter should dutifully cut off any and all calls from her boyfriend so as not to miss the announcement call from her beloved mother that she had just touched down at the airport?!? This daughter wasn't even the one ordered to meet her at baggage claim after all! She was just being notified that her all important and beloved mother had arrived on the tarmac! "WMIM" didn't even give her daughter two seconds to call Mommy-dearest back before she got the boyfriend on the line to make sure he was not interfering in her attempt to contact her daughter the instant the plane touched the ground.
Wow! She's really bloated! I think if this girl were a teen, any normal mom would have been thrilled if she just got an acknowledgement when she walked in the door at home.
And if you are thinking maybe she had something important going on; just remember, she was on a flight from south Florida and obviously heading home. She was tan and traveling with her quiet female seatmate. It seems like the separate vacation did nobody any good.
Then there are others. Those whose sense of self-importance has somehow become bloated out of proportion. Either that or they just cannot reconcile themselves to the fact that they are not the center of the universe.
I encountered a few of those people this week. My spouse and I attended a conference at a nice beach resort. We flew out of a nearby small, regional airport and then changed planes in Atlanta and flew on to our south Florida destination.
While waiting for our puddle-jumper at the regional airport, we were forced to listen to a know-it-all doom and gloomer. He was on the far side of middle age and stood with his back against the wall near the gate. He was spouting his years of collected expertise to a man next to him and to anyone else within earshot - which was almost everyone in that small airport.
He was apparently an ex-flyer or mechanic. He talked on and on about all the terrible things that are going on the airline industry today. He advised his quiet new friend that the safest place to sit on an airplane was above the wings. He gave a quick lesson in aerodynamics and flight emergencies. He told a charming anecdote about flying next to a woman who was ridiculous and naive enough to think there were holes in the wings when she saw the flaps down. He boasted that he could close his eyes on a flight and tell EVERY MOVE the pilot and co-pilot were making.
And, of course, he knew when they were making wrong moves.
I have to tell you, thinking he was flying with us made me feel so much more comfortable once I discovered he was actually on another flight.
Then I ran into, almost literally, another person of the-world-better-pay-me-homage persuasion at the resort. We had a free afternoon and were heading to the beach, coming down the elevator in a 6 floor hotel. As the elevator doors opened on the ground floor, a woman in beach attire rushed the doors. She almost ran straight into me. Now, I could be mistaken, but I thought elevator etiquette required that you let passengers off before you step onto the elevator. So why did she roll her eyes and let out a short, exasperated snort when she had to pause for me and other passengers to get out of her way? I mean, she's at a resort, in a bathing suit, coming from the beach or pool, and she only had to wait for the elevator to come down 5 floors - at the most. Are you late for your afternoon dose, lady?
Then, on our flight back, there was "The World's Most Important Mom" (WMIM). As the plane touched down and we were given permission to use our cell phones, she immediately made 4 or 5 phone calls in about 3 minutes. The first was to the individual who was supposed to meet her at the airport. She apparently believed she was important enough that she shouldn't be made to wait at all, because this individual was informed that if he "left the house now" he would be there by the time she got her bags. I want to assume this was her husband, but there was no "Hi Honey" or "thank you" or "love you". Just the terse info that "We just landed" and that he should leave the house now.
She then made her second call, but did not get an answer. So she immediately called a third number and said, "Are you talking to my daughter?" World's-Most-Important-Mom then relayed to her seatmate that the reply had been, "I was."
She then calls her daughter back and says, without any preliminary greeting, "YOU need to get your priorities straight! Your mother is more important than your boyfriend."
Sitting in the seat in front of her and overhearing this (I couldn't help it - she was talking so importantly.) I almost laughed aloud. What alternate universe does she live in? Seriously, does she really think her daughter should dutifully cut off any and all calls from her boyfriend so as not to miss the announcement call from her beloved mother that she had just touched down at the airport?!? This daughter wasn't even the one ordered to meet her at baggage claim after all! She was just being notified that her all important and beloved mother had arrived on the tarmac! "WMIM" didn't even give her daughter two seconds to call Mommy-dearest back before she got the boyfriend on the line to make sure he was not interfering in her attempt to contact her daughter the instant the plane touched the ground.
Wow! She's really bloated! I think if this girl were a teen, any normal mom would have been thrilled if she just got an acknowledgement when she walked in the door at home.
And if you are thinking maybe she had something important going on; just remember, she was on a flight from south Florida and obviously heading home. She was tan and traveling with her quiet female seatmate. It seems like the separate vacation did nobody any good.
From 7/22/2008: Put Your Dealer On Speed Dial
We no longer have a land line or a "home phone". We use our cellphones. A lot of people do this- it makes sense. It especially makes sense at night. I can turn my cell off or stuff it in the bottom of my bag so that it doesn't wake me should it ring in the middle of the night. Of course, if you are the paranoid type who is convinced that someone will be in a life-or-death situation in the middle of the night and only YOU will be able to save them, if only someone can reach you by phone, then just leave the cell on your nightstand with the ring volume on high. (Also, if you are an ER doctor on call - by all means.)
But if you have a phone on in your room at night, you risk being awakened by a miss-dialing drug addict at 3 AM.
This used to happen to us pretty regularly in our last home when we had a land line. Apparently, we had a number that was very similar to a someone named Seymour and his partner, Rod, whom I had to assume were providing late night pharmaceutical services.
At least twice a month, and sometimes even several times in one night, the phone would ring between midnight and 4 AM. I would usually be the one to answer it, on account of the fact that my husband CANNOT sleep if I am quietly watching TV in the next room, but once asleep, would not wake up if a car drove through the bedroom.
Ring!
Me, groggily: "Hel-loww?"
Customer, rapidly: "Leh-me-spee-to-See-moh"
Me, groggy and confused: "Wah-uht?"
Customer: "See-moh! See-moh dere?
Me: Click
Sometimes they would call for Seymour's partner:
Ring!
Me: "Yeh-uh?"
Cus: "Hey Rah! Rah dere?!"
Me: "Rah? Rock? Who?"
Cus: "Rah- d!"
Me: "Wrong number - there's no Rod or Seymour here!" Slam
So my recommendation is that you turn the phone off at night and have a good sleep. And if you are looking for your pharmaceutical rep in the middle of the night, have him on speed dial so you don't miss-dial and wake up a doctor on-call unnecessarily!
But if you have a phone on in your room at night, you risk being awakened by a miss-dialing drug addict at 3 AM.
This used to happen to us pretty regularly in our last home when we had a land line. Apparently, we had a number that was very similar to a someone named Seymour and his partner, Rod, whom I had to assume were providing late night pharmaceutical services.
At least twice a month, and sometimes even several times in one night, the phone would ring between midnight and 4 AM. I would usually be the one to answer it, on account of the fact that my husband CANNOT sleep if I am quietly watching TV in the next room, but once asleep, would not wake up if a car drove through the bedroom.
Ring!
Me, groggily: "Hel-loww?"
Customer, rapidly: "Leh-me-spee-to-See-moh"
Me, groggy and confused: "Wah-uht?"
Customer: "See-moh! See-moh dere?
Me: Click
Sometimes they would call for Seymour's partner:
Ring!
Me: "Yeh-uh?"
Cus: "Hey Rah! Rah dere?!"
Me: "Rah? Rock? Who?"
Cus: "Rah- d!"
Me: "Wrong number - there's no Rod or Seymour here!" Slam
So my recommendation is that you turn the phone off at night and have a good sleep. And if you are looking for your pharmaceutical rep in the middle of the night, have him on speed dial so you don't miss-dial and wake up a doctor on-call unnecessarily!
From 7/12/2008: It Clowns Can Get Work, It Can't Be That Bad
We have a local clown. Her name is Doodle. She is the daughter of someone that everyone-who-is-anyone is supposed to know. I don't think I'd know this daughter if I had a conversation with her. I don't think I'd recognize Doodle without her clown makeup. I've seen Doodle at several events and I've seen her around town many times in her Doodle-mobile. Her car is painted in bright swirling colors; a convertible that sometimes blows bubbles. Doodle has a bright orange mop of hair, white face that usually looks more droll than silly, and is typically clad in baggy overalls. She has a little rabbit with black-rimmed eyes that she claims sells Mary Kay.
This week I saw Doodle three times. I have to assume that Doodle uses her not-too-secret secret identity to shop for groceries, meet friends for lunch (maybe), or go to the dentist and whatnot. Surely she isn't ALWAYS Doodle? So if she's going around town in her clown car and her Doodle face, then she must be working. So when I saw her yet again this week, I had to think, "Hey if a clown can still get work, the economy can't be THAT bad."
This week I saw Doodle three times. I have to assume that Doodle uses her not-too-secret secret identity to shop for groceries, meet friends for lunch (maybe), or go to the dentist and whatnot. Surely she isn't ALWAYS Doodle? So if she's going around town in her clown car and her Doodle face, then she must be working. So when I saw her yet again this week, I had to think, "Hey if a clown can still get work, the economy can't be THAT bad."
From 6/24/08: Who Says Crabs Aren't Adventurous?
Do your dogs ever keep you awake at night? Don't you hate it when you lose a good night's sleep because the dogs won't shut up? And don't you hate when your pet hermit crab keeps you up?Huh?
Aren't hermit crabs supposed to sit around in an attractive terrarium quietly expiring in their little turban shells? That is what most of mine did.
When deciding to get into the hobby of hermit crab keeping, I did research and reading on the care and characteristics of hermit crabs. I wasted hours shopping for a 15 gallon tank, the right sand, the fake corral climbing toys, lots of alternate shells, clam shells to use as water and food bowls, a ceramic kidney shaped hermit crab "pool", and the perfect hermit crab diet. Then my children and I went to a pet store and carefully selected an assortment of little crabby friends.
Over the course of the next year, despite the lovely habitat and careful temperature and humidity monitoring, they died off one by one - like I said, quietly expiring in their little turban shells. With one small exception. The smallest crab, about the size of a large ant at time of purchase, survived. It survived several moltings - the shedding of its exoskeleton that is required for growth - and moved into a series of larger shells over the course of about four years.
When he became the last of the mo-hermits, I ditched the big tank and stuck him in a little plastic-lidded pet container and parked it in my daughter's room, where he languished as we often forgot to give him water or food for days or a week at a time. He seemed to thrive on the neglect.
At some point I decided, well, if he's going to insist on survival I guess he deserves better digs. I purchased a large, glass chimney bowl, decorated it with some nice crabby furnishings, and placed the crab in his new apartment beside my tub in our master bathroom.
A few weeks later Crabby disappeared!
At first I decided he must have buried himself deep in the sand for a thorough molting of his now almost infant-fist sized body. But a couple of weeks later, I gingerly lifted out all his cool furniture and took a careful look-and-poke through the sand. Crabby just wasn't in there!
Where oh where could Crabby be? With his pointy little legs and clunky shell? He couldn't have gone too far!
Then last night as I was deep in light mom-sleep (you may know what that is), I was disturbed by a strange tapping and scraping sound. It was coming from the bathroom. I crept out of bed to cautiously investigate. And what do I discover, but a miniature crustacean Tarzan climbing down a plant tendril out of a large planter beside the tub!
It seems that somehow our intrepid survivalist had vaulted out of his glass cathedral and found his way into a potted plant. He was now shimmying down the side of his tropical paradise to seek further provisions, I suppose.
I rescued him and placed him back where he belonged - or so I thought. He apparently preferred his jungle home, because for the rest of the night, he clanked and scraped and knocked about trying to leave the glass house and return to "the wild".
In the morning, groggy and grumpy, I staggered into the bathroom and plunked him back into the pot. Hopefully I'll remember to keep that plant watered regularly.
6/17/2008: In-laws and near breakdown
My in-laws came from several states away to visit us recently. I was willing to move one kid in with another kid temporarily and provide a guest room, but they brought their RV. They parked it behind the house and "plugged in". They even ate their own breakfasts out there. I didn't know whether to be insulted or relieved.
They never call and ask us when would be a good time for a visit. They call and tell us when they are coming. It's as if they think we are retired and masters of our own schedules like they are. So they came while the kids were in school and while we had to go to work. Of course, this meant they were going to be on their own for lunch, too, and in this case I WAS relieved. I only had to come home from work and make ONE "company" meal each day (YIPPEE!) They did stay through a weekend though. We got to take them to church with us.
Now, the In-laws are not in the best of health. They really have no business traveling around the country in an RV by themselves. During this visit, the stepmother-in-law was getting over a long bout with the Shingles. That's right, you heard me. Yes, it IS contagious and related to the chicken pox, except it affects the nerves. Yes, we do have three children. BUT - she claimed she was no longer contagious.
OK! So we go to church on Sunday. We get in and sit down, get the kids settled with all the warnings to sit still, don't talk, don't rustle paper during the prayers, don't yawn and stretch your arms over your head during the sermon, don't poke anyone, don't squeal if you get poked, etc... AND about the time the service is about to start, the step-MIL says, "If you're having a heart attack it hurts down your RIGHT side, right?"
I say, "No-oo, the heart is usually on the left side of the chest, so it would probably hurt on your left side." (I'm giving her a frowny-look)
She says, "I was hoping it was the right side, because my left side and arm are really hurting."
So at this time I am giving her the frowny look BIG-time and THINKING, not saying; "AAAAAAAEEEEEEEEEEEE!!! Don't you dare be having a heart attack!!!"
Then she says, "Actually, I think it's just my shingles acting up again."
I'm still screaming inside; picturing her keeling over, my Father-in-law freaking out, rushing her to the hospital, shipping her body back across the country, having my FIL living in his RV behind our house for the foreseeable future.... AAAAAAAAEEEEEEEEEEE!
However, I manage to stay in my seat and whisper to her that she should take an aspirin just in case; while I rummage around in my handbag for some Xanax for me.
Neither of us keeled over - praise God!
They never call and ask us when would be a good time for a visit. They call and tell us when they are coming. It's as if they think we are retired and masters of our own schedules like they are. So they came while the kids were in school and while we had to go to work. Of course, this meant they were going to be on their own for lunch, too, and in this case I WAS relieved. I only had to come home from work and make ONE "company" meal each day (YIPPEE!) They did stay through a weekend though. We got to take them to church with us.
Now, the In-laws are not in the best of health. They really have no business traveling around the country in an RV by themselves. During this visit, the stepmother-in-law was getting over a long bout with the Shingles. That's right, you heard me. Yes, it IS contagious and related to the chicken pox, except it affects the nerves. Yes, we do have three children. BUT - she claimed she was no longer contagious.
OK! So we go to church on Sunday. We get in and sit down, get the kids settled with all the warnings to sit still, don't talk, don't rustle paper during the prayers, don't yawn and stretch your arms over your head during the sermon, don't poke anyone, don't squeal if you get poked, etc... AND about the time the service is about to start, the step-MIL says, "If you're having a heart attack it hurts down your RIGHT side, right?"
I say, "No-oo, the heart is usually on the left side of the chest, so it would probably hurt on your left side." (I'm giving her a frowny-look)
She says, "I was hoping it was the right side, because my left side and arm are really hurting."
So at this time I am giving her the frowny look BIG-time and THINKING, not saying; "AAAAAAAEEEEEEEEEEEE!!! Don't you dare be having a heart attack!!!"
Then she says, "Actually, I think it's just my shingles acting up again."
I'm still screaming inside; picturing her keeling over, my Father-in-law freaking out, rushing her to the hospital, shipping her body back across the country, having my FIL living in his RV behind our house for the foreseeable future.... AAAAAAAAEEEEEEEEEEE!
However, I manage to stay in my seat and whisper to her that she should take an aspirin just in case; while I rummage around in my handbag for some Xanax for me.
Neither of us keeled over - praise God!
From 6/9/2008 Kids: The Hard Questions
My daughter tends to ask the hard questions. She is getting better and better at this. The other day she approached me while I was busy doing something important, like feeding the dogs or something, and asked, very seriously, with upturned hands;
"How can we REALLY know that God is REAL or something?!"
As I paused and looked at her with a thoughtful open-mouthed expression (LOL!), she asked a follow up question:
"And what's a BRA for anyway?"
"How can we REALLY know that God is REAL or something?!"
As I paused and looked at her with a thoughtful open-mouthed expression (LOL!), she asked a follow up question:
"And what's a BRA for anyway?"
From 6/3/08: Just Call Me Fluffy
I have a terrier who is perpetually enthusiastic, energetic, and hopeful. He never tires of running through the grass and underbrush trying to scare up critters. He never loses his enthusiasm for barking shrilly at every squirrel he spots. He is always irrationally hopeful that every family member coming in his direction is going to bring him a treat and go for a walk with him. If I could extract and bottle that hope&happy attitude -well, I and some psychiatrists would make our fortunes before retiring early.
But I also have a spaniel who is a little timid and needy. He relishes all one-on-one contact with any person who has the time to stop and pet him while staring into his deep brown eyes. He likes other dogs- as long as they like him. He sidles cautiously up to any potential friend with his head stretched out low and his tail swishing back and forth in the universal dog-posture for "I come in peace". As soon as his overtures are accepted he is clearly grateful for any attention and contact he receives.
He will sit at my feet with his chest pressed against my shins staring soulfully up at me while I scratch the top of his fluffy, curly head. He won't move until I'm ready to leave and then he happily bounces away and gives me my space back- thankful for the time I gave him.
Wow, if only I could see every person I meet as a potential wonderful new friend; if only I could approach with cautious hope and then gratefully accept the friendly overtures of anyone who turns my way for a minute or two; and if only I could slow my spinning thoughts and stop to take a break to share soulful moments of connection with my family and close friends. I really wish I could be more like my dogs.
from 5/24/08: A Grown-up with grillwork
I got braces this week. This is my second orthodontic odyssey. I had braces for about 3 years as a kid, followed by 12 years of blissful occlusion, then my wisdom teeth came in and ruined the whole job.
My teeth slowly gravitated back into worse and worse malocclusion, until it came to the point that I was covering my mouth with my hand when smiling, like a demure Geisha, and my jaw was popping. So just after my 38th birthday, I had the consultation. This was followed by a date to get molds made of my teeth and have spacers put in, and then two weeks later the big day came -
First of all, there is absolutely no privacy in an Orthodontist's office. I don't know why they think I should be perfectly comfortable lying on my back in an obscene looking chair with teenagers inclined on either side, while they put a retractor in my cheeks that forces my mouth into a wide goulish grin and a little tube sucks and drains saliva out of my mouth. Various staff members and patients can just stroll by inches from my head and peer down at my obsurd and decidely undignified predicament!
Secondly, the process is long and unpleasant: fitting and forcing the bands on, painting sealant on each tooth, letting it dry, pressing on the brackets, threading in the wire, tying in the wire, etc. Then the orthodontist says, "You should probably go ahead and take Tylenol or Advil every 6 hours for the next couple of days."
Why couldn't he be more of an optimist and say something like, "Good news! You're going to lose a few pounds over the next few days!"
Before I left, they gave me the list of the foods I shouldn't bite or chew with my new brackets in:
chips, nuts, popcorn, hard or sticky candy, ice, gum, meat on the bone, dense chewy bread... in other words most of the good stuff. But I'm ok if I can still have chocolate.
So I have grillwork and my three young gradeschoolers are both fascinated and mortified. Their turns are probably coming soon!
My teeth slowly gravitated back into worse and worse malocclusion, until it came to the point that I was covering my mouth with my hand when smiling, like a demure Geisha, and my jaw was popping. So just after my 38th birthday, I had the consultation. This was followed by a date to get molds made of my teeth and have spacers put in, and then two weeks later the big day came -
First of all, there is absolutely no privacy in an Orthodontist's office. I don't know why they think I should be perfectly comfortable lying on my back in an obscene looking chair with teenagers inclined on either side, while they put a retractor in my cheeks that forces my mouth into a wide goulish grin and a little tube sucks and drains saliva out of my mouth. Various staff members and patients can just stroll by inches from my head and peer down at my obsurd and decidely undignified predicament!
Secondly, the process is long and unpleasant: fitting and forcing the bands on, painting sealant on each tooth, letting it dry, pressing on the brackets, threading in the wire, tying in the wire, etc. Then the orthodontist says, "You should probably go ahead and take Tylenol or Advil every 6 hours for the next couple of days."
Why couldn't he be more of an optimist and say something like, "Good news! You're going to lose a few pounds over the next few days!"
Before I left, they gave me the list of the foods I shouldn't bite or chew with my new brackets in:
chips, nuts, popcorn, hard or sticky candy, ice, gum, meat on the bone, dense chewy bread... in other words most of the good stuff. But I'm ok if I can still have chocolate.
So I have grillwork and my three young gradeschoolers are both fascinated and mortified. Their turns are probably coming soon!
6/16/2010
Japanese game show shopping
Shopping with my children is like competing on a Japanese game show. It can involve wrestling a 90 pound cart of groceries around a tight corner while 60 pounds of kid hang on the side like a counterweight, or a challenge that feels like walking three cats on leashes - controlling the frantic gyrations of one, dragging a reluctant second, tripping over a passive-aggressive third. My children also like to pepper me with questions and accusations, making me feel like I'm involved in a tag team interrogation while competing in a high stakes scavenger hunt.
"Can we get popsicles?" "You NEVER have any GOOD stuff for snack!" "Why do you have to come here so much?" "You always let HIM pick the cereal!" "My legs hurt and you won't let me ride!" "Why are you looking at chocolate?" "Do we have to wait at the pharmacy again?" "He stomped on my foot!!!"
Why do I take them with me? Because no one else wants to be responsible for them on short notice. I've tried the once-a-month grocery stock up, but it always fails. There will always be two things I forgot, one thing we just ran out of, and special ingredients needed for a project that I didn't know about. I'm resigned to the fact that I will be picking up items at the store, kids in tow, at least twice a week until they leave for college - or the military - or a group home. I have decided I will just have to find amusement when I can and go home for a nap when I can't. For now, a trip down memory lane for a few chuckles at my kids' expense will help me face the next grocery run.
When my oldest son was about four and a half and my daughter was three, I had a need to visit the lingerie section one day. The little trolls were riding in the shopping cart and chattering together, when my daughter looked up and pointed to the bras and asked, "What's that?"
My savvy little son said, "That's for Mommy's front butt. Mommies have two butts."
"Ohhh!" says daughter.
I have no idea how he came to this knowledge about the use of a brassiere, but I assume all cleavage looked like butt to him at that age. I was a little insulted by the characterization of Mommy anatomy, but it was funny.
And then there was the time that I ran over my daughter at Target. She was participating in a developmental stage in which she preferred toddling on her own to riding in a cart. She was also rather reckless and adventurous at that age and was not yet the ultra-sensitive drama queen she is today. As I moved down each aisle, she literally ran circles around me and the cart. I gave repeated verbal cues for her to stay out of the way and not run off. I stopped to search a shelf for a particular item, found it, and then started pushing my cart again, when KA-womp! I ran over something. I couldn't imagine what it was. I hadn't seen anything in the aisle and whatever it was had not impeded the cart much because I rolled over it quite easily. I casually glanced down and saw two feet sticking out from under the cart. I gasped and dropped to my hands and knees to peer at my small daughter. She was simply lying there and grinning.
"Did you lie down in the floor?" I asked in high-pitched disbelief.
She nodded as she shimmied out from under the cart. She appeared to have enjoyed the experience of getting rolled over by a full grocery cart. As for me, it took a few minutes to get over the fact that I had actually run over my daughter. - But it's funny now.
And of course, there was that day when all three of them decided to compete in cart surfing. The main problem was not their extra weight making it difficult for me to push and maneuver the cart. The main problem was their intense competitiveness, which led to all three trying to surf on the same side of the cart.
I ordered a forfeit in the game and informed them that they would turn the cart over. They chose to believe, because they had ridden a couple of feet without the cart turning over, that I was a big fat liar or an adult idiot. At some signal recognized only within their group, they eventually hopped back onto the side of the cart. The cart leaned and I strained to keep it on four wheels while yelling, "Get off! Get off!"
Alas, it was a lesson learned the hard way for my three kiddies. The cart went crashing down onto its side, catching three surfers underneath. An older woman nearby gasped, "Oh poor babies!"
I heartlessly remarked, "Poor babies, nothing! They deserved that."
I righted my cart and picked up rolling grocery items first and then I addressed the surfers.
"Did anybody hit their head?" I asked without a trace of compassion.
They each shook their hard noggins to indicate that they were intact and unrung. I then ordered them to sit on the floor against the shelving while I finished shopping that aisle. They hung their heads like the failed athletes they were, and I walked away so I could laugh quietly.
Yes, savor the memories Mommies, with your front butts and incomplete grocery lists! They are only young once - for about 18 long years.
"Can we get popsicles?" "You NEVER have any GOOD stuff for snack!" "Why do you have to come here so much?" "You always let HIM pick the cereal!" "My legs hurt and you won't let me ride!" "Why are you looking at chocolate?" "Do we have to wait at the pharmacy again?" "He stomped on my foot!!!"
Why do I take them with me? Because no one else wants to be responsible for them on short notice. I've tried the once-a-month grocery stock up, but it always fails. There will always be two things I forgot, one thing we just ran out of, and special ingredients needed for a project that I didn't know about. I'm resigned to the fact that I will be picking up items at the store, kids in tow, at least twice a week until they leave for college - or the military - or a group home. I have decided I will just have to find amusement when I can and go home for a nap when I can't. For now, a trip down memory lane for a few chuckles at my kids' expense will help me face the next grocery run.
When my oldest son was about four and a half and my daughter was three, I had a need to visit the lingerie section one day. The little trolls were riding in the shopping cart and chattering together, when my daughter looked up and pointed to the bras and asked, "What's that?"
My savvy little son said, "That's for Mommy's front butt. Mommies have two butts."
"Ohhh!" says daughter.
I have no idea how he came to this knowledge about the use of a brassiere, but I assume all cleavage looked like butt to him at that age. I was a little insulted by the characterization of Mommy anatomy, but it was funny.
And then there was the time that I ran over my daughter at Target. She was participating in a developmental stage in which she preferred toddling on her own to riding in a cart. She was also rather reckless and adventurous at that age and was not yet the ultra-sensitive drama queen she is today. As I moved down each aisle, she literally ran circles around me and the cart. I gave repeated verbal cues for her to stay out of the way and not run off. I stopped to search a shelf for a particular item, found it, and then started pushing my cart again, when KA-womp! I ran over something. I couldn't imagine what it was. I hadn't seen anything in the aisle and whatever it was had not impeded the cart much because I rolled over it quite easily. I casually glanced down and saw two feet sticking out from under the cart. I gasped and dropped to my hands and knees to peer at my small daughter. She was simply lying there and grinning.
"Did you lie down in the floor?" I asked in high-pitched disbelief.
She nodded as she shimmied out from under the cart. She appeared to have enjoyed the experience of getting rolled over by a full grocery cart. As for me, it took a few minutes to get over the fact that I had actually run over my daughter. - But it's funny now.
And of course, there was that day when all three of them decided to compete in cart surfing. The main problem was not their extra weight making it difficult for me to push and maneuver the cart. The main problem was their intense competitiveness, which led to all three trying to surf on the same side of the cart.
I ordered a forfeit in the game and informed them that they would turn the cart over. They chose to believe, because they had ridden a couple of feet without the cart turning over, that I was a big fat liar or an adult idiot. At some signal recognized only within their group, they eventually hopped back onto the side of the cart. The cart leaned and I strained to keep it on four wheels while yelling, "Get off! Get off!"
Alas, it was a lesson learned the hard way for my three kiddies. The cart went crashing down onto its side, catching three surfers underneath. An older woman nearby gasped, "Oh poor babies!"
I heartlessly remarked, "Poor babies, nothing! They deserved that."
I righted my cart and picked up rolling grocery items first and then I addressed the surfers.
"Did anybody hit their head?" I asked without a trace of compassion.
They each shook their hard noggins to indicate that they were intact and unrung. I then ordered them to sit on the floor against the shelving while I finished shopping that aisle. They hung their heads like the failed athletes they were, and I walked away so I could laugh quietly.
Yes, savor the memories Mommies, with your front butts and incomplete grocery lists! They are only young once - for about 18 long years.
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