Boppy and I are on vacation.  We are currently in Morgantown, West Virginia.  For the next 17 days we will be traveling all over New England.  Today we went to the Kentucky Horse Park.  This is a working horse farm.  It has a museum, lots of exhibits, and it is the burial site of Man O’War (I think that’s what I read).  While we were there we saw an exhibit on Arabians.  I created my own Arabian and followed her throughout the museum.  Her name was Dalia.  I will readily admit that this exhibit was for elementary students but I could give a rat’s.

Now normally I don’t notice the people around me, but there was a very Northern lady behind me, and apparently she had never heard of horses before.  All through the exhibit she announced in very loud, nasal tones…”Oh my God!  I didn’t know that!” By the end of the exhibit I truly believed that the sum total of all that she knew could be etched on the head of a straight pin.  Even walking away I could hear that voice.  It was like nails on a chalkboard.  I kept looking over my shoulder to make sure she wasn’t going to attend the same exhibit we were headed to.  My loving, but apparently oblivious, husband looks at me and says, “what?”  “I’m making sure that stupid Yankee isn’t following us.”  “What are you talking about?” “You didn’t notice the fingernails on the chalkboard voice that was echoing through the Halls of Horses exhibit?”  “No.” 

I’m pretty sure I’ve figured out how our relationship has lasted so long. 

They have chosen to put The Precious in a pre-school soccer.  Listen once again dear ones…a soccer league for 3 year olds.  Now The Precious knows that a soccer ball is for kicking.  He kicks it until it slams into something and then he raises his chubby little arms and shouts, “score!” like he’s Pele.  Does he have any business in a league?  I don’t think so.

Here’s the thing…The Precious is not a day-walker.  He does not appreciate the sun, nor does he want to be out in it.  He was really excited the other day because, “the nasty sun is gone!”  He wears his mother’s huge sunglasses in the morning to go to daycare and he wilts like a hot house flower if the sun has the gall to shine on his face in his car seat. His favorite room in our house is the one without windows.   Precious….definitely….soccer tot….???????????

He’s had soccer practice three times.  The first one was spent primarily on the sidelines drinking Gatorade.  When I told him he had practice a second time he said, “I already had soccer practice.”  Well, they took him back again.  I didn’t speak to his Dad after that practice, but I got a call today after practice.  Apparently Ferdinand just wanted to shield his face from the sun while sitting on his ball, and pull some flowers along the way.  At one point the coach accidentally tapped him with a soccer ball and The Precious told him that he had indeed been hit.  This coach of toddlers (3 and 4 year olds mind you) told him, “Well, if you had been in the right place it wouldn’t have been a problem.”  Apparently all coaches, even those of toddlers, are asses. (My apology to coach Tony Dungee, who is the exception to the previous rule.)  The coaching incident was told by his father, who apparently no longer lies to his mother. 

I have to say, first and foremost, I have not attended a soccer practice.  However, and here you must imagine a violin playing a low and somber tune, the image of The Precious sitting on his soccer ball with his head in his hands so that the vicious August sun doesn’t blind him with pain, is just too much for me to bear.  I asked his father to let me talk to my non-vag daughter.  The conversation went something like this…”You have to take him out of soccer. He’s just too little.”  “He’s fine.”  “He hates the sun, and he’s just too little.” “He’s the same age as all the other kids.” “They don’t want to play either.  Their parents are forcing them to play too.  They are all too small.” ”Yeah, whatever.”  “Well when some brutal brat smacks him in the face and breaks his nose and he’s never as cute as he is right now don’t come crying to me.” “Okay.” ”My future (I’m guessing) daughter in law would never put my potential grandchildren in toddler soccer.”  “She’s a pussy.”  “Well I’m not a meddling mother.  I’ve said my piece and I’ve counted to three.”  “Fine.”  “Get my son on the phone.”  (I can hear The Precious laughing in the background…I tear up a little thinking about the tiny little crutches he’s probably going to be walking on soon.”  My son: “Hello.”  “She says he’s fine.” “Yeah, she’s mean.”  “I told her I don’t like it.”  “So did I.  What do you want me to do?”  “Well, he’s your son too.  Nut up or shut up.”  “But I’m afraid of her.”  “You take him to practice…just don’t take him.”  “The coach has her number not mine.”  “Lie.  You’ve lied to me your whole life.  It’s never bothered you before.  Lie…this is what marriage is about.  Lie your ass off.”  “I’m too afraid.  She controls all the bank accounts and pulls down more a year than me.”  “Well…I’ve said my piece…I’ve counted to three.”

It’s lucky for them that I am not a meddling, buttinski, Mother-in-law who tells them how to raise their child.  They are fortunate that I only gently guide, and quietly give my opinion only when asked.  I would never over step my bounds, but someone should tell them that 3 year olds are too little to play soccer.  For God’s sake, the uniform is even too large.  It’s soccer!  It’s not even a real sport!  Hell, they should know he’s gonna play football…for the Colts.  It’s just a given.  Now, I’ve said my piece…and I’ve counted to three…

 

***This blog is very graphic.  If you are squeamish, put on your big girl panties and deal with it.

Menopause sucks.  Of course I finished it in like two minutes, but prior to that I had four solid years of fighting the symptoms.  Recently my doctor prescribed Miss Puss a tiny little pill to take every other night.  It made all the difference in the world.  Miss Puss is like a whole new person.  She has that old spring in her step that she used to have.  She isn’t throwing me into flashes of heat.  (See what I did there my little ones.)  She’s alive in the boudoir.  She’s back to her old self.  I’m so happy for her.  This is the one prescription that has me doing my happy dance all the way to the pharmacy.

Last Friday I tripped the light fantastic into my favorite pharmacy.  I had ordered my prescription for our upcoming trip and went to pick them up.  One of my prescriptions was for vagifem.  As my pharmacist was ringing me up, he pulled me aside and said that he had a problem with one of my prescriptions.  Wouldn’t you know it would be with Miss Puss’s.  “This prescription has been discontinued.  I have five left in my dispensary and I’m giving them to you, but that’s it.”  It was 6:00 o’clock.  My doctor was closed.  I am leaving on Monday…and I can feel Miss Puss’s claws finding their way back into my conscience.  Now on the one hand, I don’t want to be taking any medication that might have horrific side effects.  On the other hand, I really like feeling normal and keeping Miss Puss happy.

I ask Pharmacist if a prescription is on the market that works the same way and has the same effects.  “Nope.  I don’t know why they have discontinued it, but it’s the only thing of it’s kind on the market.  I will call your gynecologist on Monday and see what she says.”  Well, that’s just great since I’m leaving on Monday and even if I could get a new script it would be impossible to get a recurring prescription filled at another pharmacy.  Well, I took a deep breath and said “Well, this is going to be a great vacation for the next ten days.  Then I’m gonna be bitchy and Boppy is gonna be cranky.”  “I’ll see if I can call her after hours number.” (Sometimes letting Miss Puss do the talking works).  In a few minutes he comes back.  He looks sort of sheepish, but not completely defeated.  “I got ahold of her, and she said that this had only been discontinued in the dosage you have been receiving.  She prescribed a lower dose that you will take more often.”  “Great so now I’m going to be stuffing MIss Puss full of pills on a daily basis?  What’s wrong with this picture?  Can’t you call your other pharmacies and see if they have it in the dosage I receive?  You have 6 other pharmacies…get on the phone!” (Sometimes letting Miss Puss talk is just embarrassing.) Now Pharmacist (whom I count on for my well being) looks more than a tad embarrassed.  “I can’t do that.  I really shouldn’t even be gi ving you the five I have, but they’re not going to do me any good.”  “Get her on the phone for me.”  He rushed to get that phone…anything to get me off his butt.  The phone rings twice.  “Hello.”  “Dr. P this is Emmy.  I’m going on vacation for 19 nights and Miss Puss is out of medicine…and Pharmacist won’t give me more than five.  I don’t think this is the best time to be changing meds.”  Insert a very brief pause…and then…”Meet me at the office in twenty minutes.  We have samples.”  You see she has talked to Miss Puss before…she is Miss Puss’s doctor, not mine.

I now hold in my hand twenty-three vagifem pill inserts in my possession.  Our vacation will be fabulous.  What comes after that is anyone’s guess.  At least for the next 46 days Miss Puss and I will be as one.  If she goes Sybil after that I am not to blame.

 

 

Boppy and I play slug-bug.  If you have been living under a rock for the last century, slug-bug consists of smacking the person next to you when you see a Volkswagen Beetle.  There are a few rules…these are mostly made up by me, but nonetheless there are rules.  Recently the Volkswagen company released a series of commercials that would lead one to believe that it is okay to shout out the color and smack someone if you spot any of their vehicles.  This is just not true.  To play slug-bug you must see either a VW Beetle or an old hippie VW van.  These are the only two vehicles that are sluggable.  You can’t slug for the same vehicle twice in one trip.  You can’t call “bug” until a bug is sighted.  I don’t care that the multi-colored one that is parked in the lot of the pediatric dentistry office is there from 9-5 Monday through Friday.  If you are going to slug me for it you had damned well better make sure that it is parked there.  That also goes for the Cricket VW that is parked in Fiesta Square.  You’d better see it before you call it.  If there is a tie, it goes to me.  No questions asked…my game…my rules.  If you call “bug” in error, you get smacked.  If you call “green” and it’s yellow, you get smacked.  These are the rules.  No arguing.

Well, every time we go anywhere we play slug-bug.  Annually I am way ahead of Boppy.  He has his good days though.  Yesterday we went to Wal-Mart and he beat me 6-4.  (You know the old adage about the sunshine and a dog’s butt).  We don’t hit hard.  Well, Boppy doesn’t hit hard.  We just have good natured fun.  We play the game alot and we are not always the only ones in the car as we play.  I never thought about how other people would view our little game until my mother told me a story.  It seems she and my sister were out driving one day and mother spotted a VW Beetle.  She reached over and whacked my sister and shouted, “Blue one.”  My sister nearly jumped out of her skin!  “What”, she replied as my mother laughed out loud.  “It’s a Volkswagen.  I’m just playing what Emmy and Boppy play.”  This story cracks me up.  I can just see my 79 year old mother swatting my sister because she saw a Beetle.  I can also imagine the look on my sister’s face as she got swatted just for driving down the street. 

If I had to moralize this story…I guess the moral would be, be careful of what you do because your actions can imprint others.  See, that just seems ways too gooey for one of my blogs.  I just don’t do sweet and sappy.  The moral of this story is, watch out for Volksawagens.  Because when it comes to Beetles it’s much better to be the whacker than the whackee.  Yup…that sounds like me!

The Precious has needed a haircut for quite some time.  Knowing how he behaves when his hair is cut, we have avoided this process.  At least once a week we ask, “do you want to get your haircut?”  The answer is usually said in a scream as he runs as far away as he can get….”No, I don’t want a hairtut.”  Well, last night his mother threw down the gauntlet.  “You are getting your haircut tonight.  Now, do you want it cut inside or do you want to go out on the basketball court?”  After many tears, and much denial he admitted that he would rather have his hair cut on the basketball court. 

As I was setting up all of the equipment, he grabbed the clippers.  I knew he wasn’t going to hurt himself with them.  They have a built-in safety guard.  He felt them.  He made his mommy feel them.  He was laughing about the vibration of the clipper and how much it tickled.  I asked for them back, and in return put his “superman” cape on him.  He willfully and without force climbed onto the bar stool for his hairtut.   I was foolishly thinking that this could be easy.  I was thinking he had finally gotten old enough to have his haircut without it being a totally traumatic event.  Wrong.  It was just as this sense of peace came over me that the screaming began.  “Stop it, Emmy…don’t…I don’t want my hairtut!”  At this point I have clippered half of the upper part of the right side of his head.   I am not stopping now.  He’s mommy is right in front of him shouting bribes.   “If you’re good, you can go with me to pick up some food, and then we will go to Starbucks!”  The kid loves Starbucks.  Isn’t that the Yuppy of the yuppiest thing you’ve ever heard?  For just a moment he slows down…not calms down…just slows down.  I am chasing the kid’s head with barber’s clippers.  Not an easy task.  I asked him if he wanted his mom to hold him.  “No, I don’t want my mommy.  I want down.  I don’t wanna’ hairtut!”  Now, I have decided not only to cut his hair, but to cut it shorter because I don’t want to have to do this again any time soon.  “Do you want to sit in mommy’s lap?”  “No! I don’t want to sit in mommy’s lap.  I want down!  I don’t want a hairtut!  I want to sit in mommy’s lap!”  “Quick, he wants to sit in your lap.  Now, hold him down!”  We used moves previously only seen on professional wrestling.  We used the head clamp.  We used the neck twist.  We used the ear flip.  We moved like Hulk Hogan and Randy Savage.  He had no chance.  We were a two in one tag team and he was that wimpy kid who was trying to stay in the ring with us for three minutes.  I was running the clippers over his sweat drenched head so quickly, it’s a wonder the kid still has ears.  She would point out a spot I had missed, turn his head in that direction, and I would buzz that section and move on to the next.  From beginning to end it probably took 15 minutes.  The fifteen longest minutes of my life!  When I thought I was done I threw my hands up in the air like a prize winning goat roper.  Done!!!  His mother put him down so fast I’m surprised he could run as quickly as he did.  The child ran in a couple of circles.  Then he dropped to the ground, “itchy…itchy…I’m itchy.”  His mommy is trying to take his shirt off, but he is convinced that she is going to put him back in the choke hold.  “NO!!!  I don’t want to!!”  “Hey, why don’t you jump in the pool and wash all the itchy off?”  “No, I don’t want to.”  “Why don’t we go inside and take a bath?”  “NO!!!!  I don’t want to.”   “Why don’t you shut up before I punch you in the face?”…okay, I didn’t actually say that last part.  Well, in my head I sorta did.  He is sitting on the ground and heaving with sobs.  Not really crying any more just trying to calm down and heaving.  His final battle cry is a weak, “Nose” in one breath, followed by “snot” in the second…the word under his breath is itchy, and he says it a lot.

So the Precious at least looks like a little boy.  His imperfectly cut hair is much cooler, if not stylish.   And when he took his bath, (Oh yes, dear ones.  She got him in the tub) his hair was much easier to wash.  Although, he threw a minor fit over the hair washing…it was nothing compared to the WWIII that the cutting caused.  When they left, I felt like I needed one of two things.  Tequila or pancakes.  So we went to IHOP and I had pancakes…with lots of butter, and syrup, and bacon.  I felt better…not healthier…but better.  Now, I’m not saying I will never cut his hair again.  For two reasons: 1) I truly believe at some point he will realize haircuts aren’t life threatening, and 2) He won’t always be three.  If he’s still acting like this about haircuts when he’s 13, I’m going to suggest therapy.  If not for him, for his parents….and perhaps me and Boppy.  But….here’s the trump card, when Boppy came in from golf and came into the family room to see The Precious, he looked up at him and said, “hey Boppy, do you like my hairtut?’

Ewwwwwwwwwwwww, The Precious was in a mood yesterday.  I know I get cranky when it’s hot, but I didn’t realize The Precious had the same issues.  That is, until yesterday.  He showed up last evening with his pint sized body sweaty, and his galaxy sized attitude intact.  Buckle up….you know it’s going to be a bumpy ride.

I was sitting in my recliner, minding my own business…when I heard, “helloooooo….Emmy?”  It was the monkey man.  I am enjoying the air conditioning but I know that the chilled air is only temporary, because I am about to go outside and play.  Aunt vag. daughter held him off for awhile.  She’s always exciting when she’s here.  I think it’s the abscence making the heart fonder thing.  Anyway, about 15 minutes into the visit it’s, “Emmy, let’s go outside.”  He wanted to play on his swing.  He slid for a few times and seemed to be in an overall good mood.  Then he decided to swing.  We didn’t get him a fancy swing.  If Boppy had his way, The Precious would have had one of those log cabin gone wild swings.  You know, the ones with the rock climbing wall and a fort?  Well, I got my way and The Precious got a plain, old, 2 swings-slide-and glider swing.  The swings have the flat, hard plastic, swings that every child since the invention of the swing has had.  They were good enough for me and they were good enough for his daddy and they are good enough for him.  Right?…..Wrong!  The Precious has difficulty placing his round booty on the flat swing, and he panics when he feels that he might fall.  He wanted what he called a “diaper swing.”  Google “diaper swing” and see what you get.  I got everything from Pampers to sex swings.  What I didn’t get was anything that I would attach to the swingset currently residing in my backyard.  So after his slippery little ass fell off the swing (and before he could work up a good fit), I told him to come on we’d go to Toy-R-Us.  I told him we would get one toy.  “How many toys?”  “One toy.”  Groovy….so off we go.  “I have to buckle in.   Right Emmy?  Cuz’ we’re goin’ a long way.  Right?”  So I buckled him in, and off we went.

Have you ever taken a three year old to Toys-R-Us on a July day after telling them you can only get one toy and you mean a swing but they have a whole different idea in there heads?  Well, let me tell you…I have trouble keeping up.  We made it through the pool toys.  Although I was seriously worried that he was going to need a wading pool.  We made it through the Ironman, Spiderman section.  We barely made it through the sports equipment…he thought he might need roller skates…and a helmet…and pads.  This is the kid who broke his arm standing on a Sit-N-Spin, and he thinks I’m going to put wheels on his feet?  Please!!!!  I told him that he could barely walk through the house without falling when he has nothing on his feet.  He doesn’t need all the owwwies that would come with roller skates.  A lady next to me gasped.  Apparently telling a toddler they are clumsy is akin to beating them in public.  I know that, as of now, he has inherited my grace.  I’m not going to be irresponsible.  Anyway, having talked him out of roller skates, we went to an aisle that has blow up buildings that you can jump in.  I know that you have seen them at fairs and things.  This is the same thing on a smaller scale.  Kind of like the things you can rent for birthday parties.  Well he said, point blank, “I want it.”  I uttered that rarely heard word….No.  “But I want it.”  “No, it’s too big for Emmy to put in her backyard.”  “You said one toy.”  “Yes, but we already have a “diaper swing” that’s your one toy.”  “But I want the castle….”  “Yes, everyone does, but not every one gets it.  It’s too many dollars.” ($330 of them as a matter of fact)  “Come on and let’s pay the money and go to Emmy’s.”  Out comes the lip, and the head goes down….the corresponding shoulder droops as he turns his head away from you so that you are now viewing his back and the side of his head.  “I sad.”

We walked out of Toys-R-Us with the swing.  And a box of 250 gumballs, and a Wally The Whale (which didn’t work at all).  We got home and I unplugged him from the car.  He grabbed the swing, leaving Wally (which was a bribe to keep him from whining about he castle) in the car, and the gum balls in the drink holder.  He dragged the swing across the lawn and into the house.  He briefly showed it to his mother and then he took it out to his swing.  “Do it Emmy!”  So I began to unhook the old swing, and put up the new swing.  When I went to get it, The Precious was sitting in it.  I told him he would need to move his butt before I could hang his swing.  “I want it!  I want to swing!”  I finally wrangle his toddler butt out of the swing and hang it.  I put him in it and lock him in when he begins screaming. “The other way…I want it the other way….behind me!”  “I am behind you.” “Not you…my swing…my swing, behind me!”  I stopped the swing and begin to take him out.  This set off another cacophony of screams.  He didn’t want to have to get out of his swing.  I tried to explain to him that I am unable to hold him by two ropes while attaching the swing to the swingset.  He is unmoved.  I finally get his bellowing butt out of the seat and get it turned around.  Finally.  His swing is now officially behind him.  I began to push.  Like every child since the beginning of time he begins to shout, “higher, higher.  I want to go higher.”  I’m pushing for all I’m worth.  I’m sweating like the pig that knows it’s dinner, and my shoulders are screaming with each and every push. “higher, higher…my daddy goes higher.”  I can do nothing to please the little darling.  I refuse to try and explain the physics of swinging to a toddler.  I also refuse to get a longer rope to get him to his desired altitude.  If I get a  rope at this point, it’s not going to be the swing that’s hanging from it.  After 3 to 5 minutes of taunting about how much better his dad is than me, I decide I will just stop the swing, remove the precious cargo, and take him and his little attitude into to the house to get his dad and his bulging, swing pushing, muscles.  Stopping the swing starts the  screaming again.  I’m hot.  I’m sweaty.  My shoulders are on fire.  I’m 50 years old and have no ability left to reason with little people.  I used all of mine up on my kids.   I leave The Precious buckled in the swing and head for the door.  I stick my head in the door and yell, “someone else needs to push this kid, and he would prefer his daddy.”

I’m not going to go into the fireworks display that occurred when it was his mother and not his father who walked out the door.  I’m not going to talk about the melt down he had when Wally The Whale didn’t work and he couldn’t catch the fish with his little net.  I’m certainly not going into the screaming match that happened when his foolish mother took him from the side of the pool and placed his writhing butt in the nice, warm, pool water.  Oh no….I won’t go into those things.  What I will say is this: as we were leaving the toy store The Precious was sitting in his car seat with his mouth full of gumballs.  He has one hand in the box of gum, and one grasps his swing.  His foot is on top of Wally.  With a slimy, sticky, mouth he says, “Thank you, Emmy.  I’m so happy!”  And that makes it worth it.  Nine out of every ten times he comes to visit he is absolutely a treasure.  On that tenth visit, he could wear the horns off of a Billy goat.  But the nine far out weigh the one.  His mother just called and asked if they could come back tonight.  I think she knows I was at the end of my rope last night.  Of course, I said that they could.  That tenth one is out of the way….odds are we are going to be having fun tonight.  Thank God!!!!!

 

I got a notice today that it is time for my semi-annual teeth cleaning from my dentist.  I like my dentist.  His daughter and my daughter were very good friends in high school which is why I chose him.  He has an easy going nature, and a keen sense of humor.  He also lets me have laughing gas at any time I choose.  Good man.  So the point I’m getting to is this: I don’t mind going to the dentist.  I know some people have phobias about the dentist.  Truth is, out of every hour appointment, I see the dentist maybe 2 minutes.  I walk in, and the hygienist takes me back to the chair.  She takes x-rays, and cleans my teeth.  When everything is done the dentist walks in and looks at the x-rays and picks at my teeth.  He proceeds to tell me that everything is fine and that’ll be $125. Did you hear and understand that my dear friends…2 minutes of work and $125!

Normally the dentist is the one doctor I can go to and be told that everything is fine.  I count on him for that, but the last time he let me down.  My teeth are good.  I don’t get cavities, but what I do is grind my teeth in my sleep.  All of my molars are crowns.  The last time I went to the dentist he told me that two of my crowns had cracked.  He said that they needed to be replaced, and suggested that it would be wise to go ahead and do root canals at the same time, since I was experiencing sensitivity.  Have you priced crowns in the last year or two?  The crown alone cost about $1000.  Add to that the $300 for the root canals, and multiply by two and you are talking about a nice little sum of money.  “There’s your house payment” I half jokingly said to him. “I should tell you that porcelain crowns are inferior to gold crowns.  Gold crowns last longer and are better for chronic grinders.”  Personally I don’t see how that can be true what with gold being such a soft metal, but a few years ago (15 or so), a dentist talked me into a gold crown with the same argument.  “No one will see it.  It is in the very back of your mouth.  It won’t show and it will last a lot longer.”  Well, it’s lasted alright…and it has shown up in every picture I’ve had made in the last 15 years.  I have a big smile, and apparently you can see every tooth in my head.  Every stinking picture that I have with me smiling my natural smile (unposed) has a glint of gold.  I feel like a gangsta in those pictures.  Yo, Yo…it’s Emmy D, O, double G up in the hizzouse.  Which would be fine if I was into that kind of thing….but I’m not.  I’m funny enough to think that teeth should be white.  Actually the whiter the better.  If (God forbid) I should ever have to have dentures, I would want those puppies so white you would need shades just to look at me!  I’d be like that episode of friends where Ross gets his teeth whitened and they go to a party with a black light and all you can see are his teeth.  That’s the smile I want.  I just don’t want to mortgage my home to get it. 

I’ve gone through braces, and rubber bands from back to front, retainers, and splints just to have straight teeth and non-aching jaws.  I can’t control the grinding…I’m asleep…cut me some slack.  I wear jaw splints at night (along with all the other splints and crap I have to put on before bed) which are supposed to prevent me from damaging my teeth.  I have about a half inch of acrylic between my top and lower molars each night.  I have gone through four sets of professionally made bite guards in the last 25 years.  That averages out to 6.25 splints per year at a  cost of about $300 each, or the cost of one root canal and crown.  They have to be replaced because I eventually crack them from the pressure in my jaws as I clinch my teeth.  So here’s the thing…if gold crowns last longer than porcelain, and porcelain apparently lasts longer than acrylic rather than trying to sell me on gold crowns, they should be making my splints out of gold.  If they did that then I would only have to replace them every 20 years.  Plus I could go out in public without looking like Mike Tyson. 

So in a couple of weeks I’m going in for my cleaning, and when the hygienist is through and the dentist comes in and tells me that I still need to replace those crowns, I’m going to smile my golden, gleaming, blinding smile, and tell him no thanks.  I’ll keep using Sensodyne, and praying for a miracle (maybe dental caulk), and hoping beyond hope that I can last until there is some light at the end of the tunnel.  Maybe by the time I have the money there will be a third option available…or a fourth, if you count the dentures!

My Dad loved life.  In my late twenties we became friends.  Dad had gone through some major life changes and I was in a better place than I had been.  We reached a place where we could sit and talk as equals.  I could discuss anything with Dad.  We talked pro football, college basketball, politics or his favorite subject…the weather.  The point here is that we talked.  Dad had two things that were pretty consistent: he called all of his daughters sis (kept the confusion to a minimum), and he told us “it’ll all work out.”

This was Dad’s life philosophy.  When I came to him to talk about my marriage being on rocky ground he told me it would all work out.  When my ex was making my life miserable I got the same phrase.  No matter what the situation was I was told “it’ll all work out.”  At the time I found it irritating.  I was looking for advice.  I wanted to hear sage wisdom not foo foo platitudes.  I wanted him to tell me that he would talk to him, or that he would help me in some way, but I never got that.  I got, “it’ll all work out.”  At the time it didn’t seem like it was any help at all, and I wondered why when we could talk about anything if I needed help this was all I got.  But you know, looking back, he was always right.  It all did work out.  Not always the way that I hoped or the way that I had planned but it did work out.  Whether the solution was for the better or for the worse it still worked itself out…probably in the way it was intended to. 

I’m going through some things now that I’m not happy with.  The other day I was seriously wishing I could talk to Dad about it.  After thinking about it for awhile I knew what he would say.  He would listen to everything I said and  after seeming to think about it he would tell me that it would all work out.  Only now I know that he’s right.  Whether it works out the way that I wish it would or not remains to be seen, but it will work out.  But here’s the clincher…I get it.  All of those times that he told me those tiny little words of wisdom I thought he was full of crap.  Now I am trying to live my life with the gentle ease of my father.  It will all work out.  There are usually only two options to this…it will work out for the best, or it will work out for the worse…but it will work out.  I get it.  Now I try to just go with the flow and hope that it works out for the best.  I know that if my kids come to me for advice I will use these words.  The difference between my dad and me is that I don’t always stop there.  That is why I have raised children who come to me for help instead of standing on their own two feet.  I know they are reading this, so I have to admit that a. they don’t always come to me for help and b. as they get older it gets better.  I think I should be able to fix things.  My dad thought I should be able to solve my own problems.  I think in some ways he just had more faith in me or in a greater power.  Him telling me that it would all work out probably forced me to find my own solutions or be willing to accept the outcome.

So it’s Father’s Day.  I can feel his presence smiling at the fact that I got it.  Dad had a great smile.  His life wasn’t easy, but he loved it.  He loved growing up on a farm with a ton of brothers and sisters.  He loved my Mom and he loved his daughters.  He loved God.  He loved life.  The best way we can honor Dad is to love life like he did…to smile like he did…to keep going on without him, not because we want to because we have to.  He didn’t waste a minute worrying about what would happen next.  He knew it would all work out!  Happy Father’s Day!

My non-vag. daughter was water boarded last night.  She wasn’t being held as a terrorist or anything along those lines.  She was swimming in the pool.  Not to minimize my role in this, while she was being assaulted, I laughed my ass off.  Please allow me to enlighten you…

Last night my oldest, his wife and The Precious came over.  It began with The Precious and me watering the plants out front.  That lead to The Precious shucking down to what nature gave him.  As we were coming  inside  I noticed that “Dave” had once again sprung a sprocket and was shooting water all over the place.  I made the comment that Boppy was not going to be happy.  Allow me to digress…Boppy hates pretty much everything pool.  He doesn’t enjoy it.  He doesn’t like paying for the chemicals.  He doesn’t like cleaning it.  He really hates repairing it.  However; because I can whine like an m’er f’er, he will (if he must) take care of “Dave” because Dave will keep the pool clean without paying or feeding him.  Today we had to go to the pool supply store and purchase a part for “Dave”.  The part was a little plastic connector for “Dave’s” hose, and it cost over $30.  Let me tell you, I got an ear full on the way home.  This man who will spend $40 a week on golf balls bitched for 15 minutes about the amount of mark up on this connector.  We finally made it home and he attached the part and soon thereafter he went golfing (insert gasps of shock here).  Okay…back to the story…so when I saw that “Dave” had sprung a sprocket again I knew this wasn’t going to be a great evening. 

Well, The Precious wanted to see what Dave was doing.  We went outside and sat on the glider and watched for “Dave” to surface so we could have a sighting.  Now you know it’s a pretty laid back life style when you get your kicks from watching the automatic pool cleaner break the surface, but that’s what we were doing when The Precious suggested that we take a closer look.  So I went to get my swimsuit on and we got in.  Within a few minutes we had navigated to the deep end to take a look.  Shortly his mama came out.  By this time we had “Dave” trapped and were playing with the loose hose.   The Precious was totally digging playing with the hose.  It is something to see a kid in a huge pool playing with the hose from a broken pool cleaner.  This was more fun than the pool had ever been, and the pool has been plenty fun!  Little did we know that far greater fun was minutes away because you see, when my non-vag. daughter got in the pool The Precious went to her…hose in hand…and accidentally sprayed her a little.  Well that was the funniest thing ever so he started doing it on purpose.  I’m going to try and describe this without missing anything.  He turned the hose on her on purpose.  Caught off guard she does the only thing she can think of to do…throw her head back to get out of his way.  Well this caused the water to go straight up her nose.  Now she has The Precious in the deep end of the pool.  She is hanging onto the edge with one hand and the baby with the other, meanwhile she is getting a full sinus irrigation and gulping gallons of water at the same time.  She can’t really make him stop because to do so could cause the kid to go under.  He definitely would if she let go of him, and he might if she let go of the edge.  I am doing my part.  I have a raft…maybe 2 feet away…and I am laughing my ass off…because I can see her face and she is utterly tortured!  He is laughing that hysterical deep belly laugh that totally tickled toddlers get, and she’s laughing a little too because it’s hard not to laugh when a baby is laughing that laugh.  She finally risks letting him go to put her hand up, and this causes some of the spray to fall back on him.  He’s done.  He drops the hose and quits laughing.  Not me.  I’m still laughing.  Writing this and thinking about the look on her face I’m still laughing.  Well, once she gets things under control she looks at The Precious and tells him, “…your Emmy is a very bad word.”  That’s enough to send me into further gales of laughter.  Before they had gone home, Boppy came in from golf and The Precious told him, “you’re not gonna be happy.”  He proceeded to drag him outside to look at “Dave.” That brings the story of the hose to my non vag. daughter’s attention once again.  Well she’s shooting for sympathy, which Boppy might have given her had I not erupted in laughter from the other room.  My son was never going to empathize because he has the same sick sense of humor that I do.  So while she’s telling the guys what a bitch I am  I told them my version of the story.  I told them the baby had water boarded his mother.  My son asked her, “was it torture?”  She said yes with a look on her face that had me rolling on the floor yet again.

Now…we had to have a brief explanation of why anyone would be in doubt (W.) as to whether or not this particular event would be considered anything other than torture, but I think…torture or not…I will do my level best to see to it that she never has the tail end of “Dave” while I’m holding a three year old in the deep end of the pool with one hand holding onto the side and no way of getting away from her, because let me tell you dear ones…she will drown my ass!

 

For many reasons, I love summer.  I love the lush countryside. I love the warm, even hot, temperatures.  I love the smell of water on hot pavement.  But mostly I love lying in the sun in the pool.

The pool is my sanctuary.  No one else gets to enjoy it as often or as much as I do.  My vag. daughter is in beauty school and is gone 5 days a week from 8:00 until 5:00.  And Boppy would rather eat glass than swim in the daytime.  Many long years ago, Boppy received a bad sunburn…one of the blistering kind.  He was at a water park with his cousin, and in typical little boys fashion they outlasted their sunscreen.  He has never forgotten.  And he extends his phobia unto others.  I am constantly reminded to use sunscreen.  Even-though, my moisturizer has sunscreen in it I rarely take a topless trip in my convertible without being asked, “do you have sunscreen on?’ It doesn’t help that we have no shade around our pool.  Around 5:00 in the evening the sun goes behind some neighboring trees and casts the deep end into shade.  For this reason, I always make sure to keep sunscreen for everyone who might swim.   I keep everything from a SPF4 to and SPF50.  When I was placing last years sunscreen in the cabinet I learned that we were out of several strengths.  So  Boppy and I headed off to Wal-Mart to buy sunscreen. 

We didn’t have to search to find it.  Luckily every store in Arkansas has a big kiosk of sunscreen available.   Finding wasn’t the problem…agreeing on what to buy was the problem.  I don’t like sunscreen that smells like coconut.  Love coconut, hate artificial coconut scent.  Boppy can’t smell the coconut, or he just doesn’t care.  I tend to buy Coppertone products because they don’t have “that” smell.  It is slightly more expensive so Boppy wants to buy Banana Boat products….they reek!  The intensely sweet smell gives me a migraine. I had to tell Diamond Jim to suck it up and pay the extra .50 because it was lots cheaper than my migraine prescription which our insurance doesn’t cover.  Reminding him of the cost of Treximet did the trick.  We picked Coppertone.

I am dark skinned.  Not Native-American dark, but olive toned enough to tan easily.  Boppy is opalescent.  He burns easily…he does tan, but you have to see his covered skin to prove it.  Trust me when I say that will not happen.  So I pick out a SPF8 for myself.  As soon as he saw the number on the bottle, Boppy told me that I would be just as well off putting on water (he tends to over exaggerate).  I reminded him that I am darker skinned than he is (so was our albino bunny, by the way.) He keeps it up. “I don’t know why you even bother…you’re going to look stupid when you get skin cancer…you’re not setting a very good example….” and so on.  Again, I reminded him that if I did indeed get skin cancer it would probably be from tanning when I was young and using butter on my body…or baby oil and iodine…or the fact that I nearly lived in tanning beds until 1990.  I also reminded him that my dermatologist checks my body yearly for skin cancer and that he told me that the sun protection factor number was less important than how often it was applied.  Now dear ones, I know you don’t know Boppy, but he gets a look that is hard to describe when he is faced with logical information that flies in the face of his beliefs.  It causes his brow to knot up and his eyes to narrow.  The irises change from a azure blue to a gray.   He becomes….his mother!   Ignoring all of his arguments, I purchase the sunscreen that I wanted.  Of course he insists that he must have a different one.  I agree because putting an 8 on him is likes putting oil on a chicken breast on an open flame.  I pick up a 50….it’s for babies.  It comes in a pink bottle with teddy bears.  The look returns.  I find a 70.  Now it has become a treasure hunt and the goal is to see who can find the highest SPF.  He finds an 85.  OMG!  I don’t see how in the hell I can beat that.  I look on the back side of the display.  Eighty-five after 85 appear on the shelves.  Then I hear a triumphant yell from the other side.  In typical Boppy fashion, he doesn’t speak but holds the bottle in front of my eyes so I can see for myself (it’s kind of a passive aggressive neener neener).  100!  Keeping in mind that the number reflects how much longer you can stay in the sun than you could without sun block…the one minute he has, has now turned to 100.  That’s almost 2 hours!  I ask him why he can’t just roll in mud like other pigs.  The look returns.  I’m laughing my ass off now, partly because of the pig comment and partly because of the look.  He turns to me and seethes, “skin cancer” and turns to go to the checkout.

Yesterday I got to lie in the pool.  I sunburned.  Life sucks sometimes! 

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