Dentaphobia

I'm a dentaphobiac. And who can blame me? My dentophobia has deep roots (sorry... couldn't resist).

It started with my childhood dentist, Dr. Pozener, a masochist posing as a dentist. "Oh, little Mary Lou doesn't need Novocain today," he'd tell my Mom. "The cavity is just below the surface." Then he'd get out his 6 mm hammer drill and go to work. "Ah, quit you're sniveling," he'd say. "Is it safe?"

Fast forward to my Woody Allen dentist in Milwaukee. He was referred to me by my friend Tom (well, at least I thought he was a friend). Woody's office was in a sketchy part of town and his office was always empty. I may not have been his only patient, but I suspect I was his only patient with dental insurance.

Now I have nothing against the real Woody Allen. He is an excellent comedian and director, but would you want Woody Allen as a dentist?  

"Oops...wrong tooth" 

"Sorry about that... it's not bleeding much"

"Do you have any other friends with dental insurance you can refer to me?"

And Woody was crown happy. He replaced much of Dr. Pozener's old artwork with crowns. 

I parted ways with Woody when he wanted to put a gold crown on my front tooth.

My next dentist, Dr. Tusk had to replace the crowns Woody put on. "Did he even measure those crowns before putting them on?  Hand me the jack-hammer, Wilma" Dr. Tusk ordered. "That quack must have used Krazy glue on this thing."

Dentists have come a long way. In fact spa dentistry has become a growing trend. Dentists offer amenities like aromatherapy, heated pillows and facials. You can even have a hand massage while having a root canal.

My current dentist has taken one step in that direction. Before the hygienist sand-blasted my teeth last week she spread Vaseline on my lips with a q-tip. But something was not right with that Vaseline. It was flavored, but not the normal fruity lip gloss flavor you would expect. I couldn't immediately ask the hygienist about the flavor, being as my mouth was otherwise occupied. Then it occurred to me. My lips smelled like baby powder.

At spitting time I asked her if it was my imagination or did my lips smell like baby powder. "Oh, yes. We're using Vaseline Baby for our patients' lips now."

Involuntary gag.

Baby powdered flavored Vaseline is intended to prevent diaper rash. My lips are not at risk for diaper rash. And I don't want Baby Powdered flavored Vaseline anywhere near my mouth.

Thy hygienist made a note in my chart. 

I've requested Margarita flavored Vaseline for my next visit.

Dancing with the Stars

In retrospect, it may not have been the best idea to sign up for the Adult Jazz class with Tiffany. After all, I am a middle-aged white woman who does her best dancing after a margarita or two. But I couldn't resist....

The class began at 8:30 and I arrived exactly on time, brimming with enthusiasm. I got a few curious glances as I entered the studio wearing my “dance your ass off” t-shirt, dance pants, and snazzy Jazz shoes, but I figured they were just admiring my shirt.

I soon noticed that, not counting Tiffany, I was older than all the other students...by several decades. In fact, they looked like they were contestants on The Bachelor (the first indication that I was out of my league). One thing was for sure: I was not going home with a rose.

The class began with some warm up exercises led by Brittany, the instructor. We started with a dozen or so laps around the room. Then she had us jump to a squat with our hands placed on the floor, kick our feet straight back, return them under our butts and stand (repeating about 25 times). “Hey! Stop the bus!” I said. “I think we’re doing squat thrusts!”

I hadn't done a squat thrust since 5th grade and they were just as painful as I remembered.  And the bachelorettes seemed to enjoy them.

The red flags were as subtle as a sledge hammer.

As we transitioned from one torturous exercise to another I grunted to Tiffany..."Are we ever going to dance?"  

Brittany moved on to the push-ups. I looked around to see if we'd taken a wrong turn and had accidentally ended up at Fort Jackson. “If they make us scale the walls I’m outta here,” I threatened.

Finally, we got to the dancing. It started out easy enough: 8-counts of choreography. We ran through it twice and I was feeling pretty darn good about my dancing. That is, until Brittany said "Let's speed it up.” We did it double time. "Now to the music", Brittany chirped. The music was twice as fast as the double-time (e.g. quadruple time). 

"Let's move on", sang Brittany. "You'll remember this next segment from last year". Last year??  But we weren't in the class last year!

Now if this wasn't a red flag, call me colorblind.

The "segment from last year" included a pirouette. Brittany informed us that we could choose to make it a double pirouette if we preferred. Right.

My pirouette resembled a "ring around the rosie".

The pirouette was followed by a high kick...well, at least for the rest of the class. I followed up my ring around the rosie with a stubbed toe.

For the next 20 minutes it was more of:

"Let's speed it up!"

"Adding on..."

"Double time."

"Adding on..."

By 9:15 I was begging for squat thrusts.

Mercifully, the class came to an end, but not before we had to break into 2 groups and perform for each other. I was wishing my water bottle contained a margarita. On the way out Tiffany and I stopped to talk to Brittany. Tiffany jokingly asked if there was a Senior Adult Jazz class we could switch to and Brittany let her know that she could attend the Monday night Beginner Adult Jazz class.

Then she looked at me, and said (very slowly), “I’m sorry, honey, but you're out of luck. The Special Ed Jazz class is full”. 

Okay, so I made that part up.  But I could tell she was thinking it!

Going for the Spray Tan

I decided to go for it. I called Sun Your Buns to set up an appointment.

      " I'm a spray tan virgin. Is there anything I need to do to prepare?"

      "Take a shower before coming and exfoliate your skin."

I start every morning with an SAT question of the day e-mailed to me. I thought my vocabulary was pretty darn good. But exfoliate? What the heck does that mean? I didn't want to sound stupid, and thought I might be able to figure it out if she used it in a sentence.

      "So, you say I have to exfoliate my skin, right?"

      "Right. Any other questions?"

That didn't help. Better be direct. 

      "Exactly how do you exfoliate your skin?"

For those of you who didn't know, exfoliating is basically scrubbing dead cells off your skin. So I exfoliated my skin.

It made me look even whiter. Not off to a good start.

I talked my co-stripper Tiffany into going with me to the tanning place for moral support. We walked in and I told the girl at the counter (let's call her "Suzie") that I wanted to look like Tiffany. She informed me that they do spray tans, not plastic surgery.

Very funny.

When I explained to her that we were playing strippers in Gypsy and I wanted shed my Boo Radley look, Suzie was so excited that she upgraded me from a Mystic Tan to a spray tan. To use a car wash metaphor, instead of driving though the tanning spray, I would have my body detailed.

I was given the choice of wearing no clothes or a disposable bra and panties. Let's just say that getting my body detailed would require Suzie looking at my body's details, so I opted for the disposable bra and panties.

There have been times in my life when I felt I'd lost my dignity, most of which involved various medical procedures (e.g. giving birth, having a mammogram, etc.) Well, when I left the dressing room in my paper bra and Tarzan-like thong on my lily white skin, wearing a plastic shower cap on my head I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. And my dignity sunk to an all-time low.

Tiffany tried to talk me into taking a picture for the blog, but I decided to protect my readers. Here's the g-rated version:

And then Suzie turned on the fire hose of tanning fluid and I turned in a slow circle, not unlike a rotisserie chicken at Food Lion. After several minutes of spray I was ready for the dry cycle. She handed me a leaf blower and before you know it my spray tan extravaganza was over.

When I walked out of the spray tan booth I looked exactly like Tiffany. Well, not really. But my skin was the same color.

And when I walked on stage last night I thought I heard a comment from the orchestra pit:

"So where'd they get that hot under-study for the albino stripper?"

Considering the Spray Tan

Do I really need a tan? Admittedly I look like Boo Radley standing next to the other strippers on stage. It's the story of my life.

The following is a comprehensive list of the colors my skin has ever been:

• white
• red

Wait.... I forgot bright red. Wait again. Add green to the list (that Halloween I dressed as a green been.) And we can add pale green to the list too, since the tempera paint took a week or so to fade away.

So here's the comprehensive list:

• white
•  red
•  bright red
•  green
•  pale green

Notice that tan is not on the list.

My stripper sisters suggested that I get a spray tan. I decided to do some research on this new approach to becoming bronze. I understand that it's kind like driving through a car wash naked, only your body is the car and tanning spray is the soapy water.

There are definite advantages to spray tans. You get tan quickly without the skin cancer and wrinkles. But my research uncovered some inherent risks: orange hands, blotchy face, stained finger nails, and rings around the armpits.

Let's stop there.  I have to stop center stage, raise my hands and shimmy.  Rings around the armpits will not do.

I can hear it now: 

"Did you see that stripper in the middle? Was that deodorant in her armpits?" 

"No, I think it was that disease that Michael Jackson had - vertigo or something?" 

"I heard it was scarring from her breast implants"

I may change my mind before opening night, but as of right now I'm thinking I would prefer hearing:

"Wow! I never knew Albino strippers could move like that!"

Remote Anxiety

I'm currently in rehearsals for Gypsy. I play Electra, one of the worn out strippers whose gimmick is blinking lights on inappropriately appropriate parts of her body.

And I'm starting to get a bit nervous.

First there's the song, which is about an octave higher than I can sing. When I get to the part where I sing (and I use that term loosely) "I'm electrifying and I'm not even trying", the music director looks at me with pity. My cast mates have their hands over their ears.

Then there's the costume. Janet Jackson showed less skin in her infamous Super Bowl wardrobe malfunction. Add a pair of Barbie/stripper shoes to the mix and it's the perfect storm. The 4 inch heels cause me to angle precariously toward the audience, further precluding my propriety.

But my biggest fears surround the technical aspect of turning on the lights. And why? Because I will be using a remote control. Well...make that two remote controls.

Let me back up. My husband makes fun of my remote control prowess (or lack there-of). I don't understand why. Perhaps it's because I have to use reading glasses to change a channel. Or maybe he remembers the time that I brought a calculator on vacation so I could do some work, and how the calculator turned out to be a remote. "How can you possibly confuse a remote for calculator?" he asked. I made a quick comeback. "They're both rectangular and have numbers?"

Guess I told him. Besides, he's had a lot more experience with remotes than I have.

But I truly am a pathetic remote controller.

So when I found out that I have to not only use one but two remotes during my number I began to panic. I told the director that, sure, I'm an excellent multi-tasker, but asking me to work two remotes concurrent with singing, dancing, bumping and grinding may be beyond my abilities.

You know what she said? She said it might be funny if I pulled out the remote, looked at it and pushed the button.... in the middle of the song.

Really?

Well, how about if I pull out the remote, take my reading glasses out of my cleavage, and then push the button?

Or, why don't they further challenge me by asking me to enter a password, or maybe use a keypad like on my garage door? That might get a laugh!

I'll steal the show.

The Baby Shower

Earlier this year I went to a baby shower for my friend Kelly and was amazed at how things had changed since my kids were born 22 and 15 years ago. I didn't know anyone at the shower, except for the mom-to-be, and I was trying very hard to make a good impression (and not embarrass myself).

I first started giggling when Kelly opened the Baby Boppy. Perhaps it was the fact that I was the only person in the room who didn't know what a Baby Boppy was, or maybe it was the name 'Baby Boppy' that stimulated my snorting. I noticed I was the only shower guest who was laughing, so I politely pulled myself together.

I began to lose it again when she opened the next package and pulled out what looked like a miniature version of leg warmers Jennifer Beals wore in the movie Flash Dance. Kelly started gushing, "Oh, I love Baby Legs!" There was uniform agreement in the room "Oh, those Baby Legs are so cute!" "They'll keep his legs so warm!" "Adorable!!"

Call me practical, but I'm thinking those Baby Legs are going to slide down to Baby Ankles when baby begins to crawl. I started to chuckle again.

Then came the Swaddle Me, which is basically a straight-jacket for a newborn. I'm no marketing genius, but I think a Toddler version would be much more valuable. And come to think of it, I'd take out a second mortgage on my home for Teen Swaddle Me. The vision of my teenage daughter trying to text while wrapped in a straight jacked stimulated more snickering.

Don't get me wrong, there were plenty of gifts that made me join in the gushing: adorable outfits, blankets that I wanted to curl up into, the stuffed animals. And I behaved myself completely during the majority of the baby shower.

But It's a darn good thing that nobody got Kelly a Pee-Pee Teepee. Here's how it's advertised.

Why is it that the act of diaper changing always seems to inspire an extra "contribution" from the little one? Parents of baby boys have been particularly vulnerable - until now. Just place a pee-pee teepee on his wee-wee during diaper changes, and the hazard is averted.

That may just have pushed me over the edge.

Just Like Oprah

When Oprah Winfrey was in her twenties she knew she was going to be a millionaire by age 32. And look at her now! She's the world's first Female African-American Billionaire. And how did she make her fortune? She set clear and ambitious goals on both the professional and personal levels. “Whatever your goal, you can get there if you’re willing to work.”

Oprah was my inspiration when I set that stretch goal of making my own Alien Abduction Lamp this week. I get goose bumps just thinking about it.

Do you see the similarities? Oprah was born to an unwed mother and survived an unimaginable childhood to achieve her fame and fortune. I, too, had roadblocks to success. You see, I was born with no 'handy' genes. Although never officially tested, experts believe my mechanical IQ to somewhere between 20 and 24.

I've tried. How I've tried!

Who could forget the (so called) "easy to assemble" patio rocking chair I assembled back in 1986? It looked great when I finally finished, about 8 hours after I started the project. It wasn't until my neighbor rocked a bit too enthusiastically, toppling backwards and hitting her head on the cement that I had the epiphany. The long ends of the rockers should be on the back, not the front. (Thankfully no stitches were required.)

One could argue that making an Alien Abduction Lamp was too big of a project for someone like me. Sure, there were only "9 easy" steps and 5 ingredients, but my history did not support the  attempt such an endeavor and the odds of success were infinitesimal. But, like Oprah, I refused to listen to skeptics.  What do they know?  I had a goal. 

Oprah had to overcome many hurdles to reach her goals. I, too, had many hurdles. My first was that I needed a Dremel. Since I had no idea what a Dremel was, I posted the question on my Facebook status update and within a couple hours my friend Tiffany told me I could borrow her Dremel. Hurdle # 1 eliminated. Oprah would be proud.

Next hurdle was finding a Touch Light. My question stumped 3 employees at Lowes before I found it on my own sitting near the light bulbs. Hurdle # 2 eliminated. But if I thought finding the Touch Light was difficult, disassembling it was even harder. I took a deep breath, thought of Oprah, persevered, and hurdle #3 was over-come.

At the risk of boring my readers, let's just say that the hurdles outnumbered the "9 easy steps" by a factor of 3 to 1.

But just like Oprah, I set my goal, followed the plan, overcame obstacles and achieved success.

It's a lot like the movie Hoosiers, which is based on a true story, where a high school coach and the town drunk lead a small-town basketball team on an improbable run to the Indiana high school championship game, despite all the odds.

I'm thinking someone should make a movie about my Alien Abduction Lamp project. The true story of a small-town geek with limited abilities tackling a project of unimaginable scope and magnitude. And succeeding.

Despite all the obstacles I encountered, my Alien Abduction Lamp shines brightly on the suspended cow. 

Now If I could only get Kevin to stop barking at it.