Don't Even Ask

Why did I even ask?

It's not like Dave is one of the Property Brothers.   

He's NEVER had opinions of my home decorating projects.  The only reason he knows I'm redoing the powder room is that he tripped on the ladder.

"Why is there a ladder in the bathroom?" he asked.

I had to remind him that I was stripping the wallpaper.

"Oh."

And I could have totally predicted his answer anyhow, when I attempted to show him the canvas art print I was thinking of buying for the "new" powder room.

"You don't need a picture in the bathroom."

Actually, it reminded me of my late Dad.  After visiting my sister's new home he told me how impressed he was with it.  "You know, Loulie, she's got a picture hanging in her can!"  He chuckled, shook his head and said, "Imagine that.  A picture in the can."

I looked at Dave and flatly told him that I was absolutely hanging a picture in the can bathroom.

He grumbled, "What a waste of money."

I wonder what he would have said had he actually looked at the picture that I attempted to show him.

I think I'm going to go ahead and get it.

He'll never notice it, anyhow.

The Bad Loser

Dave called me a bad loser.

I AM NOT A BAD LOSER!!!!

I'm, actually, a very good loser.  I'm so experienced at losing that I've gotten quite good at it.

But this time the judges got it wrong.

Okay.  Technically, I did lose.

But the thing is, I really should have won. 

The judges made an egregious error.  Not unlike the referees at every Bills - Patriots game since 2000.

Perhaps the idiots judges did not understand that they were judging an "Ugly Holiday Sweater Contest."  

Not a Cute Holiday Sweat-shirt Contest.

Please believe me when I tell you that the competition was rather lame.  There were many very Cute Holiday Sweaters, one Cute Holiday Sweat-shirt, and my Ugly Holiday Sweater.

I was not even aware that there was a prize for the ugliest holiday sweater that afternoon, when I randomly carefully attached garland and Christmas ornaments to one of Dave's old sweaters.

(I am quite the seamstress, after all.)

But when I stepped back to examine my masterpiece, I realized that it looked kind of cute.

Like Tiffany's Cute Holiday Sweat-shirt.

So I search the house high and low for some way to make my cute holiday sweater ugly.


When I found my bag of assorted plastic bugs I knew that I'd hit pay dirt.  What could be uglier than a cute holiday sweater with bugs crawling all over it?

Nothing.

(Certainly not a Cute Holiday Sweat-shirt.)

And it was not an easy feat sewing those guys on that sweater.  Especially the ones with all the legs.  Let's just say that there's nothing more frustrating than a tangled mess of insect legs and thread.

(Except, of course, unfairly losing an Ugly Holiday Sweater contest.)

When the drunken blind judges announced that Tiffany was the winner, I stepped back gracefully to let her own the spotlight.

Then I wandered back to Dave, informing him that my sweater was way uglier than Tiffany's Cute Holiday Sweat-shirt.  Which is when he called me a bad loser.

"I want a recount," I whispered to him.

But then I looked at Tiffany.  She looked so happy in her cute holiday sweatshirt, basking in the glory of having unfairly won the Ugly Holiday Sweater contest with her counterfeit ugly sweater.

I remembered that this is the holiday season.  The season of giving.

And those imbeciles judges just gave Tiffany the gift of the Ugly Holiday Sweater award.

Merry Christmas, Tiffany.

The Fish Spa

I approached the Phuket Fish Spa with determination, prepared to stick my feet into an aquarium containing throngs of tiny scavenger fish commissioned to nibble and suck away my dead, dry skin.

In preparation for my visit, I had consumed two large Changs. 

I should have had eight.   

The Fish Spa attendant greeted me and I shrewdly negotiated a price of $400 Baht for 10 minutes. 

She took my money and motioned for me to take a seat at the edge of the aquarium.

I dangled my feet above the murky water.  The fish looked up at me, their tiny, greedy mouths watering.

I tentatively moved my feet closer to the water.  One millimeter at a time.

Dave was like, "Stick'm in!  You're wasting money!"

I inched my feet downward.

Closer still.

I was about 7 minutes into my 10-minute Fish Spa treatment, and still about 2" from the water, when the Fish Spa Attendant reached over and SHOVED MY LEGS INTO THE WATER!

I screamed.

And my feet responded like a jack-in-the-box, catapulting several fish into the seedy looking bar across the street.

Meanwhile, daughter Linda and brother-in-law Mark were thoroughly enjoying their fish exfoliations in the adjacent aquariums.

And they began to apply peer pressure.

Calling me a wimp.  And other unfair, unnecessary names.

I tried.  Oh, how I tried.  I really did.  But every time my heels touched that water, and I locked eyes with those flesh eating monsters, I screamed.

A crowd began to form.

I had an audience. 

And I realized that I had to give the performance of my life.

From out of nowhere came an unexpected surge of Adrenalin.  I took a deep breath and lowered my feet into the terrifying tank.

And I successfully achieved my goal.

Just kidding.  

I'll get a Fish Spa next time I'm in Thailand.  

But I'll need a LOT more alcohol.

The DIY Project

I usually outsource my do-it-yourself projects.

I'm not proud of that.  But when God blessed me with my extra pogo-sticking/jump rope gene he had to sacrifice another.  There went my DIY gene.  (And perhaps my cooking gene.)

Last night I had a huge project looming in front of me.  And it had to be finished by Friday.

Which left no time to farm it out.  If it was going to get done, I would have to do it myself.

The project required a screwdriver and a screw.

I checked in my garage workshop to see if I had the necessary tools.

Of course, I didn't.

I asked Dave if he thought Food Lion would have the tools I needed to complete my project.  He told me probably not.

Damn.  I'd have to drive to Walmart.  

I pictured myself looking for the tools in Walmart.  All those aisles.  It was overwhelming.

I was about to give up when Dave reminded me of my roots.  Blaine Clyde.  My Dad.  Who changed his own oil.  Who took things apart just to put them back together.  Whose genes I did not inherit. 

Was I adopted??

I decided to go to CVS.  I knew it would cost more, but time is money.  And I became fast friends with the salesclerk who helped me search all over the store and finally find the tools I needed.

 

When I got home I opened the package and pulled out the miniature screwdriver and the minuscule 5 screws.   I picked up my favorite one-armed pair of sunglasses, its amputated arm, and went to work.

It was the most challenging project I've faced since I stripped wallpaper in 2015.

Unfortunately, the eyeglass repair kit did not include an electron microscope. The itsy-bitsy notch atop the teeny-tiny screw that the $#&%# screwdriver fits into was invisible to the naked eye.    

And I had to turn that stupid screw to reattach the amputated arm!!

Now, I have very small hands.  But it was near impossible to grip the Barbie Doll screwdriver and hold it in place in the notch while turning the damn-nappid screw.  

(I may have made up that last word.  It's my prerogative.)

The screwdriver kept slipping and stabbing my thumb.  I needed 6 stitches.

(Okay, I'm exaggerating.  Again, it's my prerogative.)

However, I am pleased (and proud) to announce that after 29 attempts and just 2 band aids, I was successful. 

I'm pretty sure I wasn't adopted.  And Blaine Clyde would be proud.

Coexisting

Here's the deal with retirement.  I'm around Dave.  A lot.

Truth be told, that is the one thing I was a wee bit worried about.

Yes, we've been married for um... let's see... 2017-1985=32 years.

OMG!  That's almost 1/3 of a century!

But I've never been around him so many hours at at time. 

The first few weeks of retirement went fine.  We coexisted quite well.

That is, until 4:36 PM on Monday, November 6, 2017.

I decided to work on a jigsaw puzzle.  And I turned on the Hamilton soundtrack.  Because I LOVE THAT MUSIC.

Dave was upstairs on the computer.

Admittedly, I had cranked up the volume.  And I was singing along.

"What is that????," my irritable, uncultured husband bellowed from upstairs.

"Hamilton," I declared.  Although, honestly....  Who does not recognize that amazing music?  

"That is horrendous.  It hurts my ears.  Turn it off, please."

Now.... you can insult my clothing.  And my haircut.  And certainly, my cooking.  But you have crossed the line when you insult Hamilton.

We engaged in a passionate argument about the merits of Hamilton vs. his taste in music.  Which is not good.


I even pulled my trump card.  

"When we were dating you told me you liked plays."  (I remind him of this ever few years when he complains about me dragging him to a play.)

After a few minutes I got tired of arguing so we made up.  I agreed that I would use head phones when I listen to Hamilton in the house.

But I've got news for him.  

I will certainly listen to Hamilton with my head phones on.  

But if he thought Hamilton was bad, wait until he hears me singing along.

Braveheart

My daughter and her soon to be husband have decided that their next adventure should be teaching English in South Korea.

I stand in awe of their bravery.  

They could give a hoot about the fact that South Korea is within spitting distance of North Korea.  With that annoying leader Kim Jong Un and his hobby of firing missiles in an attempt to perfect his country's nuclear missile technology.

Kimmy called to share the news that she and Luke have an upcoming SKYPE interview for teaching positions at a South Korean school.

I offered to help them prepare for the interviews, but she declined my help.  I reminded her that I've been interviewing job candidates for decades and that I could be of great assistance.

But she and Luke don't need my help.  

Sigh.

(I always turned off the beater.)

Just in case they change their minds, I've pulled together some recommended answers to a few potential interview questions.

Q. How do you handle a disruptive child?
A. I would spank the brat and hang him from the ceiling by his shoelaces.  If he had been exceptionally naughty, we would play pinata.

Q. What is your approach for a classroom of children with different abilities?
A. I would make the smarter kids teach the dumb ones while I snort cocaine.

Q. What are your strengths as a teacher?
A. Yes.

Q. What are your weaknesses?
A. I have no weaknesses.  Except my fingers are too short.

Q. Can you prepare your own curriculum?
A. Yes.  I am actually a very good cook.  And curry is one of my favorite ingredients.  Curry and vodka.

Q. What challenge have you faced in the past and how did you overcome it?
A. OMG!  One time I was doing laundry and I accidentally let a Kleenex in the pocket of my jeans and it got all over my expensive Old Navy t-shirt.  There was white fuzz everywhere!  I had to use packing tape to get it off.

Although Kimmy was not interested in my recommended interview responses, I was able to provide one interview tip before she hung up.

"What is it, Mom?" she asked.

"Since you insist," I said.  "Remember to have a few drinks before the interview.  Or more than a few.  It will relax you."

X Marks the Spot

I was just about done packing when I heard Dave shouting.

"What the heck is this?" he bellowed from the kitchen.

"What the heck is what?" I responded helpfully.

I was double checking my list in the bedroom.  Toothpaste.  Check.  Toothbrush.  Check.

"This," he repeated, at an even louder decibel.  Which I thought impossible.

"I don't know," I said.  Deodorant.  Check.  Corkscrew.  Check.

"What the hell????" he said.

Which, in my opinion, did not require an answer.  Puzzle book.  Check.

Dave entered the bedroom, holing up his golf shirt.  It had a big white X on it.

I recognized that big white X.

"What is this?" he repeated.

"An X," I said, stating the obvious.  Then, taking an aggressive stance, "Did you put your golf shirt on top of my Bills shirt?"

"I put it on the kitchen counter," he said.

"And apparently, right on top of my Bills shirt!!!!!"  I ran into the kitchen to assess the damage. My Bills shirt was relatively intact.  

Thank God.

I explained to Dave that the X came from white fabric paint.   I had crossed out the "Rex" on my End the Hex Rex Bills shirt with white fabric paint, since Rex Ryan was no longer the Buffalo Bills coach.

It made perfect sense.

But Dave thought it was MY fault that he put his golf shirt atop my Bills shirt.

We had a healthy debate in terms of who was more irresponsible: me for putting my Bills shirt with wet fabric paint on top of the kitchen counter to dry, or him for putting his golf shirt on top of the Bills shirt with the wet fabric paint.

I hadn't planned on taking my Bills shirt to Arizona because the paint was too wet.  Which was no longer the case.  

Bills shirt.  Check.

Toss, Give Away, or Keep

I took my time packing up my office.  Just like on that Hoarders TV show, I put stuff into 1 of 3 piles: toss, give away, or keep.

I had a lot of stuff.  I'd been working full-time since 1980. 

That's 37 years.

Of stuff.

Of course, most of the stuff was work related.  Books.  Reports.  Project files.  Toss, toss, toss.

But I also uncovered treasure.  Reminding me of my life outside of work.  Like this letter:

How funny that the same little girl who was terrified of the Easter Bunny became a U.S. Marine.

Then there's this, from a visit Kimmy made to my office with her stuffed bear, Amelia.  We may or may not have been playing with the copy machine that day.

Okay.  We were playing.  We did not get got carried away.

I had to shut my door to compose myself when I came upon the drawing 3-year old Kimmy made after I experienced a painful pregnancy loss.  Talk about a stairway to heaven.

 

  Linda had some awesome artwork,too.

I got a chuckle out the the fact that 2 1/2 year old Kimmy was not quite there in terms of looking for a lost shoe instead of crying.

When I uncovered that letter to the Easter Bunny I texted a photo of it to Linda.  Her response was immediate.

"That's not my handwriting."

It made me laugh.  How could she deny it?   But then I took another look at it and realized that it wasn't her handwriting.  I forwarded the photo to Kimmy who admitted that it did, in fact, look like her handwriting. 

Apparently Linda dictated the now infamous Easter Bunny letter to her big sister.

Keep.

Wax On. Wax Off.

Dave looked at me like I was nuts when I asked him if my nose hair was heavy or sparse.

"Whaddya mean?"
"Do I have a lot of nose hair?"
"I don't know."
"Look," I instructed, doing my best ballet move so that he could effortlessly look into my nose.

He asked for his reading glasses.

Rather than getting Dave his reading glasses, I sat down at the computer.  Besides, my back hurt from all that bending.

I was trying to decide whether or not to test drive a Nose Hair Waxing product.

But I'm a good consumer, and I never invest in a product, especially something as cutting edge as a nose hair waxing system, without first reading reviews.

Should I go for it?
I was nearly convinced after reviewing the first several reviews on AMAZON.COM:
- These nostrils are clean as a whistle!
- Excellent product that can be used as ear hair removal as well.
- This is simultaneously disgusting and amazing!

But then I happened upon a review written by man who called himself "Lost Out".

Mr. Out, who apparently has massive thickets of hair in his nostrils,  was clearly disappointed with his Yoffee Nose Wax Removal system.

He had previously used spinning trimmers, tiny scissors, as well as very thin disposable razors to trim his pesky nose hair.  But he was looking for a more permanent method for deforestation.  He considered plucking the hairs, but lacked the time, given his humongous hordes of hair.


Mr. Out did his homework before using his nose hair waxing product.  He read the instructions thoroughly and even watched some YouTube videos.  He chose to ignore the guy who cried in one video, labeling him a wuss. 


Mr. Out himself claimed to have a "decent tolerance for pain."


Mr. Out put the waxing compound in his microwave to melt it, and inserted the applicator stick into the melted wax.  He then stuck it into his nostril, clamped down on said nostril, and set the timer for 90 seconds.  When the timer went off, he yanked on the stick.  He whole head bobbed, but when "he gave it a good pull", the stick came out.  


Only a few nostril hairs were attached.  Leaving an entire forest behind.


Mr. Out, feeling more confident and even more determined, reheated the wax, re-inserted the stick, changing the angle, in an attempt to harvest more hair.


According to Mr. Out, his second attempt felt as if he was turning his nostril inside out.


I believe the words he used were "Holy Hell."


Mr. Out was able to remove the stick, and, upon inspection, realized that he had scored.  Big.


He was downright cocky as he moved on to his next, and final nostril.


Mr. Out reheated the wax and inserted the stick.  He decided to use a bigger blog of wax so he could clean out his nostril in one pass.


He inserted the stick into the second nostril and clasped it closed.  After 90 seconds, Mr. Out gave the stick a tug.  When he saw stars, he realized that he must have gotten a lot more hairs than in his previous two attempts.


He tugged again and felt his nose attempt to separate from his face.


And the clock was ticking.  The stick had to be removed within 30 seconds or it would never come out.  Without medical attention. 


Images of the Jaws of Life danced in his head.

I cannot possibly do justice to Mr. Out's description of his harvest from the Yoffee Nose Wax Removal system.  I'll let him tell it:


I finally pulled up my big boy panties and with about 3 or 4 eye-watering-profane-laden-pain-inducing yanks pulled that ball of malevolent compound out of my nose.  I was sure there would be a gush of blood following it out as I had surely removed actual skin and veins and other stuff with it.  But I hadn't and there wasn't.  What there was though was this villainous blob of compound that now looked like it had a full head of hair.  It looked like some bizarre circus sideshow freak or something out of a horror movie.  I could hear the barker now..."Come see the smallest full head of human hair, you won't believe it when you feast your eyes on this miniature coiffure!"


After reading Mr. Out's review I ambled over to the mirror.  I really didn't have any nasty nose hairs to speak of.  


A Nose Wax Removal System would be a complete waste of my time.

The Disease

I am diseased.

I have a fatal disorder that is slowly killing me.  My prognosis is guarded.

The symptoms of this disease are many.  The most serious of which is loss of control of bodily parts.

It started with the skipping.  Down halls.  Into conference rooms.

And then it spread to my mouth.  Word hemorrhaging.  Things I wouldn't have said, say, six months ago.

Like when I said, "Oh, good!  We're finally forced to read a book that I actually like!" In a staff meeting.  In front of my boss.  Who I love.

Who used to like me.  Before I became afflicted with Short Timers' Disease.

I've been especially atrocious to my team.  I say things like, "I'm assigning this project to you because (uncontrolled laughter) I don't want to do it!"

And, "We'll do a follow-up analysis in October.  I mean YOU'LL do a follow-up analysis in October."  Followed by unconstrained giggling.

Short Timers' Disease.

I bring brownies to my staff meeting, put my feet up on the table and share my infamous Multicollinearity Rap on YouTube.  I hadn't intended to share.  It just happened.

Only a Short Timer would be so reckless.

Another symptom of STD is Adrenalin rushes.  They manifest themselves as I carry folders and notes to co-workers who will pick up my work.  I explain the importance of each and cross my fingers that they will find the project as intriguing as I did.

I throw away files.  Reports.  Binders.  Stuff.  And more stuff.

I dance my way to the shredding bin.

I carefully decide who gets the good stuff from my office.

Christine wants my Alien Abduction Lamp.  And the binoculars, so she can watch the Canada Goose nest next spring.  (I will miss that.)

Jeff will get my Official Tom Brady Deflategate Whoopie Cushion.  

I'll give Bettye my red blanket so she can survive the air conditioned induced winters that last 365 1/4 days a year at our campus.

Elle will receive my Barbie Doll pens and Cathy will get my "I'm silently correcting your grammar" placard.

Salem gets my fake hand because I know she will use it to scare small children.

Matthew and Max will each receive a pair of my Meat Locker Mitts.  Since neither of them is ever cold they can use the Mitts as cube artwork.

My last day is September 29, and I fear that my STD may worsen by then.  I'm thinking of bringing my unicycle to work, and finally mastering the damn bike by maneuvering through the maze of cubes with my arms outstretched.  

On my last day, when the only items remaining in my office are my Barbie Roller Blades I will probably begin to dance.  On top of said desk.

Security will likely be called to my office.

"Lou.  Get down.  It's time for you to leave," the guard will say.

I will invite the guard to dance with me.  When he says no, I will reluctantly step down, miraculously maintaining my composure.  I'll throw my purse strap over my shoulder and head out to my car, holding my head high.

Until I scream, "Wait!!!!!"

The Security Guard, who by this point will likely be annoyed with me, will say, "What, now?"

As I run back to my office I will shout over my shoulder, "I'm not going anywhere without my Barbie Roller Blades."

Piqapoo takes on the PooTrap

Those Engineers at PooTrap have got to be sweating bullets.

For years, PooTrap has been the only player in the 'strap on device that catches dog poop before it hits the ground' market.

Not since Apple introduced the iPhone has there been a more dominant industry leader.

And you can see why:
  

The PooTrap has been the perfect solution for dog owners who are averse to picking up poo and don't mind humiliating their dogs by forcing them to wear a such a contraption.

As you can see, The PooTrap apparatus is an engineering marvel.  It's got straps.  And hoops.  And magnets.

The PooTrap  web site is even more impressive with its videos, sizing instructions and even poetry.

For nearly a decade PooTrap has been the dominant player in the dog poop collector market.

However, while they were sitting on their haunches, underdog Piqapoo was stealthily raising funds to introduce their own, much less complex device that catches dog poo before it hits the ground.

And not since deregulation of the Tel-comm industry as there been such cut-throat competition.

One can imagine the meeting at PooTrap International headquarters where the Market Research Analyst meets with the Product Engineer to delicately deliver the bad news: the PooTrap has competition.

"It's called Piqapoo."
"Peek-a-boo?" the Engineer asks.
"PiqaPOO," says the Analyst, and hands the Engineer a photo of a dog sporting the new product.

He carefully inspects the image and looks up.  "No magnets?"
"No magnets."
"No harnesses?"
"No harnesses.  Or straps."

The Engineer opens a Saki, his hands shaking.

"Then how does it work?"

The Research Analyst hand him the technical specifications and says, "It looks like they attach a plastic bag to a pony tail clip."

The Engineer's face reddens as he reviews the document.  He pounds his fist on the table.  "Why didn't we think of this?"

He places his head in his arms and beings to weep.

After an uncomfortable minute, he looks up hopefully.  "But will it work with any texture of feces?"

The Research Analyst rifles through her report, sighs, and reads aloud, "The collector can take in any texture of dog feces."

"What about colors?," he asks.  "The PooTrap comes in blue AND red."

"Piqapoo comes in three colors."

"How much?" he asks, desperation oozing from every cell in his body.
"$29 for the clip and 60 collection bags."
"NO!"  He sobs uncontrollably.  "The PooTrap costs $44 for 10 bags."

The mood in the room is somber as the Research Analyst turns toward the door.  She stops when she hears the Engineer's scream. 

"Wait!!!"

He has jumped to his feet, a smug look on his face.

"But do they have a poem?" he asks, not needing a reply

The M&M

I noticed the red M&M sitting on a glass table during my weekly Market Research team meeting.  

"What is that?" I asked.
"An M&M," Jeff responded.
"Looks deformed," Christine observed.
And we went on with our meeting.

A week later it was still there, but nobody commented.  It remained the next week.  And the next. Then I went on vacation for a week.

"Is that M&M still here?" I asked in today's meeting.  
"Yep," said Jeff.
"I think I'll blog about it."  

I set up a photo shoot soon after the meeting.   Then I moved it to my office.

A little while later our intern, Rob, noticed it on my desk and asked, "What are you going to do with that M&M?"

"I'm going to dissect it.  Tomorrow.  And then eat it."

Based on his reaction you would have sworn it was road kill.  I mean, seriously.  How many germs can possibly be on a deformed red Peanut M&M?

I was assuming it was a peanut M&M.  It was way too big to be a regular M&M. 

But then I realized that it could have been a deformed Peanut Butter M&M!

I overheard Jeff telling Rob that the 5-second rule must not apply to me.  Rather I lived by the 3-month rule. 

Which is entirely untrue.  If, say, a brussel sprout falls to the ground, I will not put that thing in my mouth.  Period.  And if a grape falls on the ground in my kitchen, the 3-second rule would apply.  However, if a Peanut Butter M&M fell on the ground in the Men's room of a Waffle Hut, the 3-month rule would apply.

I returned to my desk and attempted to concentrate on my research analysis.  But that potential Peanut Butter M&M was in my periphery. 

I had planned on inviting Jeff, Christine and Rob to my dissection the next day.  To kind of make a ceremony out of it.  But I couldn't wait.  

I was starving.  And it might be a Peanut Butter M&M.

I went to the break room to find a scalpel knife Samurai sword.

I dissected it.  And it was a damn deformed Peanut M&M. 

I was so disappointed.

But I was also starving. 

So I ate it.  And it tasted like a nasty-ass deformed Peanut M&M.

But I learned a valuable life lesson today.

If it looks like a deformed Peanut M&M, it probably is a deformed Peanut M&M. And it will most definitely taste like a nasty-ass deformed Peanut M&M.   

And the rule for deformed Peanut M&Ms is 1 second.

Getting Screwed by the Dentist

I'm breaking up with my Dentist.  Whom I used to love. 

What’s not to love about a dental practice that offers freshly baked cookies for patients?  You can apply sugar to your clean sparkly teeth before you even leave the place!

It is important to know that I was raised on well water.  I’m so old that fluoride wasn’t invented until I already had more cavities than teeth.  

And by the time I was 40 I had more crowns than Medieval England.

I started seeing my dentist, let call him “Dr. T”, 17 years ago when I first moved to Columbia.  Dr. T is not only an outstanding dentist, he’s an aesthetic dentist.  Which means his office is C*O*V*E*R*E*D with posters of beautiful people with even more beautiful smiles.

Which also means that I’ve been encouraged to get braces for 17 years.

“I’m not getting braces,” I tell Dr. T on every visit.  I remind him that if I was going to invest my money in aesthetics I’d get plastic surgery. 

Plus, I’m OK with the fact that my face will not be plastered on a poster in his waiting room.  Next to the cookies. 

During a routine visit 15 months ago, I told Dr. T’s hygienist that I had been experiencing pain in one of my back teeth.  She and Dr. T. carefully inspected the tooth and saw no visible signs of decay.  They concluded that I did not have a cavity. Rather, I had a "bruised tooth".  Dr. T. assured me that it would get better and to call them if it didn’t.  

Or if I changed my mind about braces.    

Eight months later I returned for another routine appointment, where X-Rays were taken.  As the hygienist examined them, she said, “This looks interesting.”  

(I do not want to have interesting dental X-Rays.  I want boring X-Rays.)

Sadly, Dr. T agreed with the hygienist.  You see, my tooth was completely decayed and needed to be extracted.  And, worse yet, I had to get a DENTAL IMPLANT.   

He added that if I ever wanted to get braces, this was the perfect time.

I soon learned that getting an implant is a very expensive and lengthy process which involves inserting a screw into your bone and ultimately placing a crown atop the screw.  

  

Dr. T referred me to a different dentist to whom I paid more than $3,000 to get screwed.   

I returned to Dr. T yesterday to get my mouth molded for the crown to place atop the screw that has been protruding from my gum for a month. 

After sitting through 4 different mouth molds I was sent to the front office to check out.

The Front Office Manager, let’s call her “Esmeralda”, informed me that the total cost for my new crown would be $2,300.  I gulped and asked for a discount.  

On-accounta-the-fact that IT WAS NOT A BRUISED TOOTH AND IF THEY HAD DONE A DAMN X-RAY 15 MONTHS AGO THEY WOULD HAVE SEEN A TEENY TINY CAVITY THAT COULD HAVE BEEN FILLED.

Esmeralda told me she would discuss it with Dr. T and call me back.

She phoned just an hour later to remind me that I had been offered an X-RAY during my exam the previous year and had refused it.  

Say-what?  Why in the hell would I refuse an X-RAY when I had a tooth ache?

Esmeralda also told me that Dr. T. had also adjusted my bite that day and told me to call if I had any problems and they never heard from me. 

Adjusted my bite?  What the flip does that mean?  I googled it and to find that adjusting my bite involves drilling.  

Dr. T did not drill me.

When I told Esmeralda that those stories were fiction she got all bitchy with me and basically said too bad so sad and stop shooting the messenger.   And I'm stuck.

I have one final visit to Dr. T’s office on August 29, when he will again make me royalty by placing a crown atop a screw sticking out of my gum.  I will pay $2,300 for that service.  

But I am taking every last one of those stinkin’ cookies on the way out the door.