Doubting Thomas
Oh I know we’ve had this conversation before, but let’s have it again. Just so I can remember why I ever doubted myself.
The 16 year old son of some wonderful friends of mine came over for dinner the other night. He arrived before his folks. This is the stuff of which parents’ nightmares are made. Not the horrible kind where your kid slips of a high ledge and you grab him by the straps of his overalls, and then the easy-change snap crotch of the overalls pops open snap by snap and he slips out of your grasp…
Not that kind of nightmare, but the kind where you aren’t close enough to know what your kid is doing, and he is doing something which, had you been there you would have nipped in the bud with either an “evil eye” or a well timed spilled drink. The kind where he opens a direct conduit from your kitchen table to the outside world. Old enough to hear and talk, not old enough to keep his mouth shut. I love that age in other people’s kids.
But they weren’t here and he was. And he was old enough to listen to his parents conversations and young enough to not know what he shouldn’t repeat. That’s my guess anyway. He was also old enough to know the intoxication of righteous indignation, but too young to know how fuzzy righteous is, and how frequently indignation is misplaced. Old enough to think that what he said mattered, but too young to to understand how much what he said mattered.
This is the same boy who got terribly upset with me when I told him last summer something about how fun I thought it was to hang out with Somalis and Hmong people. He told me that was totally racist. I allowed as how it is impossible to know any individual based on their country of origin, but that I felt it was entirely possible to generalize about the people within a culture. We went back and forth until he finally got out of my car and slammed the door. “I can’t believe you’re saying that. We fought a war because of that kind of thinking!” He’s handsome, tall, graceful and articulate. He’s funny, smart and in spite of myself, I care what the thinks. If only because he’s just dumb enough to say out loud what other people are thinking, which has always been one of my own mixed blessings.
He arranged his lanky self on one of our kitchen stools and looked at us with a look that belied his need to unburden himself. No ambivalence like many people have about criticizing other people. No self doubt or pesky urge to soften the blow of telling us what we needed to know. He heaved a huge sigh and grabbed a carrot stick.
Bus Stop
What disturbed me more?
There were 4 people at the bus stop at Grotto and Selby before I got there. One was a middle-aged special person. I can’t give you more than that. She may have been a special genius for all I know. But her glasses were smudged, crooked and sliding down her nose, her hair was dirty, her mouth hung open and her fanny pack was cinched tightly around her middle. One or two of these things may happen to us from time to time, but when they all happen at once, at a bus stop, we cross the line from frazzled (or State Fair bound) to special. She didn’t say a word for the ten minutes we all waited for the bus.
She may have had a lot to say, but she was busy listening to the other woman at the bus stop and nodding. This second woman was immense, and I don’t just mean overweight. Gigantesco. I swear on a stack of burgers that The top of her butt was almost up to my shoulders. She was big. I wish I were a better person, but I’m not. I was unable to control the urge to sneak looks at her backside trying to figure it out. It was a distinctly African butt.
Does anyone other than me remember the tragic story of the Hottentot Venus? She was a bushman-woman, taken by the dutch people as a slave and eventually paraded around Europe as a freak of nature. She had a trait called streaptopygia (among other things), which is common to people from that part of Africa. Large backsides made of connective tissue and fat deposits, like a natural bustle. She was paraded in front of sophisticated and wealthy men in Europe for years and it was just recently, at the request of Nelson Mandela that her body was removed from museums and returned to what is now South Africa.
http://bp3.blogger.com/_tzUcr_HG9sc/R5eVw0LnLmI/AAAAAAAAATY/U24bsh0bxKM/s1600-h/sarak_batman_venus_hottentot.jpg
Anyway this bus stop woman was impressive and streaptopygic. She had a baby in a stroller and a little girl in pink sweatpants, fleece sweatshirt and blue flip-flops. The baby was old enough to know he was cute and he caught me looking at his mom’s behind a couple times. When I gave him a little wave he covered his face. The girl kept getting into trouble.
Her trouble getting-into activities were the following: Walking around on the grass, picking up a stick, poking the stick into some dirt by the grass while sitting on a railroad tie. “Talia, what on Earth are you doing? Put that nasty stick down.” then a minute later, “Talia, I told you to stop messin’ with them sticks and digging in the dirt. Come on over here. I said come here, Now.” When Talia came over, mom grabbed her and said, “I asked you to stop messin with that stick, now why you over there playin’ with the stick? Answer me. Why? Answer me, I dare you.” The girl didn’t make any noise, but she walked away cupping her hand over her ear and whimpering.
The special woman and I were speechless. Her mom said, “Girl you should be thanking me. You should be grateful you don’t have a mom who beats you for real. You lucky. Now dust off your butt. I said dust off your butt!”
Praise god, the bus came so I didn’t have to somehow get myself into trouble. My biggest problem with this woman was this: Sticks are a gift from god. They are free, biodegradable toys. They are not nasty or dangerous unless dipped in shit or used in anger. If you have to twist a kid’s ear, it should be for something serious, like running into traffic, or supporting John McCain and Sarah Palin.
Travel Lessons
Here are some things I learned on my vacation, for what they’re worth.
Drugs and blogging do not mix.
Being in the mountains is lonely.
I am lucky to be alive.
People are easily swayed by a pretty face.
I was invited on a trip with a local community college anthropology club. I’m a geek, so that’s the kind of vacation I like. I jumped at the chance. There were 11 of us. 7 women and 4 men in a van/bus thing creeping around the mountains near the border of Colorado and Arizona. We had quite an age spread, the youngest being around 22 and the oldest being well into his 60s.
One young guy who was a liberal whacko needed the smack-down put on him a couple times (I love the smackdown). He kept talking about people deserving to get killed or put away forever. Remember the Hmong guy in Wisconsin who killed the hunters? The one who he says harassed him? This guy on our trip said if the hunters had harassed the Hmong hunter, then they deserved to get shot. And remember the story about they guy who forgot his toddler in his car while he went to work? The child died, but our young turk thought the father should be locked up, “People can’t forget about kids. That’s insane. He had to know that kid was in the car. He deserves to be punished.”
My immediate response was to suggest that finding your baby dead in the back seat of your car was probably a pretty harsh punishment for the guy. And to suggest that verbal harassment probably didn’t deserve the death penalty. We had this sort of goofy relationship where I asked if he had never done anything stupid, made a bad judgment, but gotten lucky and not been punished. He had never done anything THAT stupid, he was pretty sure. I got to know him better over our trip, and ladies and gentlemen, he had too done things that stupid. But I didn’t kill him.
I sometimes worry about getting killed or having some huge terrible consequence come of a moment of stupidity. My first night in the mountains reminded me just how dumb and lucky I am.
We had just finished a harrowing and stomach churning ride up to Mesa Verde. Mesa Verde is right on the mountainous border between New Mexico and Colorado. As the name suggests, it is a mesa (a table, or a mountain with a flat top instead of a point). Driving in the mountains is stunningly beautiful, death-defying and full of all the wrong kinds of motion. If I kept my eyes directly on the horizon, I could keep my headache and nausea in check. Mostly. But we drove all day. And by the time we arrived, I was exhausted. All I wanted was a place to lay down that didn’t move or look over a steep gorge.
We dropped our stuff off at the rooms and had orders to meet back at the (still stale and full of effluvia) van in five minutes, to go down to the lodge for a meeting. I emptied my bladder, dumped out my stuff (a compulsion of mine), brushed my teeth and headed back to the van. I climbed in and noticed it was only half full. This wasn’t a mandatory meeting. I had an awkward moment while I considered the impression I would be giving if i looked into the van, checked head-count and declined to go. I went with them to the lodge, figuring I could walk back to the hotel/cabin place after a polite few minutes.
I was draggin’. When we got to the lightly peopled and somewhat odd bar (it was more like a portable wedding bar than anything else), I could hardly even be politely social. I was plain old tired. I confessed my error in judgment and said I’d just mosey up the mountain and back to my little hotel room, the key to which was in my pocket. Right.
So, it’s dark now. And misting lightly. Surprisingly cold for late May. The next morning we’d wake up to snow, as it turns out. I could see the road we came down from our cabin on. I started walking up it, back the way we came. I could see a row of cabins around the curve of the road, but there was a grassy patch with a path right through it. That path goes right towards the first row of cabins without going the long distance along the curve of the road.. I decided I’d cut through the grass and between the cabins, to come out in front of that row.
Halfway up the path I realize a few important things. First, I have no idea if this is the only row of cabins, maybe there are more rows beyond the curve. Second, I have no clear recollection what our room number is. Third, the number isn’t printed on the key (security reasons). Fourth, aren’t there things called mountain lions which live in the mountains? And don’t they sometimes eat people? And wouldn’t that big dark opening under the cabin to my left be a perfect den for one to pounce out of? Yes, and yes, and yes.
I keep walking because maybe I’ll recognize the row of cabins and I’ll hear the people who didn’t go to the bar meeting. Plus, it’s a long way to walk back. And as I pop out between the cabins, it’s very well lit and totally generic. Looks like every other row of cabins up and down the mountain. And damn! It’s cold! I decide the least I need is the room number. I’ll have to go back and ask for it.
Couple problems. First, coming out of the bright row of cabins into the mountain path darkness, I cannot see the path. I came up it two minutes ago, but it has disappeared. If I look off to the side of where it should be, it pops out, but when I look for it, it goes away. It’s like I’m in a dream. Secondly, it’s slippery and cold. I look to a spot just alongside where the path should be. Walking down it, I start to berate myself. Why, oh why and I so stupid? Why?
When I slip and fall in the icy drizzle on the side of the mountain and am eaten or not by the mountain predators, won’t people think I was asking for it by venturing out in the dark drizzle alone? Yes they will. But if I live through this, I will not say such callous things about those who die from lack of better judgment. I decide I will also be grateful for my life and not do stupid things again. The mountain has mercy on me and I make it back to the lodge.
Looking back, I think I must have had altitude-induced hardening of the brain because I actually made this trip twice, returning after I checked the room number with my crew in the bar and realizing that there are many identical rows of cabins and since I have no idea what the system is, the room number doesn’t help me.
The second time I went up two rows of cabins and ran into the proverbial mountain lodge maintenance man, you know, the one who kills people in the movies, whose truck had actually driven by me on my way back to the lodge the first time. He had a box of wrenches and a truck with some reassuring maintenance-ish thing on the side. I fessed up to him that I couldn’t find my cabin. He offered to drive me back to the lodge after he fixed the shower in the unit I was in front of. His truck looked warm and dry. I declined.
I headed between the cabins back into dark.
?
I need some help proofreading an email response to one of my son’s teachers. The email below was sent to me this afternoon by his science teacher. Both really need to be read out loud to appreciate them fully.
Just a note about Jasper in Science today.
Today we were doing an experiment with Jell-O, soap, and eyedroppers. It came to my attention that when I was dismissing students Jasper took an item(plastic eyedropper) out of the trash can from my classroom. He was later seen chewing on the eyedropper. I can not have these two types of behavior: taking things from my room and chewing on a plastic eyedropper. When he takes an item from my room, without my permission gives me the impression that he can be trusted. When he chews on items, used in science, is not safe regarding his well being. The eyedropper only came in contact with Jell-O and soap. I informed Jasper at the end of the day behaviors like this will give me reason to have him removed from football practice.
Please talk to him about his actions today.
I would like to see Jasper succeed, however these actions are not in his best interest.
I promised to sleep on my response, but I feel like I need more input than mere sleep can impart. Here is my first draft:
Mr. X,
We will certainly talk to Jasper tonight. Removing things from the trash is a bit of a compulsion for Jasper, it hasn’t gotten him into trouble in school before, however. I do understand the protocols for safety in a lab class and the importance of following those protocols.We’ll try to explain the chaos and mayhem that could ensue if even half the class followed his example. I understand if you need to impose consequences if he can’t control himself, but please don’t worry about removing him from football practice if this happens again, as we will cut off one of his hands, making football a non-issue.
I hate to ask, but do you think this problem is a part of a pervasive pattern of pilfering behavior on his part or was it just the one plastic eyedropper? He has an appointment with a psychiatrist this month, do you you think I need to bring this incident to his doctor’s attention?
The chewing on plastic items, I would argue, is not as much of a behavior problem which needs to be punished as it is a stress and anxiety reaction which will get worse when attention is called to it. Three weeks ago he had two packages of new pens for the start of the school year. If you think of it, take a look at his pens and you’ll see that he’s chewed them all flat on the ends. It is a new behavior this year, but I think it will pass as he settles into school. If not, we will consider the pulling his teeth as well.
I would also argue strongly that he should not be removed from football for chewing plastic items in general, as it doesn’t seem like a discipline issue, but more of a personal problem. You know, some people chew their nails, some blink or shake their legs, some people even pull their hairs out or grab at their privates, and while these things get annoying, they hardly seem like the kind of things that require immediate punitive action.
Falling in Love
Maybe it isn’t love, maybe it’s just crushes. Maybe it’s just the warm nectar of the universe. Whatever. I fall in love about once a week.
I fell in love with the British guy who made historically accurate costumes the minute he told me what the fist sized rock he was holding was. It was round, but squished so that it was flat on the top and bottom. He told me, “That’s a frowin stown. F’ frowin.” He pantomimed a pitch for me.
I fell in love with my neighbor Diane at the bus stop one day. We heard sirens in the distance. While I thought about my mom saying Hail Marys when she heard sirens, as instructed by the nuns at the Academy of the Holy Angels, and I thought seriously for just a second about what kind of trouble someone was in that warranted all those sirens. Diane didn’t think of it like that at all. She sighed with relief. “Oh good. Someone’s getting all the help they need.”
I fell in love with the woman who would become my mother in law when she called to talk to my mom. Her voice was, and is serene and honey-sweet. She recognized my voice, and I recognized hers. I was only 14 or so. I don’t think I had heard from her for a year or maybe more. When she said, “Hello, Lisa. How are you?” and waited to hear me answer, instead of the staccato, “Lemme talk to yer mom.” that was typical of my mom’s family and friends.
I fell in love with her husband when I was walking home from the bus stop. In typical Lisa Bonnie fashion, my book bag was open, papers were sliding out. I had a sweaty pile of folders I was trying to jam into the bag. He stopped raking the lawn and asked if he could help. Then he showed me that if you pry apart two books in the middle of the bag, you could slip something in easily and without destroying it. This was a revelation to me. I must have been about 12.
I fell in love with my son the other day, while he was watching cartoons. There was an ad on for foster parenting, but I wasn’t paying attention. “Mom! We should do that. You and me.” I didn’t know what he was talking about. “There’s this thing. You take a baby and take care of it until it gets adopted. Let’s do that. It could be part of homeschool.”
Mango Thai on Selby
It’s been a while since I did a restaurant review, but tonight I ate a really interesting, beautiful and pleasant meal. I thought I should share the experience with the general public.
I didn’t realize the little mom and pop Thai place had changed hands until I walked by a couple weeks ago and saw the new awnings and the outside tables. I kind of enjoyed the last place, but just the name of this new place made my juices start to flow. Is it just me? Or is the word Mango exquisitely tempting? I had to go. It had to be good.
My friend Annie summed up the style of the place nicely by saying it was totally Ikea. I might qualify that and say it was Thai-kea (like Ikea, but with bamboo and Thai chili peppers). Low key, unpretentious effortlessly sophisticated beyond our range. What with the varnished plywood tables and bare plywood seating area with pillows, the plastic flower petal lamps, and occasional bare bulb, it was way cooler than us. The seating we chose was weird and hard to explain other than by saying it was a table set into a sort of stage. A person has to climb onto the stage and put their feet in the depression left for the table.
The staff was super friendly, all male,oddly enough. All dressed in what they called Thai fisherman pants and flip-flops. The effect was artsy and again, cooler than us.
The noise level was just about right. I prefer a quieter environment, and this was good although it is right on Selby Avenue and the place was full up. The door was kept open, which did allow for a few persistent flies to land on our stuff, giving Annie the opportunity to remind me that flies land on poop before they land on your food. Maybe they could invest in a screen door, or little mesh curtain?
We had the mango spring rolls for an appetizer. The presentation was stunning, with carrot and jicama curlicues on top of a little mound of field greens. The rolls were sliced at an angle and set upright against the greens. They were pretty good, stuffed with field greens, avocado, shrimp and mango. The mango itself was less than stellar, but the dipping sauce rocked my world. It was a peanut sauce, but much thicker than most of the peanut sauce I’ve had. It was salty-sweet and a little spicy, and so good we wanted to ask for more to dip our entrees in. We restrained ourselves.
I got a Thai iced tea, which was very different, and very sweet. I don’t think I’d get that again. Annie said it was way better after all the ice had melted.
I got the Laab (also known as cheng mai salad), because I like to try it everywhere I go. I have had some really bad laab in my day. This was pretty good. They got the flavors just right, sour, spicy, salty and full of mint and cilantro and toasted rice powder. They didn’t serve a lime with it, or a side of rice which is unusual. They also got the texture very wrong. In my experience, laab should be meat with spices, lime, rice powder and chili. It’s dry, a kind of meat salad that you wrap in lettuce of cabbage leaves. This was all of that, except for the dry part; it swam in a viscous, soupy blob. Annie and I agreed that it looked more than a little gross. Once I recovered from the texture and appearance, I ate it all. I might order it again.
Annie got the pad Thai with tofu. It was beautiful served on top of a banana leaf, accented by the carrot and jicama ringlets again and nice golden fried bits of tofu. The tofu was as good as I’ve had, but that’s not saying much. The noodles were too sweet for me, but Annie liked them.
For dessert we split fried bananas in cinnamon ice cream. This was delicious and beautiful. The bananas were so delightfully light and crispy golden on the outside and warm yet firm on the inside. The ice cream was just a little melty, and there were strawberries and chocolate, too. We couldn’t find a hint of cinnamon, but it really was wonderful just as it was. If I were in charge, I’d lower the dessert cups from the giant martini glasses to something that the patrons can actually see into. We couldn’t ever see into the cup, because it was so tall.
Over all I think I’d give it an A minus. Almost every presentation we saw was gorgeous. Every smell was fresh and interesting. All the patrons looked happy and relaxed. I’ll be back. The price was middle of the road, it was under 40 bucks for both of us including tip.
International Relations
Updates:
Libyan guy hasn’t caused any commotion. He is conscientious and even if he wasn’t, all he has to do is smile and he’s easy to forgive. He has had no shortage of female attention. I guess I’ve been out of the market for a long enough time that I got dumb. He came home on the 5th of July with hundreds (no lie) of mosquito bites. All over his legs, his back, his arms his neck… He was miserable for a few days. We couldn’t figure out how someone could get so many bites.
Andy (genius that he is) said, “Maybe were you drinking?” A sheepish smile. Maybe a little. But his friend, “she have so many bites”. “Did you maybe… Fall asleep?” Maybe a little. We didn’t follow up with, “Were you naked?” But we got the general idea.
A few days later, he brought his cute blond friend in to meet us. Silly me, I ask, “Oh! So do you have lots of mosquito bites, too?” She looked confused (this where I silently say “shit”) then smiled and said, “Oh, no. That’s just him.” I guess it didn’t occur to me that he’d have multiple girls juggled so quickly.
He has a dog phobia. Even tiny dogs. That’s kind of cute in a way. I appreciate phobias. He told us today that Brad Pitt is “Hot” in a very excited way. He loves dessert, especially brownies and ice cream.
It Is Magic
I have this kid. He’s 14 and 3/4 going on 10. Very small, immature by any measure. He gets into trouble enough that I wince if there’s a phone call from school. His file of trouble is full of his badness, documented in triplicate. “Jasper dropped a bean down Leanda’s pants” “Jasper hit Benji. Benji hit Jasper. Jasper hit Benji.” “Jasper didn’t listen to instructions.” “Jasper isn’t working to his potential” “Jasper was saying itch right after Benji said B, and he was putting mashed potatoes in his milk.” “Jasper said he was going to bring a knife to school and kill Meghan.” (that one got taken pretty seriously)”Jasper called me a stinky-buttface”…
He knows everyone in the neighborhood. Remembers people and their names for years. Loves people. Loves them. Doesn’t always know when he’s annoying them, but he loves them. He has troubles. He’s difficult to parent. He threw violent tantrums regularly until he was medicated at about age 11. Smashed all his furniture, put holes in his walls, screamed himself hoarse and broke his own toys. He is almost 15 and he still carries a blankie around, especially if he’s having a bad day. He doesn’t read or write anywhere near grade-level. He’s goofy and complicated.
He got himself a job. He got into his head that he would like to work at a neighborhood store, Kortes. He asked for and filled out an application. Turned it in and waited. When he didn’t get a call, he called. They put him off, saying they’d put his application at the top of the pile. He asked if I’d drive him there so he could talk to the manager in person.
When he did, the manager tried to talk him out of working at such a young age (14). “Kid, you don’t need a job. This is the last part of your life where you don’t have to work. Enjoy it.” Jasper said he’d think about it. He called back and said he really wanted to work there. After a couple of weeks of Jasper nagging this guy, they finally relented and hired him. He wears a little blue and black polo shirt, a name tag and black pants. He loved it.
About two weeks ago he came upstairs and said he couldn’t sleep because he was really sad and worried. He sat on the edge of our bed and tried to explain why.”I can’t stop thinking about this guy who came into the store today.” Even after questioning him about what happened, we couldn’t figure out what was really eating at Jasper.
The customer was old. Old enough that someone else, maybe his daughter or someone, was driving him to the store to do shopping. He got his groceries and they were rung up before he realized that he didn’t have is wallet. The cashier said they could hold the groceries while he went home and got his wallet. The woman who drove him said that would be fine, but the old man said there wasn’t time to do that. For whatever reason, the guy left without his groceries and didn’t seem like he was going to be coming back for them.
It was a sad story. But not one that should be keeping him up at night. I thought we were missing a piece. Did Jasper think he should have paid for the groceries for the guy? Did he worry that they guy wouldn’t have food for the night? Did he think the woman driving him was being mean? Was the cashier being rude or mean? No. None of that. He couldn’t say why it was bothering him, but it was. He was on the verge of tears. We chalked it up to him being overtired and emotional, told him he did his best and not to worry. If he had someone to drive him to the store, that person would make sure he had whatever else he needed. He went back to bed.
The following evening, we were driving and he brought this incident up again. I asked, “Jasper, if this is still bothering you it’s because you feel like you should have done something you didn’t do. If you figure out what it was, it will probably make you feel better.” He was quiet. He sighed.
“Mom… it’s not magic or anything. It’s not like that. But I am really good at talking to old people and little kids and animals. Not like I can read their minds or anything, but I can talk to them in a way that they understand. Better than other people. I should have explained to that guy that he had time to go get his money. I should have talked to him so he would understand.”
The thing is, he’s right. He does have a gift for that. When he was in kindergarten, we visited Grandma and Grandpa Morgan. Grandpa was struggling with a disabling depression. It was a holiday, everyone was pleasant, Grandpa was soldiering through. When he sat down at the table, Jasper asked him, “Grandpa, why are you sad?”
I love that kid.
PTDS
So we goes to the dentist. Sanad and I. He was very interested in the goings on. He asked about what kind of instrument the hygienist was using, what size and shape. They talked in secret dentish language about amalgams and porcelain fillings and recision and other things I didn’t understand.
He watched her, looked in my mouth while she tortured me with that metal stick. When she took the X-rays, she told me to breath through my nose and wiggle my toes. By coincidence, he had just told me about the “dentist’s secret” he had learned in Libya. That secret was that if you have to do a procedure which might gag a patient, you need to tell them to lift their left leg. That way the patient would think what he or she was doing had something to do with circulation and be distracted enough that they wouldn’t gag.
He wasn’t impressed when she said, “wiggle your toes, breath through your nose. It helps you concentrate so you don’t gag.” He kind of thought he was spilling the beans about the anti-gagging advice. I almost explained that I a girlfriend in high school had instructed a whole group of us on how to breathing through your nose was the best way to keep from gagging. And she really seemed to know.
Back to the Dentist. As I was on my back looking at the special pearly light, with the hygienist was poking around the base of my teeth, I had a flashback. I remembered why it was that I hadn’t been to the dentist for 2 years. She grazed a nerve. Just barely touched it enough to make my mouth water and send warning sparks to my brain. When she did that I twitched a tiny bit. It was enough to make me remember the last time.
Last time it wasn’t the hygienist, it was the dentist. He didn’t just graze it, he nailed it with the angled poker of the apocalypse. Nailed it so good that I actually jumped up from the chair and bit him. I bit the dentist. Not hard, but hard enough. He apologized and only nicked it one more time during the visit.
Turns out that Sanad has worse teeth than me. He doesn’t floss (he finished dentistry school at home, but to no avail). So I didn’t have to be embarrassed about my teeth at all. Having him watch my mouth fill up with spit and blood and get spritzed with water wasn’t as bad as it could have been.
Ahem… Awkward
Is it me? Or is going to the dentist kind of a private thing? I think of it as more invasive than a gynocological exam. That may be why I haven’t been for a year or two. They never should have told me I had such great teeth that I didn’t need to come in every 6 months, I could come in every 9 months to a year. Wooohooo! I went a little overboard on the whole deal.
Which is fine. It isn’t even so terrible going to the dentist nowadays. When I was a kid, we’d walk up to Dr. Bussen’s office. Good God, it was like going into the 50s. The equipment was old, he was old, his fingers were fat, his breath smelled like what I can only call Dental Carrion. And in the strange karmic-cosmic-ironic-poetic-justice way that childhood has of making sense, it was on the same block as the candy store (have I waxed nostalgic about Roith’s Pharmacy and Kenny’s Market?). I digress.
I have this appointment tomorrow. And I have this house-guest from Libya. He just finished dentistry school in his country. He’s been asking since he got here (2 months) if he can accompany one of us to the dentist’s office while he’s here. I tried to throw him off the scent by telling him about the neighbor boys’ appointments (both brothers in one fell swoop), but alas, he wants to come with me tomorrow.
Alls I’m saying is it kind of makes me a little icked out. I can’t say why, but it does. He better not ask if he can prod my teeth in any way. Because he can’t. I’m willing to bet that by 2pm tomorrow I will know why I felt uneasy abou this. Yeeesh. I’ll get back to you.
lisabonniemorgan
