A tale of two teeth

So, for the last few months, my 6-year-old’s two top front teeth have been loose. Last fall, his two front bottom teeth fell out. No pomp and circumstance. No drama. They came out when they were ready and, already, his adult teeth have taken their place.

These two top teeth have been a pain (literally). My son has not brushed those two teeth in what seems like ages and hasn’t bitten down on anything since Christmas for fear they will come out. It’s amusing to watch him bite out of the side of his mouth, but at the same time, I just want to pull the damthings out already.

This week, our 3-year-old had had enough. For weeks, he’s been listening to my husband and I tell the 6-year-old what to do in order to get the teeth to fall out. “Wiggle your tooth” “Eat this apple” and “Let me see your tooth” have been passed around the dinner table more than hot buttered rolls.

And we like our rolls.

On Monday morning, the 6-year-old came downstairs, crying. Naturally, when a mother sees her child crying, the first questions are, “What’s wrong? Do we need to go to the hospital?  Or beat someone up for hurting you?”

Me: What’s wrong? Do we need to go to the hospital? (see?)
6-year-old: My tooth came out.

(I can hear the distinct sounds of “the Hallelujah Chorus” in the background)

Me: Yay! Are you okay? How did it happen?
6-year-old: I’m bleeding! (3-year-old) kicked me in the face and my tooth came out!
Me: Oh. Well, um. That wasn’t nice of (3-year-old). Let me see.

Okay, I probably should’ve been madder at the 3-year-old, but… well, he helped us. Until that morning, that loose tooth had been hidden behind the second loose tooth. My 6-year-old looked like an 80-year-old homeless man. If the 3-year-old hadn’t kicked him, I might’ve had to do it myself and it looks worse coming from a parent.

Anyway, on Monday, we celebrated. I put the tooth away for safekeeping and then, of course, lost said tooth by the end of the day. Somehow, the amazing Tooth Fairy knew he had lost the tooth and he received whatever dollar bills she had stuffed in her sock drawer.

Way to go, Tooth Fairy!

Over the week, I have been begging the 6-year-old to wiggle his second tooth and take a bite of something and play kickball with his brother. Finally, the 3-year-old took matters into his own hands (again).

I was at work today when I got a text from our babysitter that the tooth finally fell out.

(Again, I hear trumpets.)

Me: How did it happen?
Her (me paraphrasing): (3-year-old) pushed on the tooth and it fell out.
Me: He what?!
Her: (3-year-old) wanted to feel (6-year-old’s) loose tooth, so when (6-year-old) let him, he pushed it out.

My 3-year-old, God bless him. I can picture him concocting this grand scheme to get the teeth out. He was tired of listening to us go on and on about the teeth and decided if his big brother was going to be such a wimp about it, he’d take care of it himself. He had been hoping the first kick to the teeth would’ve knocked them both out. Since they didn’t, he had to devise another plan. But not kick him again, of course. That would’ve been too obvious. So, what did he do?

3-year-old: “C’mere, kid. Let me see your tooth.”

Baaah! How did that work for him? I tried that weeks ago and my 6-year-old wouldn’t budge. I guess you have to look cute and innocent for it to work.

I can see it now. When my 3-year-old is a father, he’s going to be one of those dads who ties his kid’s tooth to a doorknob. “C’mere, kid. Lemme see that tooth.” Yank.

Thanks, (3-year-old). Problem solved.

Bring it, bitches.

Man, do I hate exercise.

I don't care that it's good for me and will give me more energy and blahblahblah stupid healthy trainer talk. I hate it. It's hard and it sucks rocks and I'm usually in pain afterward. Hate.

But, fine. I realize that exercise is a natural part of life. Just like death. And, since we have that gym membership and all, I figured I should use it. And be healthy and all that.

Okay, that's a lie. I'm doing it for a shirt. An adorable top I bought last year that I just can't wear given the shape I'm in. Judge if you will, but I can assure you there are dumber reasons than that to exercise.

The gym had been working out fine. Until I lost my motivation. So, I decided to go the P90X route. I wanted a plan that was going to force me to do something different every day and I knew a few people who had had major success with it.

The husband and I started out together. We outlined our goals, we weighed ourselves, we took our "before" pictures. We were pumped, we were psyched, we were going to Bring. It.

That lasted a whole 2 days.

In all fairness, my husband doesn't need the workout like I do. The man is fairly active, he plays volleyball at least once a week, where there's a lot of running and jumping involved, and he golfs for as long as the courses are open. Plus, when we joined the gym and they gave us our stupid fat index tests, he had less body fat than I did.

Jerk.

However, I, unlike him, have kept up with the P90X. Every day, there's a new exercise. From the annoying strength training to martial arts to cardio to yoga. I am obsessed. It's not that I like exercising any better than I did before, but I will admit I feel better when the exercise is over.

Mostly because the exercise is over.

But the obsession I have is mostly centered around food. "When can I eat" is the most popular thought I have. Because I'm a freak, I don't like to work out until it's been at least 2 hours since my last meal. But I only have so many hours in the day. And most of my waking hours are spent, um, eating. I do most of my exercising at night, after the boys go to bed. I have been DVRing all my TV shows, thinking I'll have time to watch the shows eventually. I am about a month behind on... pretty much everything.

I'm in week 5 of the 90 day challenge. Day... 7 x 4 +... Day 34. Crap. I thought it'd be more than that. I took my second set of pictures the other day. I hadn't realized I had been working towards this goal until the day came. I was really looking forward to seeing an improvement.

There was none. None! Sonofa...

My husband, God love him, swears he can see a difference, but let me tell you, there is none. I wasn't expecting to look like Day 90 or anything, but some change would've been nice. So, I've been struggling with the decision to just give up (because it's haaarrdd [that's my whiny voice]) or maybe possibly... try... harder.

I can't believe I just said that.

The thing is that Tony grows on you. In the beginning, you hate him with a passion something fierce. He talks a lot and you want to reach through the TV and punch him in the throat (with a Kenpo knuckles-front kick-back kick combo). Plus his Ab Ripper X? Hate. And it's frustrating to not be able to do everything he asks you to do. So, you're yelling, "Fuck you, Tony!" at the TV. A lot. But, after a while, you find him less irritating. And you actually picture yourself getting rid of all the "grease" and "gristle" he talks about while you're sweating your ass off. And today? I was able to do it all. And well. Well, for me anyway.

I'm not stupid enough to believe I'll complete the challenge. I am a firm believer in low expectations. If I expect to finish all 90 days, I'll never do it. So, I take it day by day. If I finish, great, awesome. If not, I'll just give away that shirt.

I tell ya, I should be the spokesperson for P90X.

Tony, call me.

A scary night at the movies

So, went to the movie theatre last night with my sister and another girlfriend. We figured it was a Tuesday night; we’d have our pick of movies. Right?

Wrong.

Our intention was to see the new Reese Witherspoon movie. Sold out. Okay, fine. We’d see that Johnny Depp movie. Sold out. We refused to see Little Fockers, so what was left? Black Swan. The ticket-seller (who happens to be a student of our friend) said it was a great movie. Okay, Black Swan it was.

We knew nothing about the movie going in. Well, almost nothing. I had read yesterday that Natalie Portman was now engaged to, and expecting a baby with, one of her co-stars from this movie. So, I knew the movie was about ballet and that Natalie had earned a Golden Globe nomination for the movie. That’s as far as my knowledge went. But, I like ballet. Center Stage was a great movie. Plus, we thought that if it was worthy of an award, we should see it. And then we could tell people we were all cultured and shit for watching award-nominated movies.

So, we went into the theatre with high expectations.

And then the movie started.

The fuck was this? Was it a thriller? Perhaps it would’ve helped to read a review of the movie before going in (ETA: I just read the review. It is, in fact, a thriller.). I can only imagine how the writer pitched this movie to executives.

“Picture it. A repressed perfectionist ballerina slowly goes insane, thinking she sees herself everywhere. It’s going to be really cool. We’ll use lots of camera effects (read: we’ll give the movie-goers motion sickness with all the jumping around). We’ll add a lot of vomiting and bloody toes and fingers. And masturbation. And at least one lesbian scene. Because lesbian ballerinas are hot. And then? At the end? When she thinks she killed her rival? She actually kills herself! It’s going to be awesome!”

I read that the script took about 10 years to make it to the screen. How much worse could it have been before this final version that no one would look at it? I’m guessing the writer added the lesbian scene and it was a done deal.

I suppose I could try to see this from the artiste’s point of view. You know, how the writer bludgeons you over the head with the symbolism? Natalie’s character wears white throughout the entire movie until she hangs out with her “evil twin” black swan, Mila Kunis. Then they, you know, do it, and she wears, um, gray after that.

I think the movie could’ve been better had they shown what everyone else was seeing. So, while Natalie’s character thought her friends were stabbing themselves with nail files, was she the one doing the actual stabbing? And what was with her overbearing mother? Couldn’t Natalie take out her own damearrings? I would’ve put a lock on my door about 10 years earlier.

If I had been friends with Natalie’s character, I would’ve just given the girl a sandwich and helped set up her profile on Match.com. All she needed was a burger and some sex and she would still be alive today.

I'll bet that ticket-seller laughed his ass off on his way home last night, thinking he screwed over his teacher.

Well played, kid. Well played.

What is figgy pudding anyway, and no, don't bring us some.

So, I woke up this morning singing, “We Are the World.” I suppose that’s an improvement over the millions of Christmas songs that have been dancing in my head over the last month, but not much of one. I need some heavy duty rap. Stat.

You know, I like the holidays, I really do, but damn, it’s a lot of work. From the decorating to the shopping to the cooking and baking. To hosting Christmas Eve. I’m tired.

But, even though it’s tiring, there are some things I look forward to every year. Breakfast at Mom’s on Christmas morning afternoon, playing whatever new board game we got that year, decorating the house. I have boxes and boxes of decorations stacked up in the basement, it takes an entire weekend to put everything up. The decorating weekend consists of taking stock of what I have, making a list of things I need (that may have broken last year [or have broken while stacked in the basement]), remembering where it all goes, putting it out and, finally, cleaning up the chaos I’d just created. By the end of the weekend, I am covered in enough glitter to moonlight as a stripper. But it’s pretty.

Of course, it’s not all fun and games. And stripper poles. I hate the shopping. While I love giving gifts, I don’t like the actual shopping for them. One, it’s hard to decide what to get the people who a) want nothing because they b) have everything already. My sister-in-law is great at finding gifts for people because she’s? A Shopper. I usually get her opinion before I start.

Working in retail for 8 years, I can appreciate what those mall workers go through every holiday season. And going to the mall around Christmas reminds me of those days and makes me appreciate that I don’t work there anymore. Last weekend, I spent a total of 16 hours shopping. It was just like when I worked in the mall, except I wasn’t getting paid. Only at the very end did I want to cry, which is an improvement for me. And then, on Monday, my sister and I hit the outlet malls. I didn’t get home until 10pm. P.M., people. I didn’t even eat dinner. But I? Was on a mission. And, I’m happy to say, my shopping is done. Normally, I’d still be shopping on Christmas Eve, so this is, in fact, a Christmas miracle. If I’m not wrapping presents at 2am Christmas morning this year, I will indeed believe in Santa Claus again.

And then there are the parties. We host Christmas Eve for my husband’s family. While I like the idea of being home, I’d much rather mess up someone else’s house this year. God bless my husband, though, who likes to cook. Because I think that would send me over the edge this year. Did I mention I’m tired?

But the kids make it all worth it. I have to admit, I got them some pretty awesome gifts this year (read: no clothes). I’ll be happy just to watch their reactions when they see what they got.

And I'll be happy when it's all over and I can take a long winter's nap.

Tired. Yeah.

I am Mrs. Brady

So, as I had written previously, I had broken up with my old hairstylist and had begun the long, painful journey to find a new one. I thought I had found one with that great haircut, but then she got pregnant and screwed up my friend’s hair. So, I decided to continue my search.

You have no idea how hard it is to find a good stylist. You can’t just enter any old salon willy-nilly and ask for a haircut. I mean, you can, but just know that you’re opening yourself up to days of tears and weeks of hats. It ain’t pretty, people.

So, you do the research. You ask your friends where they go. You ask your friends’ friends where they go. You ask strangers on the street (the ones with great hair – not the crazy homeless guy who just peed on the building next to you) where they go. Finally, you throw caution to the wind and make an appointment. And, if you’re lucky, you find a keeper... if you’re not, you find a great hat.

Enter Brad.* I learned about Brad from a co-worker. Her niece is a colorist at this salon and recommended Brad. So, I made an appointment. Our first meeting was uneventful. I thought he did a fairly decent job on my hair. Actually, I thought he did a great job. As I mentioned, I have the crazy cowlicks in the back and, somehow, Brad was able to tame them. Every time I moved my head, my hair fell beautifully, back into place. It was a great cut.

Additionally, Brad was entertaining. He’s awesomely gay. Have I ever mentioned my desire for a gay best friend? No?  Weird.  Alas, I have never been lucky enough to find one. My co-worker has one and he’s exactly the way I pictured my imaginary gay BFF. Someone who would look at me and say, “Oh, honey. That outfit? N-O.” Or, hopefully, “Honey, you look fab-U-lous!” Our first meeting, Brad was quick to compliment my top. And this last time? My boots. I like him. I know it’s his job and all, but it sounded sincere and I like my boots, too, so… he has great taste.

Anyway, Brad is also into theatre and musicals. He performs a lot, in addition to his day job. And he likes to sing along to the music playing in the salon. I love him, really. We spoke of Lady Gaga and how we totally want to be friends with her, even though she’s insane (mostly because she’s insane... and rich - an awesome combo). And he’s modest, to boot. When I walked into the salon yesterday, he said he thought to himself what an awesome cut I had (which he had given me, obviously). Hilarious.

This time, I decided to go to my co-worker’s colorist niece as well. This salon is different than any other I’ve been to because they all have specialties – color or style, whatever. So, if I want a cut and color, I have to see two different people. It’s probably a pain for the people scheduling, but it’s nice to know they all have their areas of expertise and you’re most likely going to come out with a great cut and color.

This time, I came armed with a picture. Most of the time, I never have an idea of what I want. What I want more than anything is for someone to look at me and say, “THIS! This is what you need!” But, whatever. It’s never going to happen. So, fine. Carpe diem. I’m going to do it myself.

And guess what happened? I was talked out of it.

The problem with me is that, while I want good hair, I’m pretty lazy about it. I never keep up with my highlights and my hair is usually so overgrown by the time I go back, it takes 2 hours to whip it back into shape. And, because of that, my new colorist suggested I go for a more natural look.

Which, let’s face it, is probably better for me. Because, while I used to be able to pull off funky hairstyles in my youth, I’d probably look pretty silly driving carpools in my minivan with pink hair. So, I let her do the responsible color.

3-1/2 hours I was at the salon. Have you ever seen the Brady Bunch movie from the 90’s? Mrs. Brady (played by Shelley Long) goes to a new hair salon and gets David Spade as a stylist? 7 hours (and a blowtorch) later, her hair looks exactly the same as when she walked in?

That’s me. That’s my hair.

I really should embrace it. It’s not a bad cut. It’s not a bad color. I just have to stop expecting something different than what I have because I must have already found perfection and didn’t know it.

Right?

* Name change to protect the fabulous.

While we're on the subject...

After my last entry, my siblings and I reminisced about our past Halloween costumes. My brother only remembers being a hobo and our father (not at the same time [although, when we talked about it, he wore a pair of blue workman’s pants and the filthy plaid jacket my dad would wear when working on the car, so I’m thinking my brother used the same materials, just tried to be creative by calling them different costumes]). My sister remembers being an 80’s chick, but it was the 80’s, so that wasn’t very creative. So, we pretty much suck at Halloween.

But, as a family, we are good at drinking (which is mostly why none of us can remember our costumes), and that made me think of Halloween last year, or as we now refer to it in my home, "The Drunken Debacle". And now I will share the story so you can all read my shame.

I like to fix people up. Well, sort of. I like to fix people up when it works well. If it doesn’t… I had nothing to do with it. And don’t bring it up to me. Ever. Again.

Anyway, my girlfriend was going through a divorce and feeling pretty low, so I thought a great date would cheer her up. I had the perfect guy. He’s a friend I’ve had forever, always up for meeting new people, always fun to be around. I figured he’d be perfect for her first time "out there" in 15 years.

So, I put together a happy hour at the local wine bar the day before Halloween. I think I’ve mentioned this wine bar before – they sell a wine that doesn’t give me hangovers? Right. Anyway, my co-workers, my brother, his girlfriend and my girl and guy friend all got together after work for a few drinks.

My brother, God love him, thought that ordering bottles of wine would be cheaper than buying by the glass. That, of course, is true, but you run the risk of the never-ending glass of wine. I normally know the number of glasses of wine I can handle, but since there was never an empty glass (due to my brother [God love him] filling my glass), I couldn’t keep track. I just figured I was a slow drinker that night. Or, most likely, I was drunk and didn't care. The wine was going down fiiiine.

My girlfriend and guy friend were seated (I’d like to think strategically, but I’m just not that good) together, with me across the table from them. I got the ball rolling, telling them each a little about the other. But, the more I drank, the more I liked the idea of them together. Man, they were cute. Did I say the following:

A) “You guys are so cute!”

B) “You have dark hair, he has dark hair! So cute!”

C)“You are tall, he is tall! So! CUTE!”

D) All of the above

If you answered D, you’d be correct.  

Gaah, I’m an idiot.

After a while, for whatever reason, we decided to go somewhere else. I always find this to be a mistake. Example? My sister’s bachelorette party 10+ years ago. We were having a grand ol’ time at our favorite neighborhood bar. My sister was appropriately attired in various penis bride-to-be paraphernalia and dancing on top of our table. But, I decided our favorite jukebox didn’t have enough rap/hip-hop music (a doy), so I wanted to go to another bar close by that offered dancing. What a mistake. We got there and everyone started to sober up. It got so bad, my sister tried walking home. So, yeah. Leaving a bar where you’re already having fun is a bad idea.

Same happened here. In those short minutes it took to drive to the next bar, I got extremely tired. I don’t even remember who picked the place or why. Since it was Halloween weekend, this bar was having a costume party. Not really fun for someone who was a) way drunk and b) didn’t have a costume. I spent my time at this bar drinking loads of water. Or, I wish I had been that smart. This part of the night was pretty hazy. Here’s what I remember of the 10 minutes we were at this bar.

1. I peed for a very long time as soon as we got there (in the bathroom [which, at this point, I considered an accomplishment] [I also picked the right icon on the door for "girls", another major accomplishment]).
2. In the time I was in the bathroom, I lost most of my party.
3. My girlfriend’s estranged husband showed up at the bar and took her home. Don’t know how he got there, don’t know when she had a chance to tell him where we were.
4. If I remember correctly (which I don't), my guy friend got my girlfriend's number before she left.
5. My guy friend was stuck having to drive my drunkass home – a half hour or longer out of his way.

The next day was spent... not in a good place (I'll spare you the details). My sainted husband took the boys away for the day so I could suffer in silence recuperate in peace. I felt like death warmed over twice (like twice baked potatoes) and couldn’t handle caring for myself, much less little people. The most I accomplished that day was watching 8 hours of MTV while sprawled out on the couch. And the only reason I watched that much MTV was because I couldn't muster the strength to find the remote control.

Luckily, I felt like a new person just in time for trick-or-treating.

Happy Halloween!

My favorite Halloween

Halloween is my third favorite holiday (Thanksgiving and Christmas are #1 and 2, respectively, [like you care]). I really looked forward to this Day of Free Candy every year as a child. Not the dressing up so much as the caaaaaaandy. As a lifetime member of Chocoholics Anonymous, you can imagine my pure happiness at the mere idea of getting my grubby little hands on those delicious mini Snickers and 3 Musketeers bars just by walking door to door in my neighborhood (good gravy, that was a long sentence). Why was this only a once a year thing?

Now that I'm an adult (boo), I can buy snack-sized candy bars whenever I want, but somehow, it's just not the same. I never have to look through my bag of candy for razor blades or crack cocaine (seriously, I grew up in a quiet Midwestern neighborhood, was that really necessary?).

Sigh.

Anyway, my 6-year-old is now in Kindergarten. Yesterday, the principal sent a note home with the kids, educating parents about "appropriate costumes" for the school's Halloween parade/party. Apparently, costumes that might scare the crap out of other children are a no-no. Speaking as someone who couldn't sleep for a week after watching "Thriller", I'm on board with that rule. Additionally, masks or anything that would inhibit children from seeing and/or breathing are also not acceptable.

Does she think we are idiots?

But, it made me think of my various costumes over the years. I'll admit, my mother wasn't one of those creative types. Love her, but she wasn't like my friends' moms who spent hours painstakingly sewing together coordinating outfits for their children. I have a terrible memory, so I'm sure I'm wrong about this and I'll get in trouble later, but I only remember being 3 things for Halloween:

• a gypsy (every year until I was 11 - and every year until I was 11, I would wake up the next morning with swollen eyes from the crack whore-amount of makeup [note: I don't know if crack whores wear a lot of make-up. Maybe I should say 80's-rock-band amount])
• a hippie (as a tween - and I put that outfit together myself [tie-dyed shirt and jeans - done!])
• a blue Crayola crayon

This was, by far, my favorite costume. And, I'm sure, my mother's biggest nightmare, as she spent hours painstakingly sewing together this costume to coordinate with my BFF, a red Crayola crayon.

Oh. Hey! My mom was awesome!

While my mother slaved over the sewing machine, my BFF and I made our gigantic crayon box out of yellow poster board, which we stood inside and held up with shoulder straps. Man, my BFF was we were creative! I was sure we were going to win for best costume in our school parade. But then little Timmy Trafficlight (note: not his real name) won for his costume as... a traffic light. Complete with working lights and everything. I mean, come ON! That kid didn't make that costume himself. He should have had points deducted. We used poster board! We made our mothers stay up late sewing! The contest was rigged. I'm pretty sure Timmy's too-involved parent paid off the... principal? Who was the idiot judge anyway?

Nevertheless, that was a pretty fun Halloween. I got to trick-or-treat with my BFF, attached as we were to our homemade crayon box. Our pillowcases were full of tasty treats. And, thankfully, no razor blades.

While we're on the subject of pillowcases full of candy... even now, I am baffled how my brothers were able to still have Halloween candy at Christmas. What was wrong with them anyway?!