Interview with a Vampire…ok so he was a psychic/medium. Same thing.

The following takes place in a town I’ve never been to in a baby’s room that I’ve never met with a man claiming he can talk to dead people. He looked like he worked at Home Depot. Anything in italics are thoughts/actions. Anything following the ~ is me speaking.

There’s a very high wall blocking your energy that I am going to try to work through. Try to keep an open mind.

~Ok.

He shuffles Tarot cards.

I don’t read Tarot cards; I just use them to guide me.

Or something like that I don’t remember.

~Ok.

Now you shuffle them anyway you want and then we’ll get started.

I shuffle and pass them back. There’s a large McDonald’s cup on the baby’s dressing table. It’s sweating. The cup is as nervous as I am.

                Flips first card.

Well you’re not getting divorced.

SHOCK. Dammit. I meant to take off my wedding rings just so he didn’t see them and have that prop to work with. Shit. Wait, what the fuck are we talking about Eddie for? 

~Ok.

Have you had problems in your marriage? Were you thinking of getting divorced?

                Who doesn’t? And no.

~No.

                Second card.

Your economics are weak and struggling.

                Who’s aren’t?

Do you understand?

~Yes.

                Next card.

You need to protect your immune system.

                I think I am having a heart attack. I can’t see straight. Am I dying this very instant?

Have you had a cold recently?

~No.

You’re like a pressure cooker. I’m sensing severe anxiety. Do you understand?

                OMG.

~Yes, can I tell you something?

Yes.

~My doctor just put me on medication for anxiety and depression on Wednesday.

Ok, that’s what I’m getting. But this isn’t new. You have carried this with you since you were a teenager.

                Have you met my mother?

                Next card.

Has your mother’s father passed?

Fuck. Yes, but I am not here to talk to that drunken fool. Dammit. Enter waves of sadness. I hate this. I must have paused too long because he says…

I’m getting a father figure. It’s your father. You’re father has passed.

                I’m vibrating.

~Yes.

He wants me to tell you he loves you 3 times. Do you understand?

No. I don’t have any idea what that means. He actually may have said “he loves you times 3” but I can’t remember. Does he mean that there are 3 of us kids? I have no idea.

~Ok.

                Shrugs his shoulder. OMG. Daddy had a torn rotator cuff.

I’m getting a lot of pain here.

Daddy was in a lot of pain.

He says he loves you very much, that you had an incredibly strong bond.

                Tears. Yes….but you could say that to anyone (skeptic).

~Yes.

                Applying tissues.

                Flips a card.

You’re mother is still alive.

                Unfortunately.

                I nod.

She is a very thorny one. Be careful of her.

                No shit. You didn’t need to tell me that one.

You have two kids.

~No.

Two siblings then?

                I nod.

Two brothers. One you get along with, one you don’t.

                I nod.

When your father passed the family sort of went crazy.

                We were crazy before that.

~I did.

I’m getting that. He knows it. He says he loves you very much and you’re going to be ok.

                Skeptic - You could say that to anyone.

He says you are Daddy’s Little Girl.

I bet you say that to all the girls. He called me Sweetie Pie. Had you said that I would have been   sold. I’m not convinced.

                He places his hand over the mother/brother cards.

There is no reconciliation here.

                Sherlock. But thanks because no one believes me.

Your Dad is telling me that anyone that is a friend of yours is a true friend. He is saying that you make friends very easily, but in a room like this (meaning the 30 people downstairs) you feel a million miles away.

                Accurate.

What does he mean about sketching and drawing?

~I used to do both.

I asked for an electric typewriter as a kid and spent countless hours clacking away and spinning crazy stories with help from lots of correction tape. Dad used to read them and give me advice on them. I used to draw too, but never thought it was worth anything though I did win some contests in grade school now that I think of it….how did you know that? Could he really have told you that? That was a heck of a guess.

He says to continue with that, that you are talented and it will help you.

~My friend actually encouraged me to start a blog in January.

You need to keep doing that. It will be good for you.

~Ok.

                Crying.

I’m sorry that you’re upset.

~It’s ok.

I’m feeling pain in my heart, how did your father pass?

~ Liver transplant surgery. His heart stopped five times.

That’s what I’m feeling then.

I don’t believe you. All your major organs are in your body’s center, you could have been feeling anything. Weird anyway.

He says that the medication you are on will help you. You won’t be on it forever. It will help. You won’t always feel like this. You will get better.

                I nod.

He says that you don’t talk. You really need to talk. He’s telling me that you push things deep down and repress a lot.

Bingo. But wait, there are a few I tell everything to. I just can’t talk to Eddie about it. He doesn’t understand.

Counseling would really help you but your Dad says only if you are willing to open up and talk.

Dad told me, if you don’t tell the other person what is wrong, they will never know and you won’t be able to fix it. Is this what he means? Eddie just doesn’t get me.

I nod.

He flips a card.

Ah, conception.

                HOLY FUCK. WHAT?

Are you trying to conceive.

~No.

                Absolutely no fucking way.

Hmmmm.

                Flip. Puzzled.

Are you sure? Because this is the card for fertility. You are extremely fertile.

                And you sir, are out of your fucking mind. Stop saying Fuck, L.

~Listen, let me explain something to you. I have two uteruses. That’s where this is coming from. I am not having kids.

Oh. Well that makes total sense. This isn’t always a literal translation. But that makes total sense.

                Note we are in a baby’s room. The freak factor is in full effect. No sex tonight just in case.

What do you do for a living?

~I’m a legal secretary.

Ok, I don’t see that as the path for you.

                Good or all this school would be a waste.

I see you working with kids.

                HAHAHAHAHHAHA. No. Lord if others could hear this.

Are you planning to move? I see a major change coming up with where you live.

~No.

Hmmmmm.

~We are planning to redecorate.

OK but this will be something that looks totally different.

                Isn’t that what RE-decorate means?

Ok well your economics will get better, don’t worry about that.

I wasn’t really. Other than 2 billion dollars in school debt, I didn’t think I was doing that bad. Plus Eddie’s settlement will be here in a month – hence the redecorating.

And you will get better. Keep taking the meds, write, and know that your husband and your father love you very much.

                Surprisingly, I was happier to hear that Eddie really loved me. I already know how my Dad feels.

Understand that your husband loves you, but he doesn’t get you. He doesn’t understand you and he doesn’t know how to fix you.

                Ahhhh. Well, then. I agree with that. Why does it make sense when you, Mr. Home Depot, says it?

You’re father says talk to him. Talk to your husband.

                Fine. Dammit. I’ll tell him everything tonight. I’d rather try to teach algebra to a two year old.

~He doesn’t understand me. He doesn’t even know I am here.

Talk to him.

~Ok.

Is there anything you want to ask me, anything from A to Z?

                Are the Giants going to win the Super Bowl? Dammit L, you are so selfish.

~I don’t know.

Anything?

~Is he at peace?

Pause.

When’s the last time you were at the cemetery?

                Gotcha. He’s not at a cemetery.

~I haven’t.

                Let’s see what you do with that.

I’m not sure what he is telling me but he is saying that he is in a beautiful place. Where is he?

~On my mantle.

                It’s dusty.

Ok he is saying it is very beautiful there.

                If you say so.

You are certainly not going to tell me that he hates the place and there’s an abundance of fire and brimstone. This is not to imply he would be in hell; that would be impossible. I feel like you are reading from a script now.

Well I’m sorry that you are upset.

~It’s ok.

When did your Dad pass? It feels like it was yesterday.

~ November 27, 2009.

                Yes it does.

Ok so it’s still very recent. You will be ok. This is all very painful but you will be ok.

~OK thank you. Thanks for your time.

You’re welcome. Sorry about your Dad.

                He sips the sweaty McyD’s soda.

                I exit stage left.

I go back downstairs to join all the ladies but they’re all silent as I enter, noting my tears. Some hug me, another shoves tissues at me. I feel like they are all trying to touch me. It takes me a minute to get composed and someone has the courage to ask, “What did he say?”

I start crying again and tell them, “He said I’m not getting divorced.”

Eruptions of laughter. “I guess that’s why she’s crying!” They said.

 I didn’t mean it that way. But in hindsight it was kinda funny.

I can readily admit that while 50% of this was uncannily accurate, the other 50% was generic and would fit anyone. I am not convinced that my Dad waited for a high fructose absorbing Home Depot has-been confined to a nursery – the last place on earth I would want to be – to say “hey howdy.” Which, if it was really him, he would have said.

Every minute that passes since the encounter expands my doubts and questions it all.

And yet…what if it was him? 

Try Being Me.

Try being me for a day and you’ll know how hard it is to get up each morning. Not just because I despise waking up, but for the few hours I was able to sleep, there’s a chance I was with my Dad. That first sense that I’m awake though, that moment where if you opened your eyes the world would seem watery, that’s when I’ve lost him again. Getting back there is so far away; and sometimes impossible. And I have no choice but to sit up or roll out of bed and live this life without him. What I wouldn’t give to dive back into the depths of dreams where his moustache brushes my cheek with a goodnight kiss or his sandy shoes are beside the door. His sausage sized fingers write misspelled words or he laughs without his false teeth. I kiss Papaya when I get up and tuck her in real tight. There’s a chance she is dreaming of him too and I don’t want to disturb her. Let them be together.

In the mirror I see how old I am now. How the sadness etches my face with sorrow and my eyes look more than ever like those of a beaten puppy. I can put on as much makeup as I want and nothing changes. I’m still in there. I just have on war paint now. Because this is a war; this daily battle. And it’s one I’m losing.

The routine is short and I’m in my car and on my way to work. My Dad would like this car. He’ll never drive in it though. And if he is looking for me I have betrayed him because he won’t recognize this car and won’t be able to find me. I have eluded him unintentionally and I will suffer for it.

Work is mundane. I am not challenged. There’s nothing to focus on. I waste time and perform robotic tasks that require no effort and less skill. Dad sits on my desk painted on a mug. The two of us going to a football game. One of the best night’s of my life. I never dream about it though. Has he forgotten it?

I cried every day at lunch until Papaya made me stop. It was almost four months later when I came home in tears and she had shredded an entire box of tissues. Wispy tear catchers like downy feathers all over my living room. She looked at me. I looked at her. OK, I said. And we cleaned it up. It was the living room. She wants me to live. I can’t, but I didn’t tell her that.

At first I ate because people made me. I loved food before this. Now I eat because it feels good. That’s a disorder in itself. Add it to the list. I don’t eat meat anymore and I wonder if he knows. Once he stopped eating veal because of its journey to his plate. Noble, but he didn’t last long. Is he happy that I’m not contributing to it? I’ll never know.

School takes up every other minute I have. When I’m not doing school I am thinking about school and berating myself for not working on schoolwork – while simultaneously entirely aware that this behavior is an avoidance tactic designed to prevent me from acknowledging what happened. Which I know is unhealthy and in turn I’m consumed with guilt for not giving my Dad that time that he deserves. But I can’t right now. I don’t know when I can. I worry that I will be forced to face this soon, when school is over and I have no excuse and nothing to keep my brain busy. It’s like I’m on a sliding board with no ladder…going down would be so, so easy, but without the steps there’s no way back up. And yet there’s another me at the top, desperately clinging to the wrists of the me that wants to slide, refusing to let go. Not now. Not yet.

Driving home sucks because it was our call time. Now it’s consumed with silence even if the radio is own. Nothing sounds the same. I try to listen for messages in songs that could really be from him, but it doesn’t work. I wish he would just say something.

A few years ago he told me I need to get control of my weight. I should have listened to him then so he didn’t have to have such a fat, careless daughter. I know he didn’t mean it that way, though. I know, without a doubt, that he loved me unconditionally. But he never, ever, in all my life ever commented on how I looked so I must have been extreme. Anyway, I workout five times a week now. Towards the end the trainer says something like “we don’t quit at the end, not when it gets hard.” Oh but we do quit you skinny bitch. We do. Except I don’t. I watch the effect gravity has on my rolls in the mirror while I do those final jump-ropes and say to myself, I will jump as high as you want me to Dad. As high as you want. But it’s never high enough because I still can’t reach him. After each workout, that period where you can’t breathe because your fat is angry and punishing your lungs, I think, WASTE. What did I do all that for? He can’t even see me. I’ve colored my hair and he doesn’t know what I look like now. What have I done? He’ll never recognize me. I’m in control like you said I should be so come see me. I did what you asked. Why haven’t you come to me? Just tell me what else I need to do. Please.

Showers are the worst. They are sadness sanctuaries. I can gush and sob and blame it on a nicked ankle from my razor. As if I shave my legs like I should. If you collected the anguish my drain has absorbed there’d be enough for an ocean where one could sail for ever. The mirror routine is up next and I already made that confession.

Another drive, this time to school. Focus, focus. Listen, pay attention. But I’m easily distracted. I want to tell you about this crazy case. Complain about this teacher. Tell you what I think about this concept. But you’re not there. Where are you? Same thing in reverse. But it’s time to go to bed soon so at least there’s that.

I’m home. Kiss the dogs, scratch Papaya. Tell Yahtzee that my Dad would have loved her. That he does love her, she just doesn’t know it. I wish they had met. She watches me undress and tilts her head. Probably she notes what gravity has done to me and questions my rolls. Sorry Yahtz. I’m trying.

Kisses goodnight all around, turn on my true crime show, lights off, climb in bed. Arrange my pillow nest and tuck Papaya into her spot alongside me. All is right. Except it isn’t. But it could be. If you come to me tonight. If I see you. We can go for ice cream if you want, you love ice cream. Fishing? Let’s go in the ocean like we did that one time. I know I am safe there with you. I don’t mind boating if that’s what you want or let’s just go for a walk. Just come to me, please. I’ll close my eyes and I’ll meet you there. Where ever. Please come this time. 

You're a totally selfish bitch.

You’re a totally selfish bitch.

Have we met?  I thought I made that clear from the start. Isn’t that written right here on my name tag?

I never promised to be anything but selfish. This is my life. I’m going to do what I want with it. There are things that I like and things that I don’t like. Maybe you didn’t notice all the times I do the things I don’t like just to make someone else happy. Guess no one is putting a check mark in the non-selfish category for me.

I chose not to have kids. That makes me selfish. I also think it makes me pretty fucking smart to acknowledge that I am that selfish. And for those of you with kids, you’re selfish too. You wanted kids (want = selfish) and you got what you want. Now don’t get me wrong, I have no doubt that (at least the majority of you) put your kids ahead of yourselves and now your selfishness has taken a backseat. That’s excellent. That’s the way it should be. Here’s a cookie.

That’s not my choice. I want to sleep late. Read a book. Ride my bike, walk my dog, take a bubble bath or go to a movie without scrambling for babysitters and fighting the guilt that will ensue for leaving my child so I can enjoy me-time. It’s hard enough seeing my dogs’ faces in the window when I leave for work to make money to buy them bones and treats and food. I wonder where they think I am all day? Well, silly, I’m clearly out being selfish.

I like my independence. I like being alone. I like doing things on my own or for myself. But if we are keeping score maybe you should know how many times I give out dollars or change in class to people who are selfishly in need of sustenance from the vending machines. No, please, don’t pay me back. One day I will need to borrow from you and then we’re even. There are a lot of things I do for people that you should know, but screw that. I don’t need to keep score. I know who I am and I know what I do, have done, and will continue to do for others.

So if it makes you feel better to think that I am selfish you go right ahead. Your opinion does not define me.

I once read that you dislike most in others what you secretly despise in yourself.

Sadly, when I am gone, and it will be soon, you will realize that you never met anyone like me. And it was your loss for not appreciating me while I was here.  (But it’s selfish for me to say that.)

*I laughed several times writing this when I thought I wrote shellfish instead of selfish. Ahh, to be the little mermaid and wear a seashell bra. Heads up that chick was selfish, too…remember her secret cave? 

It’s my party and I’ll cry if I want to.

I’m not having a party. It’s not even my birthday. It’s my friend’s birthday today and that got me thinking about birthdays in general. I really wish people celebrated birthdays more. I mean people go ape shit over Christmas – buying other people gifts and claiming it’s a mythological baby’s birthday therefore the gifts are justified. Whateva. How about going nuts for someone when it is THEIR birthday? The one day they can truly say – hey, today is the day that I came into this world and I think that deserves some attention. And balloons. I do so love balloons. A terrible waste of air trapped in latex but super fun nonetheless.

Granted a birthday means we are getting older, but shouldn’t we be praised and celebrated for surviving another year? Every day the world tries to kill you and you made it! You didn’t get hit by the hypothetical bus, you overcame illnesses, aches, and late pizza deliveries. You woke up day after day and managed to sustain yourself without damaging the one thing only you are responsible for…the plethora of organs encased in really fragile skin. Think about it. When you stub your toe don’t you curse yourself for letting that happen? Dammit that’s YOUR toe, protect it. So you made it, you survived, it’s your birthday! And now you have to protect your jello jiggling self for a whole new year before you can eat cake guilt free. With a balloon tied to your chair.

As celebratory as a birthday should be, too many people say it’s just another day. To them I say, then don’t ask me where your present is. Ah, if only that were true. I really do want to celebrate you and make you feel special. How come you want to take that away from me? Isn’t there enough misery in this world? Wouldn’t one day of being treated like royalty feel good? It should because the other 364 days the world is going to shit on your face. Heads up. Take the gift you ungrateful bastard.

Now let me take a second to tell you how some of my birthdays have gone (awry). My birthday is exactly one week after the Golden Child’s. He’s my older brother who turned out to be a homeless drunk. The only gold surrounding him now runs down his leg and decorates whichever sidewalk he passed out on. But back then, as the oldest and chosen one, his birthday was actually celebrated, whereas mine was an afterthought.  There’s a picture of us sharing a birthday and the cake was this Sesame Street train contraption. In the picture he can be seen exhaling and blowing out all the candles while I am still clearly inhaling. Such was my life. At fifteen I was told we spent our money on your brother so we’ll make sure we do something extra nice next year. At sixteen there was nothing. No Sweet 16 for me. I actually spent it in my room waiting for a boy to call me. He never did. I never waited for a guy to call me again.

Then there was the birthday from fourth grade. I’m not about to do the math and figure out how old I was supposed to be, but I was old enough to be mortified in front of my entire class who was at my house party. Let’s be clear. This wasn’t a house party like you see on MTv. This was generic bottles of soda, a homemade cake, chips and pretzels. We played games that consisted of dumping the junk drawer on a cookie tray and having to write-down-how-many-things-you-can-remember-in-one-minute. I always won. It was my junk drawer, I knew what was in there. Let’s not forget pass the erection towel. We were too poor to use our dryer so our bath towels were stiff as boards. One would get rolled up real tight like a tube and the kids would hold it from the top, passing it in a circle around the room, each putting their hand/grasp under the person who passed it to them. When the stiffy expired and the towel flopped over…you lost. Who thinks of this shit? Ah and then the dressing game. Mind you my birthday is in MARCH. This is Jersey bitches. It’s cold outside. Never you fret, the dressing game would keep you warm. We split the kids into two teams, one on each side of the yard. Each team was given a box of hobo class that, yes, we actually had in our basement. There were big old hunting boots with dried deer blood, straw hats, mittens, waders smeared with fish scales, feather boas (don’t ask) and numerous flannels and sweatshirts. Goal: put on EVERYTHING in the box, run to the other side, disrobe, and the next team mate would repeat. Whichever team could get all their members back the fastest won. Sadly, we had a great time doing these things. We were easy to please.

But the games weren’t the mortifying part. Oh no. That was being handed a gift by my mother, the spawn of satan, to open in front of my classmates. *Note: you had to invite everyone from your class. There were only about 20 of us and none of us were really friends. So anyway, what was the gift? A seven day pack of days-of-the-week underwear briefs. Briefs, not even panties. We are talking S.O.S. flag waiving sized underwear that would remind me, my ass and now my classmates what day of the week it was. *Note: I was in gifted and talented class and didn’t need to be reminded of anything except why this creature gave birth to me. OK, you know what happened, everyone bursts out laughing and I ran like the immature (yet gifted and talented!) 4^th grader that I was up to my room. The question is…why, as a person who was allegedly a young girl once herself, would my mom do that to me in front of my pseudo friends? Silly readers. Because she could. She wanted to. Mission accomplished.

And so began my desire for the perfect birthday. I know it’s out there. A day where I wake up and go where I want, do what I want, be celebrated, appreciated, and sure, showered with gifts. Why not? I like gifts. Everyone likes gifts. If they tell you they don’t they are lying and just give their gift to me because I actually like gifts. A day where my birthday dinner doesn’t end in me feeling like shit because you don’t like who sat next to us or how long we had to wait. A day where I don’t fake a smile because you forgot it was my birthday and I said that’s ok, I know how it can sneak up on you. A day where you give me something I want, not something you want. A day where you remember how I went overboard for you and that I would like you to do the same.

A day where, dare I say it, a surprise party erupts and exactly who I would like to be there is there because someone made the effort to find out who is important to me. And they are all together, surrounded by smiles, Cheetos, puppies and a sky high cake doused with buttercream icing and sugared paw prints. There’ll be a table toppled with gifts and everyone will pat me on the back for keeping my body alive another year. And everyone will have a balloon. J

Letters to Rachael

Rachael Marty is what I would name the daughter that I'm never gonna have. Under Letters to Rachael will be things I would tell my daughter, if I had one. Which are probably things I wish someone would have told me. 

Rachael,

The other day I walked into a car dealership, alone, and the first man to approach me said, “Hello, where is your husband?”

“I don’t need my husband,” was my response.

True then, true now. Make it true for you. Don’t ever allow yourself to be in a position where you need a man. I love my husband, but need is different than want.

I want him by my side. I want him as my partner. I want to share my life with him. But I don’t need him. Once you need someone to complete you or to survive off of, you lose yourself. Be strong, be independent. Learn how to provide for yourself, think for yourself, and make educated decisions. Don’t let anyone make you feel inferior or incapable.

It’s ok to allow a man to do all things for you, but be able to do them for yourself if you have to. You are worth it. 

Nothing from the sea.

I don’t eat anything from the sea. Let me tell you why. Because it’s from the sea. The sea is a fancy word for liquid leftovers of creatures that couldn’t make it on land.  Shrimp: ocean roaches. Crabs: arachnids! It’s also a dumping ground for human waste. So there’s leftover animals, leftover animal waste and here’s some human trash to spice it up a notch. Delicious. Hypodermic needles? Yes please. Human fecal matter? Only if I can get it with a side of rust sucking crab and mercury laden fish. Yummo. You mean you can swim in it, piss in it, vomit in it, spew fuel into it, dump garbage into it and still promise me it yields heart healthy omega 3’s? Well by all means serve me up a plate of that disaster!

Listen, there are critters with really big teeth in the ocean. There are bodies, human ones, mutilated and decaying tossed at sea. There are any number of rotting ships, boats, cars, bikes and even airplanes littering the floor of these great waters. You’ll find none of these ingredients in your tuna tartare, but they’re in there! Where do you think the flavor comes from? Not to mention scallops, mussels, clams…it’s like looking into a used tissuse and saying holy shit I gotta eat that. And lots of it.

And why, please, explain it to me – why on earth would you want to eat anything that smells like the ass end of an armpit on a July day in Africa? There is no “aroma” when it comes to seafood, there is only funk. Foul, wretched, FUNK. Anything that smells like that is actually a warning. If you need to put Vicks under your nose to avoid passing out, it’s not meant to be food. It’s a warning. “I smell like this because I am reconstituted trash – don’t eat me.”

So I’m just saying…I’m not crazy. Eat it if you want. But would you put tires in your stew? Add gasoline to your pasta or serve your family a meal marinated in rust and flesh? Well, that’s the sea for you, a big ass brewing batch of filth masked as food. No thanks.  

Now with that being said I could really go for some Cheddar Bay Biscuits. 

Half of me is around the world. The other half is hollow.

I miss my brother and my dad with an intensity that rivals my need for oxygen. In fact there are days when I believe I’m either asthmatic or asphyxiating due to my difficulty with the most basic human functions of inhaling and exhaling. There are times when I am so completely lost in trying to connect with them that I find myself gasping for air as though I’ve resurfaced, breathless and panicked from an unidentifiable abyss. The fear of drowning while standing still is ever present. Without them I merely float along, empty and starving for their presence.

To be full of nothing is very heavy indeed.

Thoughts While In The Dentist's Chair...

1. There is no other place I will ever go where I allow complete strangers to stuff inanimate objects into my mouth repeatedly and without question.
2. The ceiling needs a tv, or at least a screen saver type mosaic like a kaleidoscope so I can focus on that instead of my hygienist's nostrils. 
3. Latex gloves should be flavored. This way I won't mind them invading my mouth and they may actually taste good. Then again, if the hygienist's gloves tasted like cherry or buttered popcorn it would be hard to resist the desire to lick her fingers (and now we are in uncharted, unwelcome territory.) Strike that. Inappropriate. Next thought...
4. Why should I pay you to take my wisdom tooth? First of all, I keep a lot of wisdom in there. Second, I grew that tooth fair and square. If you want it so badly, make me an offer. 
5. I don't think you are doing any of this correctly. 
6. Why can't I have a copy of my xrays? I could be killed at any moment and this is potential critical evidence. 
7. If I had your x-ray-arm-in-the-magic-wall machine I would xray myself everyday just for fun. 
8. Has she ever xrayed herself for fun?
9. If you ask me about flossing I will lie to you and tell you what you want to hear. On the other hand, if you find popcorn kernel debris I can explain. 
10. I have to pee. 

Changing Channels

So my friend tells me she would read a blog if I wrote one. Then I had to look up what a blog was so I could oblige her. I like a challenge. Here we go:

I titled this Changing Channels because that's likely what will happen here. My husband says I jump around so much when I talk that it's like I'm changing channels. It will probably be the same way when I write. So expect to read about my dogs, food, cheese, my bike, movies, books, and probably everything I find annoying. Try not to put yourself in that last category. But if you do, I'll give you a creative name like Trash Monger or Fun House Mirror (which is what someone in school looks like even though there are no mirrors in sight).

If I remember to check in often enough I should have something worth reading. Eventually. I promise.