Green Suckers are Evil

Friday afternoon I’m happily sucking on a green sucker, diligently working. The sucker taunted me with its crunchy goodness, so I caved and bit into it. Apparently the sucker was the Chuck Norris of suckers, as it chipped my back molar. About half of it was gone. At first I was mildly alarmed, then reality sent in… I would have to go to the dentist. My internal alarm went RED.. DANGER DANGER!

If you are a family member or child do not read this part… though it could be a PSA.

I have a fear of the dentist. This started when I was in high school. One day, after getting high with some friends, I came home to my mom telling me I had a dentist appointment to get a cavity filled. For apparent reasons I couldn’t tell my mom I was too high to go to the dentist, so off we went. Now I had never experienced paranoia when high, but things were soon to change. I sat in the dentist chair ready for my filling. Once the drill started I realized this was a BAD DECISION. I don’t recall much about the specifics, but this I know, I was certain the dentist was trying to kill me. It was going to be a slow and painful death; there was nothing I could do to stop it. I was trapped in that dentist chair. I do not recall the specifics of how I escaped my demise, but this I know, ever since I have severe anxiety about going back to the dentist. (Moral of the story: Don’t do drugs)
So here I am 33 years old with a chipped tooth, the thought of going in to the dentist makes me want to wet myself, but having known severe dental pain, I know I there is no way I cannot go. So I start calling dentists. For reasons I do not completely understand, no dentist offices were open on Friday afternoons. So I make a 9 am appointment for Monday
Monday comes with minimal pain. Off to the dentist I go. I resist the urge to drive into oncoming traffic to delay the inevitable. Things are going well; new dentist is very nice, dental assistance is nice. Office is soothing, yet I can feel the mind numbing terror swimming through my veins. I’m not sure what they said, the words root canal, pulling and deep drilling were all involved, when they came to talk to me about cost I was numb with terror, so they just sucked me into agreeing to pay. I sat in the chair, trying desperately to crank my iPod loud enough to no longer hear the drill. Instead I got a mix of Nervous but Exicted with drill as background music, not the best combination. With all the technology that exists why are they not able to make dental instruments not sound like weapons of torture? Also, I have a theory that those that chose the dental profession were Spanish Inquisitors in past lives.

I managed to not make a fool of myself, generally speaking, no crying or screaming or running out. The point that really tested me is when they were creating the molding. I had to bite down on the foamy cement stuff (sorry if I confuse anyone with the technical terms) I started drooling, of course I didn’t really notice since my mouth was numb. I noticed it when I drooled on my bib. The dental assistant kindly offered to lean me back so that I wouldn’t drool on myself. This seemed like a great idea, till I realized I couldn’t properly swallow due to an inability to close my mouth. Also, based on taste I was slowly drowning in my own blood and saliva. Finally the dental assistant removed the template and suctioned out my mouth. Stuffed it with gauze, as they told me that I might have some bleeding due to my gum being torn up while they were drilling, apparently my gums are exceptionally close to my teeth (are they not suppose to be?)

I leave the dentist and stop at the gas station before going home to be drugged. While trying to talk to the clerk I drool a little blood out. I’m sure he will still respect me in the morning.

Hi, Leg Warehouse, my friend needs a leg to stand on

I haven’t blogged lately as I seem to be surrounded by asshats and it makes my humor hide. When I started this blog I was very specific with myself that I did not want to turn into rant sessions but I do believe I’m going to have to make an exception. I’m hoping if I purge my spleen my funny will come back and show itself in the light of day.

First, if you a liar, as in someone who lies, you do not have the right to get mad at people who are upset and hurt by the fact that you lied to them. You do not get to be offended that you are then labeled a liar and in general, an asshat. You want to not be called those things, don’t be them. Very simple concept. We even teach it to our children, most of whom understand the concept. Also, after a certain age, I’m going to say 7 or 8, you are required to start dealing with your problems. Not ignore them in hopes that they will resolve themselves. Or in hopes that someone else will come and clean up the mess for you. This doesn’t work, if anything it often makes the situation worse.

Second, I’m tired of the fact that based on what I am seeing/hearing no one understands the basic concepts of parenting. A) You will always have to be the adult in the situation. B) You need to set an example; the goal should be a GOOD example. Being a user or abuser does not qualify. C) If you want to be part of your children’s life, make the effort. D) It is not just a hallmark sentiment, time truly is the best thing you can give kids (well anyone in reality). E) If you have spent multiple years ‘playing’ the role of father in their life, you are their father, biology be damned.
Third, no one wants to grow up. Ideally if we knew what we were getting into, we would have opted out. Unfortunately no one has yet to locate the opt out button. You need to pay bills, you need to provide for your family, you need to take responsibility for your life and your mistakes. If you want the benefits of being an adult, then you should act like one. If you want to be respected, you need to be respectable. Otherwise except the fact that you are a child and will be treated as such.

Fourth, bullying is an exceptionally weak characteristic. You can not be a strong person by bullying others. Calling names, pointing out flaws, wishing harm and overall putting down of others does not make you better than them. It makes you weak and pathetic. Don’t assume that those who chose not to engage in the behavior are too weak; assume they are strong enough to not engage in childish games. If you want to be the ‘better’ person, the stronger person, live your life as an example. Tearing someone down has never made anyone the better person; it only shows an extreme weakness of character.

Fifth, if any of this sound like I’m taking to you, I may very well be. I highly recommend you look at your life, and make some very changes. No one likes an asshat. No matter how fun of a word it is.

Either gravity is against me or I'm clumsy

I have always thought of myself as semi-graceful, that is was just a weird coincidence that I would fall down, run into things and what-not. That maybe gravity and I were not friends, upon review it may be more then gravity that I have a problem with. Sure, I do randomly fall down. Like the time I was talking to Justin at work and while standing next to his desk my knee was overcome and decided to take a break. Just started to tip over. Luckily Justin’s quick laugh reflex and his desk saved me from falling completely on my side. Or the time I was walking into the lobby at work and with a room full of people I toppled over like a tree. The collective gasp of ‘OH’ helped to muffle my started squeak. When I look at these things, I think it is gravity that is doing me wrong. Yet there are other incidents I need to consider.
Like the time I was interviewing and walked right into a glass door on my way out. I got the job, but I always felt whenever my boss and I were walking somewhere he was watching to make sure I didn’t walk into things. I guess it was nice that he cared. There was also the time that when leaving the cafeteria at work I walked into a tree, well it wasn’t a real tree, first impression made me think it was. I bammed right into it, bounced off and was caught by two strong hands before landing on my butt. I looked up and up and laid my hands on his chest to steady myself, as I did my brain caught up with my eyes. Unfortunately my internal sensor did not catch up as ‘OHHHHHHhhhhh’ came out of my mouth in reaction to the fine male in front of me. (I of course turned an interesting shade of red, mumbled an apology and scuttled away). So I thought to myself maybe it is work that causes me to have these issues of running into things
But I thought some more, and came up with the time I knocked myself out on main street in Oconto Falls. I was much younger and shorter then. We were helping a family friend and went to put something in the rental truck. Have you ever noticed that they put large metal framing around the side mirrors? I had never noticed, till I found it with my head. I guess my theory was that I was short enough to walk under the side mirror, which was true. I was not short enough to walk under the metal bracing of the side mirror. I walked into it and knocked myself to my knees. Well, this is what I’m assuming happened, what I actually recall is walking forward and suddenly I was on the ground with a large headache.
Then there was the epic bathroom battle with a spider. This wasn’t a normal spider, it had cunning and strategy on it’s side. I was showering and noticed it in the corner. I made a deal with it, it would stay where it was, and I would leave it be. The spider broke our treaty. As I was drying off, the spider made a play for the middle of the room. I said ‘Game On,’ unfortunately so did the spider. I’m standing there with a towel around my head and decide to swat it with another towel. I’m not sure why I thought a towel was an appropriate weapon against the spider; in retrospect I was very wrong. The spider deployed evasive maneuvers, and then dropped onto my toweled head. I squealed and tried to tear the towel off my head, unfortunately the towel was caught on my earring, and as I tried to get the towel off my earring and my head I saw the spider dangling down in front of me. I tried to back away, but it followed me (most likely due to the fact that it was hanging from said towel.) I quickly turned to walk out of the bathroom; my flight instinct had kicked in. Unfortunately my survival instinct did not and I ran into the bathroom door. At this point the towel came undone from my earring and I sat down in immense pain. I don’t know where the spider went, not initially. After a short recovery period, I saw it on the wall. I carefully gathered it up and put it outside, for the spider had successfully kicked my ass. It won the right to freedom.
Taking these things into consideration I may have more problems than just gravity.

Favorite Toy

People often ask what was your favorite toy growing up, and I rarely answer with the truth. I don’t think people will get it, it will turn awkward when I try to explain. But here, in the privacy of my blog, I will admit, Ethan was my favorite toy. Now I know many people with siblings will laugh at this. For me, it's true. He was always entertaining. Looking back, Ethan may not have always appreciated my feelings. He may have known that I would become a thorn in his side, which would explain why he ran me over with his big wheel when I was brought home from the hospital. “Hi Baby Sister” Bump, Bump. It was the first of many vehicle accidents that were not my fault.
Family and friends will say we became close cause our parents divorced, but in reality we lost each other a few years after they divorced, just two trauma victims living in the same house. It was our younger years that cemented the relationship together allowing us to become friends when we got older. The middle years were a little rough.
When we were young our best friends were cousins and lived next door to each other. The four of us were always together. Getting into mischief. Be it playing under the porch (where Quinn gave me my first kiss) or running around in the back forty. I enjoyed getting him in trouble, but then always felt bad when he got sent to his room. Or maybe I just got lonely. I would then sit outside his bedroom door and sing “Ethan… Ethan… Ethan come out and play” Eventually he would sit in his bedroom and me outside the door and we would play. I remember talking to him thru the bedroom walls at the house in Gillette, we would keep going till Dad made it to the top of the stairs, versus just yelling at us from the landing. There was a day when Quinn and Ethan convinced me to ride my bike down the railroad tracks. I don’t know that I had ever been that scared, but no way was I going to let the two boys know that. Of course, it was evident when crying I refused to cross the train trestle. In my defense, the planks were farther apart then my feet. We rode for hours, I knew we were lost. Yet Ethan was positive he knew the way home. Finally we found the road. At the top of the big hill leading into town. Riding down was like flying, didn’t even have to touch the pedals of my bike, just sailed like the wind. Worth every moment of terror.
We use to jam out to Def Leppord and Huey Lewis and the News. Every day was an adventure. Be it playing Monopoly with Aunt Crystal for hours (OK, fine, DAYS) on end, or Duck Hunt on Nintendo at the Treptow’s. Riding our bikes to the beach or having grilled cheese sandwiches at G’ma V’s. All of my best childhood memories have Ethan in them.
Dad use to take us on camping trips. Once to Canada, where the only things I remember from the trip is the McDonald cookie package was written in French, we each got to pick out a toy (I chose My Little Pony, Ethan got a Transformer that I couldn’t play with) and we each got these little teddy bears with t-shirts that have the Canadian flag on them. We played with those teddy bears all the way back home. Road trips with Mom, singing to the oldies station. Our first concert, Poison and Warrant. Climbing rocks at state parks, family game nights. Ethan taking a HUGE drink of Ed’s drink, thinking it was his Kool-aid. It was not, as he spit it promptly out all over the table. Watching ‘CHiPS’ on TBS. Sunday mornings with classical music and donuts.

I also remember him being with me the first time I stayed out all night. Going camping with his friends, who will always know me as ‘Ethan’s little sister,’ which lead to learning that the forest rangers will leave an abundance of orange notes telling you that you are a bear hazard. Trying to find his place in Madison, and being horribly lost. Drinking in Madison. Sleepover’s at the Treptow’s. Playing in G’ma Fern’s hayloft.
Sure I may have irritated him to no end, it’s genetically programmed into all younger sisters. When I flip thru the mental images of my life, Ethan still comes up as my favorite toy, with a side of safety blanket. Yet how do you explain all that to someone who asks a simple question, so I usually go with My Little Pony or Strawberry Shortcake, all little girls loved them. It is SO much easier to explain.

A demonic bunny haunts me

Most days I enjoy being a girl. I like being pretty and feminine, I like not having to kill bugs (though I can if the situation presents itself), I like high heels and smelling pretty, I like flirting with cute boys. I definitely like being a girl. But some days, some days I could do without. Like the days when my emotions seem to be controlled by a demonic bunny. When I swing between wanting to curl up with my stuffed monkey and wanting to unleash the fury of nuclear warheads upon those around me.
I may need to create some type of sign, beware, crazy girl in vicinity. Let the world know that at any moment I may cry or hit. No way of actually projecting which will occur. It starts out simple enough. I wake up, maybe I’m a little tired, maybe I had a dream that make me feel squishy. Then I go about my day. Suddenly everything that is being said is being decoded to mean something else. The problem is my decoder ring is defective. “Have a nice day.” Is secret code for, “I know your day is going to suck and it makes me smile on the inside.” Or “Nice pants” means “I find it hilarious how big your ass looks in those.” The examples go on and on, but you get the drift. EVERYONE is mean, and my reaction is to either burst into tears or to hit them. So I walk around all day on the verge of an emotional breakdown. Living for tomorrow when the demonic bunny goes back to sleep. Since I’m in the middle of my demonic bunny possession I’ve been pondering random thoughts. Trying to keep myself and others safe.
Some things I would like answers on:
At this point, is there an abundance of men who are not aware that Calais exists? Based on the amount of commercial time used to advertise it, I’m going to say yes. Which is odd, since American’s watch a lot of TV, so I would have thought everyone is well aware that a little pill will fix erective dysfunction, assuming they don’t have a heart attack in the process? (Taking a moment to tip a glass to G’ma). All I know is I’m bored with all the commercials about being ready when the time is right. Also, who are these people that frolic in separate bathtubs in the back yard? Or get turned on by looking in the refrigerator. What is in there???
HDTV commercials. If I don’t have an HDTV showing me how awesome the will look is, the purpose of the commercial is lost on me. If I have an HDTV showing the commercial is redundant. I find these commercials to be useless.
Shooting fish in a barrel. Why are there fish in a barrel, and if they are in a barrel, why shoot them? Just grab one out. Shooting them, pardon the pun is overkill.
All dressed up with nowhere to go.. why did you dress up? When I have nowhere to go, I stay in my pajamas all day. I assumed everyone did this; do people really get dressed up when they don’t need to?
Monies, it is not a word. Money is both plural and singular. I remember learning this in school. Why has it changed? Monies is a stupid word. It sounds stupid, it looks stupid. It is stupid. I refuse to acknowledge that it exists except for right now, when I’m talking about how stupid it is.

Indiana is not my favorite state. Here are some laws that I feel support why Indiana and I do not get along:
• If any person has a puppet show, wire dancing or tumbling act in the state of Indiana and receives money for it, they will be fined $3 under the Act to Prevent Certain Immoral Practices.
• Smoking in the state legislature building is banned, except when the legislature is in session.
• Baths may not be taken between the months of October and March.

Magic Monkeys

I wanted to start a blog for a couple of reasons, one I am happiest when I am writing and two I have some weird and messed up stories. What I forgot to add to the equation is that I’m easily distracted and scatterbrained. Well maybe not scatterbrained, I just have a thousand thoughts at one time, so it’s hard for me to settle on one. It is a struggle to pull one thought out and stick with it.

Do I write about the weird interactions I have had with people. This would be a good transition into the guy who asked me to pee on him, or do I talk about my dysfunctional family some more. I have Grandma stories that can go on forever.

I could tell horrific stories of past relationships, how my ex thought it was normal to pass out on the toilet. I could talk about how my brain works, giving more examples as to why blogging may be beyond my capacity. For example the other day I spent way too much time designing a sliding bookshelf as a door into a bathroom. This would be from the library into a guest bathroom. Since I don’t have a house with a library, I had to first design the house, then the library, then the logistics of the door. If it operates on the premise that the door opens by sliding a book out, how do I look it from the inside, so that people didn’t walk in on one another. There is nothing worse than when someone walks in on you in the bathroom, though the conversation is always the same. They apologize for doing it, and you sa it’s ok. When it really isn’t. No one finds it ok to be walked in on in the bathroom, it is not socially acceptable. What was I talking about? Oh yes idea’s for a blog, I could tell a story about how sometimes I randomly fall down. Or that awkward moment on a date when you are trying to decide, handshake, kiss or hug.

Instead I think I will tell a story about something that happened at work today. But first I need to set the scene, at work I am a full fledge adult. I work in Corporate America; most of my days are spent running or attending meetings. Which means I have to be knowledgeable and articulate. I have to inspire confidence that I understand what is going on, help find solutions to ongoing issues, develop and maintain plans. All things that are very adult, no day dreaming or childhood whimsy involved. Most days this takes all my energy to do, but I manage to get it done. I need to take a moment to admit that I’m normally sarcastic and have a dry sense of humor. I deal with stress and tension by being inappropriate. So sometimes it’s an effort to not make jokes about kicking bunnies and snaggletooth people. Most days. Today was not one of those days.

During one of my meetings today we were having a discussion about some unachievable deadlines. A suggestion was made that was to me rather ludicrous. I responded with ‘well that will only happen if we get some magic monkey’s in here.’ As soon as it was said, the quietness descended, I tried desperately to think of a way to cover the mistake. But my mind was blank, all I could think about was magical monkeys and all that they could do. I mean sure, they would wreck havoc because they are not known for cleaning up after themselves, but they could get the job done. Then I realized the awkward silence had gone on too long. It was now obvious to everyone on the phone that I had not only stated magic monkeys I had no recovery. Finally a co-worker broke the silence with a laugh and “Magic Monkey’s we need some of those.” Laughter ensued. I thought ok, I can recover. Nope the rest of the meeting magic monkeys were brought up. It is moments like these that I understand why I think working in corporate America is not the right career choice for me.

I would like to say I will post again soon, but I don’t want to lie. I do promise to try. Cause I realized I also have hilarious pet stories.

Crazy G'ma Part 1

First thing, I love my Grandma; I think she is an amazing and fun lady. That doesn't mean she doesn't make for a great story.


A few years ago we had a death in the family; the funeral was taking place about 6 hours away. I don't recall what I had done but I ended up riding down with my Aunt C and Grandma D. The trip down went without a hitch; I should have known that meant bad things were coming.


We leave the funeral, are heading back home and stop for gas. G’ma was riding shotgun, I was in back, Aunt C gets out to pump and Grandma and I stay in the Jeep. Little did I know that Aunt C exiting the car was the GO signal.


Before I can say, “Let me out.” Grandma is stripping down in the front seat. At this point my brain and my body separate, I think I need to get out of the car, yet I don’t move. Instead I frantically look around the backseat for something that will help me. I’m not sure what I was looking for, possibly a time machine that would have gotten me out of the car before this began. I try desperately to pretend that I am not there, though I do give her points for being flexible enough to change into what I can only describe as a Cat Suit at her age. After she has it on, she politely asks me to zip it up.


For those of you not familiar with Cat Suits the zipper starts way down by the butt. I make mention of this for as I lean over the seat to zip her up, I have a perfect view of Grandma’s crack. I heroically swallow the bile that is rising and slam that zipper close. I lean back in the seat, pretending to not be traumatized. After gaining control of my gag reflex I mumbled something about getting a soda, mostly I just needed to get away. I wonder around aimlessly, prolonging the moment when I have to get back in the Jeep.


Slowly I get in, desperate to end this trip. I make a point to not look at Grandma, I’m wondering what I could have done so wrong. As we are pulling back onto the highway Grandma states “Hon, I forgot to throw this in my bag, can you put this in the back” without thinking I hold my hand out. I would have said that I was numb at this point, but I was wrong, so, so wrong. She places something black and lacy in my hand. I pull it towards me, curiosity making me go ‘what is this?’


Then I realized, it’s the underwear she was no longer wearing. I stared in horror as the fact that I was holding my Grandma’s underwear in my hand. I didn’t know if I should be impressed or horrified that they were black and lacy. I stared in horror and shock, my brain going to the place that all brains go with black lace panties, sex. Grandma sex. Finally my brain and body got on the same page. I threw them behind me, where I can only imagine my Aunt later found. I doubt she would have suspected Grandma of the underwear, and I apologize to any of my Cousins or my Uncle that may have gotten in trouble, but at that point self-preservation came first.


For the rest of the journey I sat huddled in the backseat. Unable to speak or cope with what just happened to me. Seeing my G’ma’s crack and holding her underwear was a little too much for one day. I took a hot shower and then drank some tequila, but nothing can erase the memories. I will forever know my Grandma has black lace underwear, that I touched them on the same day I saw her butt crack. There is no coming back from that.