I have an unnatural, debilitating fear of dentists.  I avoid the dentist’s office at all cost.  For me to lay down in the reclining chair of dental doom, my tooth has to be physically dangling from my mouth.  For a few months.  You think I’m kidding.  I went my entire senior year of high school with a hole the size of a Skittle in my back left molar.  It was not uncommon to hear my friends request, “dee, let me see your hole.”  My tooth hole, ya perv.

I know no one “enjoys” visiting the dentist, but most can at least tolerate it.  I freak out.  Le freak, c’est chic.  Really.  The last time I went to the dentist’s office (nevermind your pretty little face with your mouthful of pretty little teeth in which century that took place, ahem), I actually cried and had to return on four separate occasions for one procedure because I refused to open my mouth all the way.  It was ridiculous.  I was ridiculous.  The dentist, fresh off the dental training boat, would beg me over and over, “Pleeeeaaaase open your mouth just a little bit wider.”  His pleading would undoubtedly send me into lockdown mode.  Jaw lockdowned and secure.  I tried to save face by giving the dentist a photocopy of this Far Side cartoon on my last visit.  I’m pretty sure he gave up dentistry after me.

Oh, I buck up and put on a brave face for the kids’ dental visits.  I don’t wish this crippling, nonsensical fear on anyone, especially my own ones. I mentally prepare myself weeks ahead of the actual visit, psyching myself up bit by bit, day by day.  Like horses, kids can smell fear.  So, I stuff my fear way down deep near my coccyx.  Then, when we arrive at the dentist’s office, I pull out the arsenal of toys, spread magazines around, make exaggerated pointing gestures at whatever movie they’re showing in the office,…  Yes, I become a bit manic.  But, fun manic.  I won’t stab you with a fork or run off helter skelter with your wallet.  Umm, but I might twist your brother’s nipples and blame my actions on the odontophobia.  Hello.  I’m fun manic.  How do you do? Let’s never go to the dentist, okay? ::twist twist::

Of course, when I heard the THUD! on the bathtub yesterday afternoon, I died a little inside.  Alani, deciding to abruptly turn and reenter the bath, face planted on the tub’s edge.  Ugh, the sound was nauseating.  I’ll forever hear that THUD! echo in my rattled brain.  She let out a cry that told me she was hurting.  There was some bleeding but not a gushing geyser.  Her gums were slowly swelling.  However, her teeth, thank the tooth fairy, were still in place.  I decided to wait it out and see how things looked in the morning.  But, I knew we’d most likely be visiting the dentist’s office the next day.

So, guess who stayed awake All Night Long?  The combination of constantly worrying over/checking Alani’s face and the angst of knowing I’d have to go to That Place and Oh no, what if they do something that hurts?  I’m trapped in adolescent fear.  I tossed and turned, paced the hallway, face watched, then settled in to the computer where I caught a few episodes of Nip/Tuck, a show I’d usually never go for but thought the antiseptic atmosphere of surgery would prepare and calm me for the day ahead.  There were a few choice scenes of hot man ass I found quite comforting.

By this morning, Alani’s gums had swollen even more, so off to the dentist we went.  I performed my manic act in the waiting room as usual.  LOOK!  ::point point::  A PIG!  ::point point::  A PIG!  ::point point::  (barnyard was the movie of the day)  After a brief wait, we were called back to the x-ray room where my mania still penetrated the air.  Since I would be holding Alani in my lap for the x-ray, the tech asked, “Are you pregnant?  Or is there any possibility you might be pregnant?”  to which I guffawed, “You’re hilarious!  You should take your act on the road!”  A simple No would have sufficed.   I was manic, I tell ya.

Alani was very brave and never cried through the x-ray, the poking, and the prodding.  Fortunately, her teeth and roots are still intact and it appears no damage has been done to the permanent teeth.  Whew.  She is on antibiotics for a week to avert any possible infection and is advised to lay off the steak chewing and apple gnawing for a few days.

And, now I’m finally craving sleep.  After brushing and flossing my teeth, of course.

NaBloPoMo, you are kicking my ass and it’s only day 5.  Yesterday it was a treasure trail of urinary wonder leading down a hallway to a toddler with the Oopsies face, that same Oops, I did it again kid napping and peeing in her car seat, and finally a turd in a toy box (created by boy twin) that drained any literary prowess I may have ever thought about slapping down on the blog.  Today was the day of falling mouth first onto all solid inanimate objects…wooden floor, wooden television stand, porcelain coated cast iron bathtub.  I might be making a trip to the dentist with the girl twin tomorrow as a result of that last incident.  Poor gal.

Hmm, and you wonder why I sometimes go weeks without a post.

More YouTube filler.  Enjoy Kimya Dawson’s Alphabutt.

After one child decided to take care of business in a toy box and another took care of some other business in a carseat, I declare this a YouTube filler day.  Kick off your shoes and relax.  The bathroom’s down the hall on your left.  Please use it.

When I need a quick pick-me-up, I turn to the Flight of the Conchords duo.  I will forever be grateful to my Canadian pal, CynthiaK, for turning me on to them.

My favorite line in the video – How did you magic my clothes off? Heh.

I may be light on words today, yet I haven’t forgotten your next piece of the pie.  Enjoy some remnants of a curly perm.

I have a gas guzzling confession to make.  I have fallen in love with very large vehicles.  The monstrous type of vehicles that require carabiners, harnesses, 200 feet of rope, a helmet, and climbing shoes in order to enter.  Or maybe just a running board.  My point is this…I love climbing into my mode of transportation.

What? you ask.  I thought you drove a fuddy duddy minivan.  Oh, I do, I do.  I drive a minivan in which I eat donuts at red lights and shamelessly do the fast food restaurant drive-thru loop more often than you need to know.  However, after some lady was more concerned with adjusting her contact lens on a recent rainy afternoon than my ‘patiently waiting for the car in front of me to take a left turn’ motionless minivan ass, I got to experience life in a massive Chevy Tahoe for a week while my banged up MomCar was getting her ass and sundry parts patched at the mechanic shop.  And, I became spoiled riding miles high above the pavement.

I have always driven compact rinky-dink cars.  That was all I could ever afford and all I really needed.  For years, it was only Gav and me milling about town, thus clown cars served us just fine.  Then, the tag team trio of babies with their extra wide car seats hit the scene.  A minivan seemed to be the logical move.

Oh, but tantalizing Tahoe, you.  Meowy meow.  Step on up, ladies and gentlemen, and enjoy life in the clouds.

When beginning my rental experience, I assumed that I would get a similar minivan.  Yet, none were to be found when I popped up at the rental agency without calling ahead.  (i know nothing about the rules of extended car repair and dealing with other people’s insurance companies and huh? i get a better rental car than my actual car all week for free?  hell yeah.  rearend me again next week, lady with a hair on her contact lens.)  I had seen the two giant SUVs parked on the front lawn when I entered the rental company, walked up to the front desk, and told them, “Hi.  I’m here for a rental.”  Duh.  I don’t get out much.  I also don’t get rearended much, so I was unaware of the post-rearending protocol.  After some phone calling back and forth with the insurance company and the repair shop, irritated rental dude walked me out to the front lawn and handed me the keys to one of those giant SUVs.  “Will this do?”  “Umm, suuuuure,” as I do some quick stretching before climbing my way into the driver’s seat.  “Okaygreatbye,” and he marched away.

Thus began my week of high riding.  Oh, I know.  The Tahoe’s not super gigantor like a Hummer or anything of the sort.  But, compared to the low riding I’d been doing in the minivan, I felt like Billy Bob Badass up there and contemplated mounting an empty gun rack on the back window.  Seriously.  Having to CLIMB into your vehicle?  Bad.  Ass.  Looking down on neighboring cars at red lights?  Bad.  Ass.  Arriving at your destination and sliding out of your vehicle?  Bad.  A…  Okay, that part was not so much bad ass, but I did enjoy squealing an exaggerated “Weeeeeeeee!”  every time I exited the vehicle in a sliding motion.

I used to see these teeny tiny moms all driving brand spankin’ new, huge Suburbans and Hummers at Gav’s previous school.  I’d roll my eyes at them in carpool each day, me down on the ground in my very used Dodge Neon.  “God, what is she?  Forty pounds soaking wet?  How do her feet reach the pedals?  Why the upper class monster truck parade?”  Now, I get it.  They compensated their anorexia with the badass feeling of driving a mammoth vehicle.

Alas, all good things must come to an end.  The shop called a week later with the news that my minivan ass was back in working order.  So, I bid the Badass Tahoe adieu and crawled back in the family lowrider.  I feel like Wilma Flintstone scooting around on my butt now.  And, so very far from badassness.

I leave you today with your grandma’s shoe.

Because I’m batfecalmatter crazy, I’m trying my hand at NaBloPoMo again this year, posting each day through the month of November.  I see you there, shaking your head in doubt, doing a mental tally of how often I’ve recently been posting per month (2 or 3 times).  I welcome a hearty challenge.  That’s why I partake in this batfecalmatter crazy life I lead.  (ok, enough with the head shaking)  Nonetheless, if I don’t mentally tank, you should see me everyday this month.  Woo, exciting, eh?

With enough foresight to know stringing together a crafty verbose post each day is beyond me as of late, I’ve gathered a fecalmatterpile of photos to get me through those silent days.  I have no problem embarrassing myself and/or others to anyone with a halfway decent internet connection.  So, expect photos aplenty.  Also, a mommyblogging we will go, a mommyblogging we will go.  Brace yourself for a fecalmatter ton of mommyblogging.  I’ve been neglectful of posting kiddo stories lately.  So, for the baby crazed out there, get ready…I’m bringin’ it.  hhuhhghhtht yurtyuthunhyuyhnn nnnuuugjufhny nhhhhhhfygtgrgjfhuy ghn uihjuh jujhkjujjjjjjjjkfgj h jjhijutniutyiyiyjhhujhi toii kfg jhf hf  bbgm h fg ffhfy g ytrhrfhhf b  Speaking of mommyblogging, the previous string of htuynfgjkib’s are courtesy of one Gab sneaking up to the keyboard while my back was turned.  Mommyblogging in action.  How you like them apples?

To entice your senses, I leave you today with this puzzle piece.

Yeah, that’s a red sequined leg warmer.  Whatcha gonna do about it?  Huh?  Huh?  Yeah, that’s what I thought.  Run away home to Mommy.

Finally, a Halloween where everyone agrees to wear their costume and march about town begging for candy.  You know, this is the reason I have four kids…to ensure fruitful returns on trick-or-treating ventures.  (i love candy)  Sadly, Gav, my top dog in candy gains, was in California for a wedding.  So, I had to rely on the younger three pot-bellied plush critters ‘o mine to appease Mom’s insatiable sweet tooth.

Feast your eyes upon the only photo I could swing with all three candy-getters in the same frame.  I managed to herd them into the corner of an abandoned storefront where the concrete is likely soaked with homeless urine. Because we street like dat.

This is Gab’s first year of actually wearing a costume for the trick-or-treating fest.  Last year, she went as herself and then later agreed to wear her giraffe costume in mid-November.  The year before that, forget about it…Nemo debacle all over the living room floor for two whole minutes.

I feared the twins would follow in Gab’s Boo on You, Halloween Attire! footsteps.  Fortunately, they were completely into recycled costumes giving Giraffe and Nemo the Halloween face time they so deserved.  I’ll soon load up Flickr with costumed creature goodness.  Until then, enjoy these 60 seconds or so of children maneuvering mass amounts of belly and booty fluff.

Once upon a time I told you a brief tale of how my family lived in Chicago during the 1960s and how great it was for everyone.  They lived in a great neighborhood, Mom had a great job, they had a great live-in nanny named Josephine, they rode to school in a great car.  Life was great.

But, then this not so great thing happened.

"But, what if I get a run in my stockings when the boys at school are beating me up? What then?" "Clear nail polish, son."

And, now you know how we wound up in Alabama.  Naturally, my family had no choice but to flee the Windy City after brother J went to school his kindergarten year dressed as a boy pumpkin in tights.  My five-year-old brother wore pantyhose to school.  And, proceeded to march his be-tighted little tooshie along a Halloween parade route after school with all of his classmates.  Because the world needed to experience a five-year-old boy pumpkin in tights then much as they do now.

I love seeing this photo pop up every Halloween.  That’s my brother J as the slump-shouldered pumpkin alongside older brother P sporting the much cooler/less likely to get his ass kicked at school Frankenstein mask.  I love, love, love it.  While the Hershey Kiss hat, satin Lone Ranger mask, and ill-fitting pumpkin attire are each hilarious in their own right, it’s the dark tights…ohhhh, the dark tights just slay me.  The way he’s standing there with his knees pressed together, mouth agape, possibly yelling at the kid next door, “Yeh, go screw yourself!  At least she didn’t make me a cherry!”  Or “Oww, my nuts!  My nuts!  I’m losing all sensation in my nuts!”

J said he indeed caught quite a bit of hell at school that day.  The boy pumpkin was not met with wondrous adoration by his fellow Superman, Batman, and Spiderman classmates.  Maybe if he had gone by the moniker Pumpkinman.  Spits seeds faster than a speeding bullet.  Able to fill pies in a single bound.  I am Pumpkinman.

Cat-o'-lantern by day...

Puss-o'-lantern by night. (i just couldn't add the 'y' now could i?)

]]> http://onthecurb.wordpress.com/2009/10/27/ive-carved-yet-another-pumpkin-in-the-likeness-of-cat/feed/ 3 onthecurb Pusskin Meow. http://onthecurb.wordpress.com/2009/10/22/where-the-nauseous-moms-are/ http://onthecurb.wordpress.com/2009/10/22/where-the-nauseous-moms-are/#comments Thu, 22 Oct 2009 20:18:02 +0000 onthecurb http://onthecurb.wordpress.com/?p=1741 ]]>

Remember when I said I don’t do movie reviews?  Right.  I don’t.  However, I saw Where the Wild Things Are last Friday, and all week I’ve sat on my hands to keep from “reviewing” it here.  But, the silence must be broken.  I HATED IT!!!  I really loathed it.  Holy mangy-haired muppets, I detested the movie from beginning to end.  Sincerely.  I would have preferred dueling tv’s to my left and right blasting Atonement and The Notebook at my profile.

Now, before you wander off thinking I’m a heartless bastard, I did get weepy at the end of Moore’s Capitalism: A Love Story.  See.  I’m human.  Heck, I even cried every time I saw the preview for Where the Wild Things Are thinking of the hundreds of times I read that book to Gav as a wee sprocket.  So, where did it all go wrong?

I have a family membership at our local science center, and they were advertising a Wild Rumpus party on opening night of Where the Wild Things Are.  I thought we’d watch the movie in the neighboring  dom-dom-dom dome theater and then head straight into the party.  Much fun, yes?  Upon tossing the idea at Gav, the kid who always took this book to story time at school, the kid who drew the monsters for school projects, the kid who turned those pages countless numbers of times, he sunk my pleasure cruise ship with his doom-to-gloom teenager response, “The movie looks stupid.  The kid actor is stupid.   It’s stupid.  No way.”  “What?  You loved that book.  You seriously don’t want to see the movie?”  “It looks stupid.  So, yeah no.”  Yeah no.  That’s an unequivocal negative in teenage-speak.  So much for all those wasted tears during the previews reminiscing on Gav’s younger years.

Moving on to Gab, I knew she would enjoy the movie.  She’s become quite the movie-going buff who cheers anytime I ask if she wants to see a movie at the theater.  If I propose the idea of going to the movies, she’ll pump her fists in the air in perfect cheerleader V formation, “Yeah!  Movies!  Yeah!”  My mini-me.  (the enthusiasm for movies, not the cheerleading bit…when she does a jazz run across the floor and drops down into the splits, now that’s a bona fide mini-me) (do you think i do the splits in real life anymore?) (yeah no)

No way would I dare attempt a movie-going feat with the twins yet.  So, Gab was the only kid of interest.

Now, where I went wrong.  Sure, the movie sucked donkey balls in my eyes.  But, the venue also did not help the testicular suckfest.  The dome theater.  Ohgod, the dome theater.  Looking to torture me for information on anybody/anything?  Stick me in a dome theater and I’ll squeal like a starved piglet at the trough.

Have I told you the ease with which I become nauseous with the slightest bit of motion?  So very easy.  Airplanes, boats, backseats of cars, roller coasters designed for preschoolers, hell even those swinging bridges…all lead to a daylong festival of cookie-tossing.  And, increasingly prone to acts of idiocy, I forgot all about my prior experience with the nauseating dome theater.  Gav and I took in some arctic exploration movie there once and we both exited the building begging the Earth to halt rotation long enough for us to catch our bearings.  (yeh, i spawned a motion-sensitive puker just like myself)

I walk in the theater last Friday night and, whoa, unhappy trippy times commenced.  I’ve never dropped acid or nibbled shrooms, but I bet the experience is comparable.  I had the sensation that the dome screen was pressing down on me.  It didn’t matter where we parked our butts.  The screen was breathing down my neck and gnashing its teeth at me.

What pill-popping bozo thought it would be a grand idea to project movies wherein you have to follow characters and a storyline with the movie screen wrapped around your face?  I’ve entered a packed theater before where the only seats available were on the front row.  Pfft, and I thought that sucked being so close to a flat screen, watching the back and forth tennis match of a movie in my face.  No, no, no.  Press the screen to your nose, wrap the sides around your cheeks, stretch the screen above and below your mug, and then tell me how well you can see.  I fucking wore Where the Wild Things Are on my face.

Oh, no wonder you didn’t enjoy the movie. Perhaps.  Children in the theater were completely mesmerized by the funky screen.  I watched kids with their mouths gaped open throughout the movie.  (no, not gaped open with vomit emerging as my mouth wanted to do)  Kids seemed to love the movie.  I didn’t notice any children frightened by the monsters as I had been warned by some movie reviewers.  Halfway through, I started seeing dads whip out their cellphone either checking game scores or e-filing for divorce from their wife for convincing them to take the kids to see Where the Wild Things Are.  The women in the theater?  Well, we kept accidentally making eye contact with one another.

See how I worked this.  I didn’t review the movie for you.  I just told you it sucked and then ranted about the dome theater.  The actual movie?  Umm, I spent the first twenty minutes wondering if I had ghostwritten the script in my sleep.  Without saying too-too much, I’ve lived some of those scenes and, bluck, didn’t want to see them played out wrapped around my face like that.  Also, the giant muppets were just ridiculous.  The voices paired with the muppets were not working at all for me.  Just did not mesh.  On top of that, they were boring and monotonous in their back-and-forth brooding/destroying crap.  Geez, I really hated it.  I’ll stop there.

Now, the party afterward was much much better.  Gab enjoyed face-painting, crown-making, howling at the moon, and general milling about the science center.  Movie = BOO!  Party = RAWR!  And, the party wasn’t wrapped around my face which made it even more awesome.

A reminder to myself to buy a couple of pumpkins to carve before Halloween comes howling at my door.