My yoga instructor cried at the end of class today, and she wasn’t the only one. I cried too, also at the end of class. Our tears were for different reasons.
LH has taught yoga at the gym for a few years now and has become one of my favorite instructors. When she first started, she would do the usual sun salutations, warrior poses, balance sequences, and calming stretches, much like a typical pattern of a lot of yoga classes. As she became more comfortable with us as a class and with her own skills as a teacher, however, she became creative. Sun salutations were just a quick warm-up instead of half the class. A simple balance pose gave way to scorpions, crows, and headstands. Warrior poses begat side planks which begat a whole variety of odd pushups with legs balancing on arms in all different directions. If the class had an even number of participants, she would pair us up for couples poses, which are much less erotic than they sound even though they involve almost as much body awareness and trust as other erotic things do.
Her class evolved into more than just a yoga class. You never knew what you were going to get when you unrolled your mat, and if you were lucky, she might come around during the relaxation at the end and tug gently on your neck with lavender scented hands. In short, LH’s yoga practice was everything yoga is meant to be. It challenged you, it pushed you, it made you step outside of your daily routine and your comfort zone, and it brought you back to a place of peace.
Like all good things, LH’s time as an instructor at the gym came to an end today with that last yoga class. She has decided to move on with her life, and that includes a change in workplace. I can’t say I blame her. People and water stagnate when still for too long. She decided to end her practice with her yoga regulars with a bang, doing all her favorite challenging poses, bringing in all her signature moves, and ending with a last hands-on relaxation technique. After her final Namaste, she sat on her mat and wiped the tears from her eyes. She knew it was the close of a chapter of her life, and while we all shared the moment, those tears were highly personal, just for her.
I was moved by her show of emotion, but that is not why I cried. My participating in yoga today was the first time I returned to hers or any yoga class in over two months. Back in January, I injured my Achilles tendon. I didn’t tear it, but I sure did make it angry, angry enough to seek the help of a physical therapist who recommended I lay off the downward dogs and warriors for a good six to eight weeks. Over those months, I moved away from my two class a day norm, replacing that time at the gym with more errands, more volunteering, just more. I packed on a few extra pounds, spent less time doing things I love, and devoted more of myself to caring and helping other people, whether my family, my friends, or my community.
I missed the yoga. My ankle healed, but my schedule had already absorbed that extra hour on a Friday, just as it did the ones on Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday. My practice time vanished, and I didn’t even notice how much I missed it because I was still working out, just in a different way. But today, I wanted to take the time to be there, to have my last two-person star pose and feel the connection to another person in a non-sexual way, to close my eyes and trust that wherever I was touched, it would be healing. As I moved through the routines and positions, I found my muscles had more memory for yoga than I would have believed. Even after over two months of rest, I was still able to participate in a challenging way. I could still do it, baby.
I stretched and I breathed and sweated, and when I finally earned my savasana, I closed my eyes, relaxed my muscles, calmed my breathing, and I cried. I felt at peace, a serenity I don’t know anywhere else, including my temple where I am so overcommitted. I felt, in a word, spiritual. That realization brought me to tears, not in a sad way, but just pure emotion. I was me again, doing something for me, and it felt right.
I am going to miss LH, as I imagine most of the class will. We will continue our yoga practice without her and in time we will find another instructor that we will grow with and enjoy. It won’t be the same, but it shouldn’t be. her absence won’t stop me from going to yoga, though, because I learned today that it is something I should always make time for, something that means more to me than an hour at the gym. It is about a connection that I forgot I needed to make, one with myself.
Namaste.
Friday, March 25, 2011
Friday, March 11, 2011
Harmonic Convergence
It was bound to happen, but I didn’t think it would have happened so fast. Before I tell you what it is, how about a disclaimer for the gentlemen? Yes, indeed, it is that time of the month again. I know, I know, it’s bad enough when your mom/wife/girlfriend/daughter/fag hag has to tell you all about her monthly, and now you come here for a little diversion, only to find more menses. Unfortunately, bleeding seems to be a big theme at my house these days. So indulge me yet again, and soon enough, I will be ready to share another poop story with you.
Back to what happened. Last week, my period was late. More than a day or two late. The kind of late that makes a woman start to freak out, the kind that makes a woman start every sentence with “I’m late” or “where’s my fucking period?” I am generally not late, and yes, I had reason to be a little paranoid, so it was indeed a new thing for me to obsess over, the lateness of my period. My sister, LM, told me in her usual helpful manner that it was probably just my age (Thanks, again for that, dearest older sister). My husband assured me it was stress or just a fluke and nothing to worry about, and not his fault in any way. My friends just told me to shut up about it because it was coming, it always comes, and to calm the f down. I guess that was their nice way of telling me that my worry and moodiness were probably pretty good indicators of the upcoming shedding of my uterine lining, but all I was too consumed with freaking out to notice.
The truth is, all of them were right. I am getting older, which screws up my cycle. I have been stressed, and moody, and it had nothing to do with the excess of salt and chocolate I have craved and consequently consumed. And yes, my spouse and I took precautions to avoid an unplanned pregnancy (and who says I don’t have a filter?). I was worrying for nothing, and before I broke down and bought a pee stick, I started bleeding.
Now, that’s not the amazing part. Bear with me here a moment. My daughter, E, who recently became a woman in that way, is not quite yet regular herself. She got her first period, and then didn’t get another one for about sixty days later, which meant she was lucky as hell but wasted a ton of panty liners. She was not late, though. Her period came last week too, but it was way early. Neither of us was expecting it, even though by her own admission, she ate all of her Valentine’s candy and was mean to her friends at school. At home, we can’t really tell a difference in her mood, because it’s always changing in that special tween way. I am convinced all tweens are bipolar, but luckily for society, some of them outgrow it.
If you add the two of us together, you get my husband’s worst nightmare. My daughter and I are now in sync with each other, bleeding alongside of each other, cramping and whining simultaneously. I haven’t felt this close to her since she was in my uterus. We are both walking around, rubbing our lower backs, taking turns with the heating pad, and filling up every garbage can with our used feminine hygiene equipment. I figured it would occur at some point in our lives, our synchronized bleeding, but somehow I was hoping she would not be in the fifth grade when it did. It kind of takes a little of my parental leverage away. She thinks she is now my peer, since we can share our pads and complain about our cramps and generally disgust and freak out my husband and her father.
Not only could it be worse, one day, in the next few years, it will be. At some point, daughter number two is going to join the club, and after I slap her face and buy her all sorts of special teenage rags for tiny twats (for those OMG moments!), she too will sync up with her older sister and me. Then the three of us can bleed simultaneously, and my husband can begin construction on the shed he plans to move into in the back yard.
Back to what happened. Last week, my period was late. More than a day or two late. The kind of late that makes a woman start to freak out, the kind that makes a woman start every sentence with “I’m late” or “where’s my fucking period?” I am generally not late, and yes, I had reason to be a little paranoid, so it was indeed a new thing for me to obsess over, the lateness of my period. My sister, LM, told me in her usual helpful manner that it was probably just my age (Thanks, again for that, dearest older sister). My husband assured me it was stress or just a fluke and nothing to worry about, and not his fault in any way. My friends just told me to shut up about it because it was coming, it always comes, and to calm the f down. I guess that was their nice way of telling me that my worry and moodiness were probably pretty good indicators of the upcoming shedding of my uterine lining, but all I was too consumed with freaking out to notice.
The truth is, all of them were right. I am getting older, which screws up my cycle. I have been stressed, and moody, and it had nothing to do with the excess of salt and chocolate I have craved and consequently consumed. And yes, my spouse and I took precautions to avoid an unplanned pregnancy (and who says I don’t have a filter?). I was worrying for nothing, and before I broke down and bought a pee stick, I started bleeding.
Now, that’s not the amazing part. Bear with me here a moment. My daughter, E, who recently became a woman in that way, is not quite yet regular herself. She got her first period, and then didn’t get another one for about sixty days later, which meant she was lucky as hell but wasted a ton of panty liners. She was not late, though. Her period came last week too, but it was way early. Neither of us was expecting it, even though by her own admission, she ate all of her Valentine’s candy and was mean to her friends at school. At home, we can’t really tell a difference in her mood, because it’s always changing in that special tween way. I am convinced all tweens are bipolar, but luckily for society, some of them outgrow it.
If you add the two of us together, you get my husband’s worst nightmare. My daughter and I are now in sync with each other, bleeding alongside of each other, cramping and whining simultaneously. I haven’t felt this close to her since she was in my uterus. We are both walking around, rubbing our lower backs, taking turns with the heating pad, and filling up every garbage can with our used feminine hygiene equipment. I figured it would occur at some point in our lives, our synchronized bleeding, but somehow I was hoping she would not be in the fifth grade when it did. It kind of takes a little of my parental leverage away. She thinks she is now my peer, since we can share our pads and complain about our cramps and generally disgust and freak out my husband and her father.
Not only could it be worse, one day, in the next few years, it will be. At some point, daughter number two is going to join the club, and after I slap her face and buy her all sorts of special teenage rags for tiny twats (for those OMG moments!), she too will sync up with her older sister and me. Then the three of us can bleed simultaneously, and my husband can begin construction on the shed he plans to move into in the back yard.
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
I Brake for Kugel
I texted MJ yesterday afternoon: Does the baby want kugel?
MJ replied: Hell to the yes!
Kugel, for those of you without Jewish friends, who live in the South, or who list The Olive Garden and Applebee’s as some of your favorite restaurants, is a noodle pudding. It’s similar to rice pudding or bread pudding because it is a starch baked in a sweet custard. It’s heavy on the cinnamon and dairy, and if you are so inclined, you can pollute it with raisins or dried fruit bits. Like most baked foods, it can be really good or really dried out and horrendous. A lot of goyim (Google it; for Chrissakes, you are reading this online!) don’t know what to do with the idea of sweet noodles, but really, it that any weirder than soaking old bread in eggs and milk and sugar?
MJ, who is not even a little Jewish, loves kugel. She is also pregnant, so obviously her unborn baby is going to love it too. My husband, who, like MJ, is not even a little Jewish, hates the stuff, and my girls and I don’t need to finish a whole batch of it alone. So it was MJ to the rescue, because she is happy for some Jewish leftovers.
I texted her back: Are you on the road? Can you swing by and pick it up?
MJ has to drive a lot for her job. A. Lot. She hasn’t complained to me yet about hemorrhoids, but I know it’s just a matter of time. She sits on her pregnant ass all day in the car. Even the baby is going to have piles (you don’t have to Google that one, just ask your grandmother).
MJ replied: On my way home from Charlotte.
We live between Charlotte, North Carolina, and Atlanta, Georgia.
I texted her back: Great, let me know when you get close.
She did, so I tidied up a bit so she couldn’t see that we live like pigs, which is ridiculous, because she know we live like pigs. My girls continued with their homework, and I kept one eye on the side door for MJ’s car.
Ten minutes later, the phone rang. It was MJ.
I said: Hi, MJ.
MJ said: I’m not coming.
I said: What do you mean? What happened?
MJ said: I just fucking rear ended some Vietnamese chick on the exit ramp. Your exit ramp. She stopped dead still on the fucking exit ramp for NO FUCKING REASON.
I wrote that in capitals because MJ yelled that part.
I said: God, MJ, are you okay? Are you hurt? Do you want me to come down there? Have you called the cops? Did your air bag go off?
I really did ask a whole string of questions just like that.
MJ said: No, thank God. We are both okay, no injuries. The air bags didn’t even go off. She’s got my insurance information. She didn’t even want to move her car off the road!
I said: One of you should call the cops. Won’t she need a police report for her insurance?
MJ said: It’s barely a dent on her bumper. Jesus, I am going to implode. We are sitting here by Wendy’s and all I want to do is go home.
I let MJ do what she needed to do and got off the phone. I looked at my kids sitting there doing their homework and said to them, come on girls, get your shoes. We are going to take some kugel to MJ.
My oldest daughter, E, was very concerned about MJ, but I reassured her that everything was fine, she just had to wait for the cops to come to fill out a report. I cut a big piece of kugel and put it in a plastic container. Then I called MJ back.
I said: Are you waiting for the police?
MJ said: We never called the police. She called her FUCKING MOTHER!
MJ screamed that part.
I said: Is her mother a police officer?
MJ said: I should just leave. This is nuts. We have exchanged information. What do I need to stay for?
MJ agreed to call the insurance company instead of the cops. We got in the car with the kugel and drove to the Wendy’s. Her car was in the parking lot next to the car she hit. We pulled up on the other side of her. MJ was on the phone, looking fabulous as ever, with her tiny baby bump poking out of her dress. My kids ran over to her side of the car and handed her the container of kugel. We looked at the back of the car she hit, which had a dent in the bumper the size of a dime, or maybe a nickel, to err on the generous side, although dimes are worth more than nickels. MJ got out of her car and snapped a couple of pictures with her camera phone.
I said: Do you want me to stay?
MJ said: No, I’m fine, thanks. I guess we are about done here. Her insurance company didn’t need a police report.
I said: Well, make sure yours doesn’t. Are you sure you don’t want me to stay?
MJ said: No, it’s all fine. Thank you so much for driving up here.
I said: It’s the least I could do. You had an accident driving here to pick up the kugel. I hope it is worth it.
MJ said: I know it will be. Thanks again!
We kissed MJ goodbye and I drove home, leaving MJ to finish up the business of an accident and then drive home cautiously so she could eat her noodle pudding, which sat in its container in the passenger seat feeling guilty, like a blood diamond. Such devastation, all for those sweet, creamy noodles, which in all honesty, you don’t get to eat every day.
MJ replied: Hell to the yes!
Kugel, for those of you without Jewish friends, who live in the South, or who list The Olive Garden and Applebee’s as some of your favorite restaurants, is a noodle pudding. It’s similar to rice pudding or bread pudding because it is a starch baked in a sweet custard. It’s heavy on the cinnamon and dairy, and if you are so inclined, you can pollute it with raisins or dried fruit bits. Like most baked foods, it can be really good or really dried out and horrendous. A lot of goyim (Google it; for Chrissakes, you are reading this online!) don’t know what to do with the idea of sweet noodles, but really, it that any weirder than soaking old bread in eggs and milk and sugar?
MJ, who is not even a little Jewish, loves kugel. She is also pregnant, so obviously her unborn baby is going to love it too. My husband, who, like MJ, is not even a little Jewish, hates the stuff, and my girls and I don’t need to finish a whole batch of it alone. So it was MJ to the rescue, because she is happy for some Jewish leftovers.
I texted her back: Are you on the road? Can you swing by and pick it up?
MJ has to drive a lot for her job. A. Lot. She hasn’t complained to me yet about hemorrhoids, but I know it’s just a matter of time. She sits on her pregnant ass all day in the car. Even the baby is going to have piles (you don’t have to Google that one, just ask your grandmother).
MJ replied: On my way home from Charlotte.
We live between Charlotte, North Carolina, and Atlanta, Georgia.
I texted her back: Great, let me know when you get close.
She did, so I tidied up a bit so she couldn’t see that we live like pigs, which is ridiculous, because she know we live like pigs. My girls continued with their homework, and I kept one eye on the side door for MJ’s car.
Ten minutes later, the phone rang. It was MJ.
I said: Hi, MJ.
MJ said: I’m not coming.
I said: What do you mean? What happened?
MJ said: I just fucking rear ended some Vietnamese chick on the exit ramp. Your exit ramp. She stopped dead still on the fucking exit ramp for NO FUCKING REASON.
I wrote that in capitals because MJ yelled that part.
I said: God, MJ, are you okay? Are you hurt? Do you want me to come down there? Have you called the cops? Did your air bag go off?
I really did ask a whole string of questions just like that.
MJ said: No, thank God. We are both okay, no injuries. The air bags didn’t even go off. She’s got my insurance information. She didn’t even want to move her car off the road!
I said: One of you should call the cops. Won’t she need a police report for her insurance?
MJ said: It’s barely a dent on her bumper. Jesus, I am going to implode. We are sitting here by Wendy’s and all I want to do is go home.
I let MJ do what she needed to do and got off the phone. I looked at my kids sitting there doing their homework and said to them, come on girls, get your shoes. We are going to take some kugel to MJ.
My oldest daughter, E, was very concerned about MJ, but I reassured her that everything was fine, she just had to wait for the cops to come to fill out a report. I cut a big piece of kugel and put it in a plastic container. Then I called MJ back.
I said: Are you waiting for the police?
MJ said: We never called the police. She called her FUCKING MOTHER!
MJ screamed that part.
I said: Is her mother a police officer?
MJ said: I should just leave. This is nuts. We have exchanged information. What do I need to stay for?
MJ agreed to call the insurance company instead of the cops. We got in the car with the kugel and drove to the Wendy’s. Her car was in the parking lot next to the car she hit. We pulled up on the other side of her. MJ was on the phone, looking fabulous as ever, with her tiny baby bump poking out of her dress. My kids ran over to her side of the car and handed her the container of kugel. We looked at the back of the car she hit, which had a dent in the bumper the size of a dime, or maybe a nickel, to err on the generous side, although dimes are worth more than nickels. MJ got out of her car and snapped a couple of pictures with her camera phone.
I said: Do you want me to stay?
MJ said: No, I’m fine, thanks. I guess we are about done here. Her insurance company didn’t need a police report.
I said: Well, make sure yours doesn’t. Are you sure you don’t want me to stay?
MJ said: No, it’s all fine. Thank you so much for driving up here.
I said: It’s the least I could do. You had an accident driving here to pick up the kugel. I hope it is worth it.
MJ said: I know it will be. Thanks again!
We kissed MJ goodbye and I drove home, leaving MJ to finish up the business of an accident and then drive home cautiously so she could eat her noodle pudding, which sat in its container in the passenger seat feeling guilty, like a blood diamond. Such devastation, all for those sweet, creamy noodles, which in all honesty, you don’t get to eat every day.
Friday, February 25, 2011
Great Clips
Did you ever get high and go get a haircut? Maybe you might eat some crazy snacks or watch a really unfunny movie, but that would be it. And for some people, a poorly executed love connection might occur. I realize that good judgment is the one of the first things to go when you abuse drugs, but everyone wants to look their best, even a junkie. Getting a new hair style, however, doesn’t really go great with drug abuse.
I should have told that to the lady sitting across from me at the salon yesterday. I noticed her right away when I checked in at the front counter and then sat on one of the chairs in the waiting area. She was sitting on the sofa near me, talking on her cell phone very quietly. The reason I noticed her was that her hair looked like it had been fixed by a swarm of feral cats. Her hair was long, mid back length, with really obviously streaky highlights. That wasn't what made it stand out; it stood out because it literally stood out in every direction on the top of her head. Extreme bed head, complete with tangles and knots and general rats' nesty appearance. She had what I assume was a banana clip in it, which is never a good thing, and her bangs stuck up at odd angles from her forehead. She wore black skinny jeans, black and turquoise Nikes, and a turquoise t-shirt, none of which fit her extremely thin frame with distended empty belly very well. I did give her extra points for her matchiness.
She not only talked on the phone, she also cried. Only she didn’t look unhappy. She didn’t even look like she was having an allergy attack. I don’t think she even knew she was crying. After she finished her call, she stood up abruptly and ran to the bathroom. And I thought, wow, she looks like she is on crack or something.
I walked back with my hair dresser to her station and sat down, waiting for her mix my color. I looked around and realized that the crack head was now over at the shampoo bowl. Her head was tilted back while the girl shampooed her hair, and next to her ear was, again, her cell phone. I accidentally made eye contact with the shampoo girl and gave her a look that said, Really? On the phone while getting her hair shampooed? And she gave me a look back that said, It happens more than you think. What can you do? If I were shampooing that druggie, I would oops a daisy some water all over that Motorola.
I looked out the window, in the opposite direction from the shampoo bowl area, while my stylist coated all my gray spots with brown goop, so I didn’t notice that the stoned woman was seated directly across from me. The salon has stations for the stylists with double sided mirrors hanging from the ceiling like dividers, so it is very open and airy. It also made it impossible not to gawk at the woman who no longer was on the phone but was now very comfortable and relaxed in the chair. Her stylist began to trim her split ends while mine continued painting my head and making small talk. Finally, I had to interrupt her.
“Is that woman on drugs?” I said louder than socially appropriate. We both stared at the woman who was leaning farther forward in her seat, her eyes closed.
My hair dresser looked at her and said,” Oh yeah. She’s usually like that. If you’re lucky, maybe she’ll fall out of her chair.”
“That would be the greatest!” I said. “I need something funny to write about.”
We stopped talking and just watched her for a little while. Every so often, her eyes would open half way and then roll back in her head before she closed her lids again.
“What do you think she’s on?” I asked.
“I am pretty sure she uses pain killers,” my hair stylist said.
“I don’t know. That giant cold sore screams meth to me,” I replied.
“You’re probably right,” she agreed. “That would explain her skinniness too. I wish I had some meth to get that thin.”
“No you don’t, look at her. She’s probably nineteen but she looks forty-nine. That thin doesn’t make up for the face. Kudos to her, though, for caring enough to get her hair done.”
“I know, right? You would think if she had an extra hundred bucks, it would not be spent on highlights.”
Before I knew it, her hair was all cut and blown straight, and from the back, you would have never known what a used-up hag she was. She stumbled out her chair and tried to pick up her purse and her jacket, which was no walk in the park for her, let me tell you. She shuffled back to the front counter to check out and then get in her car and drive away.
“Wow, you don’t see that every day,” I remarked to my hair dresser.
“No, you don’t. It’s usually not that interesting in here. Usually if we have a little craziness, it's when someone yells because they don't like their haircut. It doesn't happen often.”
“I’m disappointed she didn’t fall out of her chair, though,” I said.
“Me too,” she said.
I should have told that to the lady sitting across from me at the salon yesterday. I noticed her right away when I checked in at the front counter and then sat on one of the chairs in the waiting area. She was sitting on the sofa near me, talking on her cell phone very quietly. The reason I noticed her was that her hair looked like it had been fixed by a swarm of feral cats. Her hair was long, mid back length, with really obviously streaky highlights. That wasn't what made it stand out; it stood out because it literally stood out in every direction on the top of her head. Extreme bed head, complete with tangles and knots and general rats' nesty appearance. She had what I assume was a banana clip in it, which is never a good thing, and her bangs stuck up at odd angles from her forehead. She wore black skinny jeans, black and turquoise Nikes, and a turquoise t-shirt, none of which fit her extremely thin frame with distended empty belly very well. I did give her extra points for her matchiness.
She not only talked on the phone, she also cried. Only she didn’t look unhappy. She didn’t even look like she was having an allergy attack. I don’t think she even knew she was crying. After she finished her call, she stood up abruptly and ran to the bathroom. And I thought, wow, she looks like she is on crack or something.
I walked back with my hair dresser to her station and sat down, waiting for her mix my color. I looked around and realized that the crack head was now over at the shampoo bowl. Her head was tilted back while the girl shampooed her hair, and next to her ear was, again, her cell phone. I accidentally made eye contact with the shampoo girl and gave her a look that said, Really? On the phone while getting her hair shampooed? And she gave me a look back that said, It happens more than you think. What can you do? If I were shampooing that druggie, I would oops a daisy some water all over that Motorola.
I looked out the window, in the opposite direction from the shampoo bowl area, while my stylist coated all my gray spots with brown goop, so I didn’t notice that the stoned woman was seated directly across from me. The salon has stations for the stylists with double sided mirrors hanging from the ceiling like dividers, so it is very open and airy. It also made it impossible not to gawk at the woman who no longer was on the phone but was now very comfortable and relaxed in the chair. Her stylist began to trim her split ends while mine continued painting my head and making small talk. Finally, I had to interrupt her.
“Is that woman on drugs?” I said louder than socially appropriate. We both stared at the woman who was leaning farther forward in her seat, her eyes closed.
My hair dresser looked at her and said,” Oh yeah. She’s usually like that. If you’re lucky, maybe she’ll fall out of her chair.”
“That would be the greatest!” I said. “I need something funny to write about.”
We stopped talking and just watched her for a little while. Every so often, her eyes would open half way and then roll back in her head before she closed her lids again.
“What do you think she’s on?” I asked.
“I am pretty sure she uses pain killers,” my hair stylist said.
“I don’t know. That giant cold sore screams meth to me,” I replied.
“You’re probably right,” she agreed. “That would explain her skinniness too. I wish I had some meth to get that thin.”
“No you don’t, look at her. She’s probably nineteen but she looks forty-nine. That thin doesn’t make up for the face. Kudos to her, though, for caring enough to get her hair done.”
“I know, right? You would think if she had an extra hundred bucks, it would not be spent on highlights.”
Before I knew it, her hair was all cut and blown straight, and from the back, you would have never known what a used-up hag she was. She stumbled out her chair and tried to pick up her purse and her jacket, which was no walk in the park for her, let me tell you. She shuffled back to the front counter to check out and then get in her car and drive away.
“Wow, you don’t see that every day,” I remarked to my hair dresser.
“No, you don’t. It’s usually not that interesting in here. Usually if we have a little craziness, it's when someone yells because they don't like their haircut. It doesn't happen often.”
“I’m disappointed she didn’t fall out of her chair, though,” I said.
“Me too,” she said.
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
The Greatest Show on Earth
(This is for you, MJ)
By now I am sure you have all heard the headlines: Baby Found in Toilet at the Bi-Lo Center in Greenville, South Carolina. For those of you who live under a rock, and I do mean you, LM, let me fill you in on this little news item. Apparently, about a week ago, a woman gave birth to a full term baby in a toilet at an entertainment venue that is named for a lesser grocery store chain. On a Friday night. During the circus. The cleaning staff found the newborn clinging to life in the toilet bowl, whereupon they called 9-1-1 and saved the baby. Since that time, the mother of this infant has been found and charged with a slew of crimes just short of murder. Turns out she is a married twenty four year old woman who already has a four year old kid. She is separated from her spouse, who is now trying to get custody of their child, because he decided that if she could birth a baby in the john and leave it there, then maybe he could do a better job of parenting. He is not, by the way, the father of the newborn. It also appears that there is no chance for a marital reconciliation. A lot of people don’t forgive leaving a baby in the toilet.
Now, I am not such an ogre that I don’t realize what a horrible news story this is. Come on, this is a newborn baby we are talking about, one of God’s littlest children. I get that. But it is more than a little funny. Even my nine year old is calling it “the toilet baby.” My eleven year old has asked me more than once if there is anything more embarrassing than being born in a toilet, which I will have to remind her of the next time I mortify her in public (Mom, you are so embarrassing. It could be worse, E. I could have delivered you in the toilet). She thinks that baby will never get over the story of how it came into the world, and thus there is no hope for it. Remember the test tube baby? What about that baby in the well? It seems my daughter has a pretty good point.
I want to know how it all went down that Friday night at the Bi-Lo Center. Was the mom totally alone in the restroom at the circus? Is it possible to be in a ladies room at the circus and be the only one in there? I have never been anywhere that involved both women and children that didn’t have a bathroom line that wrapped around the building.
The mom claims to not have known she was pregnant, which is possible, since there is even a reality show dedicated to the fact that lots of knocked up women are clueless idiots when it comes to their bodies. But when she did enter the stall, and commenced giving birth, did no one else in the bathroom notice? Don’t you think at least one woman turned to another and said, Jesus, it sounds like she’s giving birth in there? I have been to the restroom plenty in my life, at least several times a day, and never before have I heard a woman make a noise in a stall that made me think that the circle of life was beginning on the crapper next to me. Sure, I have heard women crying. And laughing. But grunting and panting? Maybe constipation level, but not childbirth level. I can’t profess to know what happens when a man lays some pipe in public, but women try to pretend like they are delicate when they take a public dump.
Okay, so this thin young woman who did not know she was pregnant leaves her seat to go to the restroom, drops her neonatal load in the toilet, I assume flushes at least once, followed by hand washing, I hope, and then returns to her seat, totally unaware of what just happened. Was she not bleeding a little? Seriously, I have had two kids. You kind of bleed a little. And by a little, I mean a lot. Don’t you think she would have been, at the least, a tad messy? Don’t you think perhaps someone might have noticed that wasn’t cotton candy on the seat of her pants?
And even worse, what if you were the one who visited that bathroom after her? You know how you go down the row, looking for a stall that hasn’t been violated? The first one has pee all over the seat. The second one contains a whole unrolled wad of toilet paper and some unflushed fecal matter. And then, oh my god, is that a baby? Surely someone discovered that kid before the cleaning crew stepped in and saved the day.
Speaking of the cleaning crew, poor Edar and Marco. You know they don’t get paid enough to clean up the shit people smear all over the bowl, let alone for tying umbilical cords. Think about it, a night at the circus would bring its own kind of mess, wouldn’t it? Popcorn and peanuts all over the place, melted dippin’ dots, and handprints of cotton candy. More than one kid probably had too many corn dogs and didn’t get to the trash can on time. But to find a baby in a toilet, along with its afterbirth? Minimum wage doesn't begin to cover that.
In an admirable display of mighty whiteness, some hillbilly stepped forward and admitted he was most likely the father, which means that all this will be resolved without the help of Maury Povich. The mom looks smashing in her orange jumpsuit, and it doesn’t even show off her post pregnancy pouch. Most importantly, the baby survived, although the therapy for this kid is going to cost us all a whole bunch of tax dollars. At the very least, Barnum and Bailey should give him free circus tickets for life.
By now I am sure you have all heard the headlines: Baby Found in Toilet at the Bi-Lo Center in Greenville, South Carolina. For those of you who live under a rock, and I do mean you, LM, let me fill you in on this little news item. Apparently, about a week ago, a woman gave birth to a full term baby in a toilet at an entertainment venue that is named for a lesser grocery store chain. On a Friday night. During the circus. The cleaning staff found the newborn clinging to life in the toilet bowl, whereupon they called 9-1-1 and saved the baby. Since that time, the mother of this infant has been found and charged with a slew of crimes just short of murder. Turns out she is a married twenty four year old woman who already has a four year old kid. She is separated from her spouse, who is now trying to get custody of their child, because he decided that if she could birth a baby in the john and leave it there, then maybe he could do a better job of parenting. He is not, by the way, the father of the newborn. It also appears that there is no chance for a marital reconciliation. A lot of people don’t forgive leaving a baby in the toilet.
Now, I am not such an ogre that I don’t realize what a horrible news story this is. Come on, this is a newborn baby we are talking about, one of God’s littlest children. I get that. But it is more than a little funny. Even my nine year old is calling it “the toilet baby.” My eleven year old has asked me more than once if there is anything more embarrassing than being born in a toilet, which I will have to remind her of the next time I mortify her in public (Mom, you are so embarrassing. It could be worse, E. I could have delivered you in the toilet). She thinks that baby will never get over the story of how it came into the world, and thus there is no hope for it. Remember the test tube baby? What about that baby in the well? It seems my daughter has a pretty good point.
I want to know how it all went down that Friday night at the Bi-Lo Center. Was the mom totally alone in the restroom at the circus? Is it possible to be in a ladies room at the circus and be the only one in there? I have never been anywhere that involved both women and children that didn’t have a bathroom line that wrapped around the building.
The mom claims to not have known she was pregnant, which is possible, since there is even a reality show dedicated to the fact that lots of knocked up women are clueless idiots when it comes to their bodies. But when she did enter the stall, and commenced giving birth, did no one else in the bathroom notice? Don’t you think at least one woman turned to another and said, Jesus, it sounds like she’s giving birth in there? I have been to the restroom plenty in my life, at least several times a day, and never before have I heard a woman make a noise in a stall that made me think that the circle of life was beginning on the crapper next to me. Sure, I have heard women crying. And laughing. But grunting and panting? Maybe constipation level, but not childbirth level. I can’t profess to know what happens when a man lays some pipe in public, but women try to pretend like they are delicate when they take a public dump.
Okay, so this thin young woman who did not know she was pregnant leaves her seat to go to the restroom, drops her neonatal load in the toilet, I assume flushes at least once, followed by hand washing, I hope, and then returns to her seat, totally unaware of what just happened. Was she not bleeding a little? Seriously, I have had two kids. You kind of bleed a little. And by a little, I mean a lot. Don’t you think she would have been, at the least, a tad messy? Don’t you think perhaps someone might have noticed that wasn’t cotton candy on the seat of her pants?
And even worse, what if you were the one who visited that bathroom after her? You know how you go down the row, looking for a stall that hasn’t been violated? The first one has pee all over the seat. The second one contains a whole unrolled wad of toilet paper and some unflushed fecal matter. And then, oh my god, is that a baby? Surely someone discovered that kid before the cleaning crew stepped in and saved the day.
Speaking of the cleaning crew, poor Edar and Marco. You know they don’t get paid enough to clean up the shit people smear all over the bowl, let alone for tying umbilical cords. Think about it, a night at the circus would bring its own kind of mess, wouldn’t it? Popcorn and peanuts all over the place, melted dippin’ dots, and handprints of cotton candy. More than one kid probably had too many corn dogs and didn’t get to the trash can on time. But to find a baby in a toilet, along with its afterbirth? Minimum wage doesn't begin to cover that.
In an admirable display of mighty whiteness, some hillbilly stepped forward and admitted he was most likely the father, which means that all this will be resolved without the help of Maury Povich. The mom looks smashing in her orange jumpsuit, and it doesn’t even show off her post pregnancy pouch. Most importantly, the baby survived, although the therapy for this kid is going to cost us all a whole bunch of tax dollars. At the very least, Barnum and Bailey should give him free circus tickets for life.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
My Grandfather Called Them Man Hole Covers
You know how sometimes you guys, and by guys I mean actual humans sporting a penis and sometimes even balls, wander over to read my blog and get slammed with too much information about the mysteries of the female body? You know what I mean, with all the graphic details that freak you out and make you glad to be a man? Yeah, well, this is going to be one of those times, so brace yourself. Wear a cup or a condom or something. Man up.
There is nothing sexy about a tampon. Do you remember many moons ago when Prince Charles professed his love so eloquently to Lady Camilla by telling her he wanted to be her tampon? Seriously? Yuck. Who other than a member of the British royal family, a blood line with a history of hemophilia no less, would find it romantic to be a gob of ultra-absorbent cotton shoved up a bleeding twat? Did I say yuck already? How about gross?
And yet, most of my lady friends, like me, prefer a good sturdy tampon to a giant diaper-sized pad wadded up between their legs. When I got my period for the first time, I thought there was no way in hell I was ever going to use a tampon. I assumed, mistakenly, that my virginal state would make tampon insertion impossible and painful and even add bloody insult to injury. I was already losing what felt like gallons of blood. Why did I want to lose even more? Pads were just easier and less physically and emotionally traumatic.
My mom, being the cheap-ass bitch she was, made my sisters and I use the free pads she stole from the health clinic where she worked. They were roughly the size of a two by four and were attached by safety, not diaper, pins to an elastic belt that went around your waist. There was no disguising the fact that I was smuggling a jumbo sanitary napkin in my acid wash jeans while all my friends were sporting the new and modern adhesive pads, some of which even had wings to prevent that annoying side panty staining. Thank God at least all our pants in the 80’s were high-waisted so you couldn’t see that thick belt; nowadays girls can even buy thong panty liners, but in my prime pad wearing days, they were all bricks of cotton. I consoled myself with the fact that my grandmother probably had to wear a small sheep in her knickers, and therefore it could have been worse. After a couple of months of trying to play soccer while running with my knees squeezed together tightly, kicking from below the knee like I had crapped my pants, I decided I was ready to give tampons a try.
The truth is, once you get the hang of a tampon, it’s like a magician’s trick revealed, no more mystery. By the time I attempted my first tampon, I had practically memorized the instructional insert (ha ha, I said insert!) that came in the Tampax box. I assumed I could figure out my va-jay-jay from my asterisk by feel, and discovered that as long as I shoved it up there far enough, I couldn’t feel it at all. It’s kind of like wearing a contact lens, only you don’t stick a tampon in your eye. You shouldn’t know it’s there unless there is a problem.
For women who don’t like tampons, well, maybe they can’t grasp the idea of sticking something in their cooter and keeping it there for a few hours. Maybe someone should invent a nostril tampon for soaking up that pesky nasal drip which flows so freely during cold and flu season. If people walked around with a white string hanging out of their noses, maybe they would be more comfortable with the idea of cotton plugs stuffed into other orifices.
Which brings me to last weekend, when I visited my sister, LM, and her family, while I had my own monthly visitor. I borrowed a tampon from my sister (I took one, actually, since I had no intention of returning it used). She buys store brand tampons to save a little money but they are not the same thing as a Tampax at all. I wouldn’t say that money is no object, but certain things are definitely better name brand. Cereal is one, toilet paper is another, and tampons, definitely worth the extra expense.
Later that day, I took the kids to Target and decided to treat my sister to a box of the good stuff. When we got home, I surprised LM with her gift, which delighted her, because what is a more thoughtful gift than a free box of tampons? It wasn’t enough for me to just treat her, though; I wanted her to really understand why Tampax was the best choice for her snatch.
I took a tampon out of the box and said to her,” Here, let me show you something.”
My twelve year old nephew, SM, looked up from the table where he was diagramming Middle Earth or creating an alternate universe or something. “Hey SM, you wanna see what a tampon looks like?”
Sensing he was in a safe place, free from judgment, he nodded his assent and scampered over to the counter next to my sister. My older daughter, E, materialized at the very moment that I unsheathed the tampon from its paper wrapper.
“Mom, what are you doing?!?” E shrieked in horror.
“I’m showing your aunt why Tampax is better than generic. Oh, and I’m also showing SM. It’s not like he will have this opportunity any time again in the near future.”
I proceeded to elaborate to my sister how the applicator (which really, let’s face it, should be called a plunger) is tapered for comfort, with little finger grips for easier plungability, and how the tampon itself has an extra little absorbent skirt to catch any inopportune drips.
My nephew, who didn’t think he was going to actually see a tampon up close and personal, said, “Okay, I’ve seen enough,” and went back to the table and his fantasy world.
“God, Mom, you are so embarrassing!” E moaned.
“Why? It’s not like I inserted it here in the kitchen. I’m going to do that now, but in the bathroom instead. Wanna watch?” I asked her.
“You’re gross!” she yelled at my back as I left the room, Tampax between my fingers like a cigar.
“You’ve got to learn sometime!” I called over my shoulder to her.
At least I didn’t tell her about how I used Playtex brand tampons, with their blooming action, as Christmas tree decorations when I was in college. They made the perfect bells. Nor did I tell her about how my roommate BL invented “pooning,” a sport which involved flinging a wet Playtex tampon (Playtex was the official sponsor of the college snatch) against a wall some distance away, making a satisfying thwock noise as it stuck to the wall. I don’t remember how we scored. The object of the game may have been just to throw tampons at the wall. Regardless, those stories are for another day, when I need another occasion to embarrass the crap out of her.
There is nothing sexy about a tampon. Do you remember many moons ago when Prince Charles professed his love so eloquently to Lady Camilla by telling her he wanted to be her tampon? Seriously? Yuck. Who other than a member of the British royal family, a blood line with a history of hemophilia no less, would find it romantic to be a gob of ultra-absorbent cotton shoved up a bleeding twat? Did I say yuck already? How about gross?
And yet, most of my lady friends, like me, prefer a good sturdy tampon to a giant diaper-sized pad wadded up between their legs. When I got my period for the first time, I thought there was no way in hell I was ever going to use a tampon. I assumed, mistakenly, that my virginal state would make tampon insertion impossible and painful and even add bloody insult to injury. I was already losing what felt like gallons of blood. Why did I want to lose even more? Pads were just easier and less physically and emotionally traumatic.
My mom, being the cheap-ass bitch she was, made my sisters and I use the free pads she stole from the health clinic where she worked. They were roughly the size of a two by four and were attached by safety, not diaper, pins to an elastic belt that went around your waist. There was no disguising the fact that I was smuggling a jumbo sanitary napkin in my acid wash jeans while all my friends were sporting the new and modern adhesive pads, some of which even had wings to prevent that annoying side panty staining. Thank God at least all our pants in the 80’s were high-waisted so you couldn’t see that thick belt; nowadays girls can even buy thong panty liners, but in my prime pad wearing days, they were all bricks of cotton. I consoled myself with the fact that my grandmother probably had to wear a small sheep in her knickers, and therefore it could have been worse. After a couple of months of trying to play soccer while running with my knees squeezed together tightly, kicking from below the knee like I had crapped my pants, I decided I was ready to give tampons a try.
The truth is, once you get the hang of a tampon, it’s like a magician’s trick revealed, no more mystery. By the time I attempted my first tampon, I had practically memorized the instructional insert (ha ha, I said insert!) that came in the Tampax box. I assumed I could figure out my va-jay-jay from my asterisk by feel, and discovered that as long as I shoved it up there far enough, I couldn’t feel it at all. It’s kind of like wearing a contact lens, only you don’t stick a tampon in your eye. You shouldn’t know it’s there unless there is a problem.
For women who don’t like tampons, well, maybe they can’t grasp the idea of sticking something in their cooter and keeping it there for a few hours. Maybe someone should invent a nostril tampon for soaking up that pesky nasal drip which flows so freely during cold and flu season. If people walked around with a white string hanging out of their noses, maybe they would be more comfortable with the idea of cotton plugs stuffed into other orifices.
Which brings me to last weekend, when I visited my sister, LM, and her family, while I had my own monthly visitor. I borrowed a tampon from my sister (I took one, actually, since I had no intention of returning it used). She buys store brand tampons to save a little money but they are not the same thing as a Tampax at all. I wouldn’t say that money is no object, but certain things are definitely better name brand. Cereal is one, toilet paper is another, and tampons, definitely worth the extra expense.
Later that day, I took the kids to Target and decided to treat my sister to a box of the good stuff. When we got home, I surprised LM with her gift, which delighted her, because what is a more thoughtful gift than a free box of tampons? It wasn’t enough for me to just treat her, though; I wanted her to really understand why Tampax was the best choice for her snatch.
I took a tampon out of the box and said to her,” Here, let me show you something.”
My twelve year old nephew, SM, looked up from the table where he was diagramming Middle Earth or creating an alternate universe or something. “Hey SM, you wanna see what a tampon looks like?”
Sensing he was in a safe place, free from judgment, he nodded his assent and scampered over to the counter next to my sister. My older daughter, E, materialized at the very moment that I unsheathed the tampon from its paper wrapper.
“Mom, what are you doing?!?” E shrieked in horror.
“I’m showing your aunt why Tampax is better than generic. Oh, and I’m also showing SM. It’s not like he will have this opportunity any time again in the near future.”
I proceeded to elaborate to my sister how the applicator (which really, let’s face it, should be called a plunger) is tapered for comfort, with little finger grips for easier plungability, and how the tampon itself has an extra little absorbent skirt to catch any inopportune drips.
My nephew, who didn’t think he was going to actually see a tampon up close and personal, said, “Okay, I’ve seen enough,” and went back to the table and his fantasy world.
“God, Mom, you are so embarrassing!” E moaned.
“Why? It’s not like I inserted it here in the kitchen. I’m going to do that now, but in the bathroom instead. Wanna watch?” I asked her.
“You’re gross!” she yelled at my back as I left the room, Tampax between my fingers like a cigar.
“You’ve got to learn sometime!” I called over my shoulder to her.
At least I didn’t tell her about how I used Playtex brand tampons, with their blooming action, as Christmas tree decorations when I was in college. They made the perfect bells. Nor did I tell her about how my roommate BL invented “pooning,” a sport which involved flinging a wet Playtex tampon (Playtex was the official sponsor of the college snatch) against a wall some distance away, making a satisfying thwock noise as it stuck to the wall. I don’t remember how we scored. The object of the game may have been just to throw tampons at the wall. Regardless, those stories are for another day, when I need another occasion to embarrass the crap out of her.
Saturday, February 5, 2011
Hush Money
The Tooth Fairy forgot to collect a tooth at my house the other night. My daughter, S, had just lost her first baby molar, which for some reason was a really big deal to her. It had been loose for weeks with the adult tooth sneaking up behind it, so now that it is out, she doesn’t even have an empty space for a straw or spaghetti noodle. For some reason, she was petrified at the idea of having it pulled, even though it was flapping like a flag in the breeze, only holding on by a tiny little isthmus of gum. Finally, after enough chewy pizza crusts and bagels, the damn tooth popped out.
This little baby molar was the ninth tooth that S has lost. S lost her eight front teeth pretty quickly, so it has been about two years since the Tooth Fairy had to make an appearance. S was very ready for her. She found her tooth box, or rather, one of her many tooth boxes. She is, after all, the daughter of a dentist. Trust me, baby’s first tooth boxes were a very popular and predictable gift around here. She opted for the metallic silver plastic tooth-shaped freebie from Daddy’s office, so guess what? That tooth box you thought made the perfect gift turned out to be a big waste of your money.
Anyway, not only did she gently clean the tooth and nestle it in its little storage facility, she even left a detailed message for the Tooth Fairy on her kitty kat note paper. “Dear Tooth Fairy,” it began, “my tooth is in the box next to my clock. I would like to exchange it for money, preferably in bills. Thank you in advance for your consideration and time.” Or something like that. She brushed the rest of her teeth and went to bed, confident that a winged being would sneak into her room as she slept angelically and make a fair exchange.
How wrong was she? After she went to bed and the dishes were washed and the lunches were packed and the last load of laundry folded, the Tooth Fairy sat down to watch a few shows on her DVR recorder with her husband, who was feeling rather randy. After some subtle mating signs, the Tooth Fairy and her husband were going at it like a couple of bonobos. It was behind closed doors, consensual, and legal in most Blue states. It was also pretty good.
Afterwards, though, the Tooth Fairy needed a big glass of water and some rest. She didn’t remember she had a job to do until she was checking email the next morning, having enjoyed a rare uninterrupted night of sleep. She was just getting on Facebook when S crept downstairs and positioned herself next to the computer monitor, then began crying loudly.
“What’s wrong, baby?” I, er, the Tooth Fairy asked.
“The Tooth Fairy didn’t come!” S wailed loudly. “My tooth is still upstairs in the box. She didn’t get my tooth, and I didn’t get any money!”
“Oh, baby, I’m so sorry. You must be so disappointed.” Oh shit, baby, I forgot. “Maybe she got busy. Maybe she was tied up.” Oh, she was getting busy all right. I am not confirming the tied up part, as it is an expression of speech.
“What’s S upset about?” E came into the room after hearing her sister cry. It’s kind of sweet, actually, that E always wants to know why S is upset. I suspect she asks when she knows she is not the cause. If she is the cause, she already knows it and therefore doesn't ask.
“The tooth fairy didn’t come. I think she probably was busy last night or something. Maybe it was too cold and she got frost on her wings and couldn’t fly. Maybe she’ll come later when it warms up.” I did everything I could to make sure S didn’t lose total faith in the Tooth Fairy. I made a nice breakfast to distract her and helped S get ready for Sunday school.
Before we left, I had a private word with my husband. “I am taking the girls to Hebrew school now,” I announced.
“Yeah?” he said, barely looking up from the sports page. “Need me to do anything?”
“I sure do,” I whispered. “I need you to be the Tooth Fairy while we're gone. Seriously, you need to get up there and put some money out, and you need to get that tooth, and you need to write a note about how sorry you are that you were late and couldn’t come last night.”
“Where do you want me to put the tooth?” he asked, completely ignoring the other parts.
“In my jewelry box, bottom left-hand drawer. And don’t forget or else you won’t be getting lucky for until Santa Claus comes. Got it?”
“Anything else?” he said in a low voice.
“Yeah, you better make that note look like a fairy wrote it.”
S didn’t discover that the Tooth Fairy made an emergency daytime visit until she got ready for bed that night. She was thrilled to get a two dollar bill and a personal letter instead of the usual one dollar the Tooth Fairy leaves when she comes on time. S was so delighted that she hung the note on the fridge door for a week.
Surprisingly, neither she nor her sister commented on how much the Tooth Fairy’s handwriting looked like their father’s.
This little baby molar was the ninth tooth that S has lost. S lost her eight front teeth pretty quickly, so it has been about two years since the Tooth Fairy had to make an appearance. S was very ready for her. She found her tooth box, or rather, one of her many tooth boxes. She is, after all, the daughter of a dentist. Trust me, baby’s first tooth boxes were a very popular and predictable gift around here. She opted for the metallic silver plastic tooth-shaped freebie from Daddy’s office, so guess what? That tooth box you thought made the perfect gift turned out to be a big waste of your money.
Anyway, not only did she gently clean the tooth and nestle it in its little storage facility, she even left a detailed message for the Tooth Fairy on her kitty kat note paper. “Dear Tooth Fairy,” it began, “my tooth is in the box next to my clock. I would like to exchange it for money, preferably in bills. Thank you in advance for your consideration and time.” Or something like that. She brushed the rest of her teeth and went to bed, confident that a winged being would sneak into her room as she slept angelically and make a fair exchange.
How wrong was she? After she went to bed and the dishes were washed and the lunches were packed and the last load of laundry folded, the Tooth Fairy sat down to watch a few shows on her DVR recorder with her husband, who was feeling rather randy. After some subtle mating signs, the Tooth Fairy and her husband were going at it like a couple of bonobos. It was behind closed doors, consensual, and legal in most Blue states. It was also pretty good.
Afterwards, though, the Tooth Fairy needed a big glass of water and some rest. She didn’t remember she had a job to do until she was checking email the next morning, having enjoyed a rare uninterrupted night of sleep. She was just getting on Facebook when S crept downstairs and positioned herself next to the computer monitor, then began crying loudly.
“What’s wrong, baby?” I, er, the Tooth Fairy asked.
“The Tooth Fairy didn’t come!” S wailed loudly. “My tooth is still upstairs in the box. She didn’t get my tooth, and I didn’t get any money!”
“Oh, baby, I’m so sorry. You must be so disappointed.” Oh shit, baby, I forgot. “Maybe she got busy. Maybe she was tied up.” Oh, she was getting busy all right. I am not confirming the tied up part, as it is an expression of speech.
“What’s S upset about?” E came into the room after hearing her sister cry. It’s kind of sweet, actually, that E always wants to know why S is upset. I suspect she asks when she knows she is not the cause. If she is the cause, she already knows it and therefore doesn't ask.
“The tooth fairy didn’t come. I think she probably was busy last night or something. Maybe it was too cold and she got frost on her wings and couldn’t fly. Maybe she’ll come later when it warms up.” I did everything I could to make sure S didn’t lose total faith in the Tooth Fairy. I made a nice breakfast to distract her and helped S get ready for Sunday school.
Before we left, I had a private word with my husband. “I am taking the girls to Hebrew school now,” I announced.
“Yeah?” he said, barely looking up from the sports page. “Need me to do anything?”
“I sure do,” I whispered. “I need you to be the Tooth Fairy while we're gone. Seriously, you need to get up there and put some money out, and you need to get that tooth, and you need to write a note about how sorry you are that you were late and couldn’t come last night.”
“Where do you want me to put the tooth?” he asked, completely ignoring the other parts.
“In my jewelry box, bottom left-hand drawer. And don’t forget or else you won’t be getting lucky for until Santa Claus comes. Got it?”
“Anything else?” he said in a low voice.
“Yeah, you better make that note look like a fairy wrote it.”
S didn’t discover that the Tooth Fairy made an emergency daytime visit until she got ready for bed that night. She was thrilled to get a two dollar bill and a personal letter instead of the usual one dollar the Tooth Fairy leaves when she comes on time. S was so delighted that she hung the note on the fridge door for a week.
Surprisingly, neither she nor her sister commented on how much the Tooth Fairy’s handwriting looked like their father’s.
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