Did anyone see this latest season of Biggest Loser?  I did.  Well, actually, only one episode.  But it was a gem – filled with life lessons and pratfalls.  Just the way I like it!

In this particular episode, one of the chicks has finished up her grueling workout on the treadmill.  Celebrating her success…she made it through!  Rockin’ it!!!!

The trainer dude walks away from her while tossing off the comment, “The treadmill is still running.”  Treadmill Chick acknowledges, wipes her brow and then steps RIGHT ON THE TREADMILL THAT’S STILL RUNNING!

BA-BOOM!!! 

She crashes to the ground and rolls around on the floor like a turtle with its soft underbelly exposed.

This whole scene is a perfect metaphor for my New Stay at Home Mom life.  I’m rockin’ it.  What up, what up?!  Home Mom in the house!  Doin’ it all AND savin’ money.  Wow!  I’m good.  7+ months into this gig, and maybe I’ve made it through the rain?  I know I kept my point of view.  I made it through the rain…and found myself respected…by the others WHOOO got rained on TOO and made it throooooooogh! (Barry Manilow, late 1980.  Once again I’ve proven my point that there’s an 80’s song for every moment of life.  Eat it, Yoshi!)

BA-BOOM!!!

Whaaaaa?  Whaaaaaaa happened?!??  [tweet, tweet, tweet go the birds circling around my head]

My grocery bill was HOW MUCH?!!?  $258?!??!!  Oh-Em-Geeeee!!!!

Ok.  Something has to change RIGHT NOW!  I canNOT incur another bill like that.  That’s ridiculous.  We don’t need MORE food in this house.  I’m like the Doomsday Prepper of food, for Heaven’s sake!  My family could live on what we have in our fridge/freezer/pantry for 2 weeks ALONE (if not even longer) without me going to the store again.

What’s that?  Challenge extended??!

And???…

Challenge accepted!

Starting now, no trips to the grocery store.  Two weeks.  We’re living off the fat of our land…uh, house.  And for fun?  I’ll document our success via this blog.

Yesterday’s meals:

• Breakfast = cinnamon raisin bagels and cheesy scrambled eggs mixed with leftover Easter ham.
• Lunch = kids were at Staycation camp learning golf and got a “free” lunch there.  Hubby and I went to Freddy’s for a burger and fries.  Whaaa?!?  Whaaaa happened?!?  Ok, starting now!  No NOW!!
• Dinner = I served the family mac n’ cheese, peas and applesauce.  I ate half a turkey sandwich left over from Best Day Ever lunch.  Dessert was Bananas Foster over vanilla ice cream.

Rockin’ it.  Home Mom in the house!  What up, what up?!??

Sonny and I took a nice, long walk with the dog.  During which he updated me on the golf camp he and Sissy are taking as part of our Spring Break Staycation.  He has never taken an official golf lesson before – or played any real golf.  Below are his musings on the topic:

“The people make it look WAY easier than it really is.”

[Mmm hmmm, that they do!  This is all part of the problem with golf.]

“And you think you’re gonna hit the ball really hard…but then it just goes ‘boop’.” (here he holds up his thumb and forefinger and shows me a distance of two inches)

[Yes, the “boop effect” is also part of the golf problem.] 

“But they have all these sharp sticks.  As many as you want or can put in your pockets.”

[Bonus!  I knew there was a silver lining with golf.]

ME:  “The sharp sticks have a name, do you know what they’re called?”

Sonny:  “Tees.”

ME:  “Good.  Do you know how that’s spelled?”  (They’ve been working on homophones at school so I was thinking he was going to mistake the spelling for t-e-a-s-e.)

Sonny: “T”

[Another problem id’d with golf.  Too much tricky spelling.  Dumb it down already.]

Still Sonny:  “And you know what else, Mom?  Don’t try to sharpen a pen in the pencil sharpener.  Ink squirts out the back.”

[And there you have it.  Everything you need to know as a Golf Newbie.  Especially that part about the ink.  Don’t do that.  That sounds like a bad plan.]

In honor of a favorite Sponge Bob Squarepants’ episode of ours entitled “The Best Day Ever”…for Spring Break, we decided to create  our OWN best day ever.  The day consisted of:

• Watching cartoons in p.j.’s all morning
• Going indoor skydiving
• Going to lunch at Red Robin and getting milkshakes
• Watching videos of the kids as babies
• Taking the dog for a walk (reality has to intrude sometime)
• Jumping on the neighbor’s trampoline (It’s fine; it’s NOT a lawsuit waiting to happen.  In fact, they encourage the kids to come to their trampoline by lining it with sharp rocks.  See?  Totally fine.)
• Having junk food night (where you eat all junk all the time – a variety of chips, Easter candy, cookies etc. until you’re sick to your stomach.  Good times.)
• Having movie night (simultaneously WITH junk food night.  It doesn’t get any better than that!)
• Going to bed without taking a shower

The best day ever, 9-and-10-year-old-style.

MY best day ever?  Would consist of sleeping until noon.  Staying in my p.j.’s all day.  Taking a nap from 2 to 4.  Getting started with junk food slash movie night as soon as the nap was over (the kids are on to something with this one-two punch).  I’d totally skip my date with Tony Horton and I’d maybe fit in reading a trashy romance novel.  Who’s with me??!  It’s the besssst daaaaaay EeeeVVVVEEERRRRR!

Don’t get me wrong.  I actually LIKE this P90X dvd.  It’s just that we have Wesley in the back of the gym who’s acting like Frankenstein fresh out of surgery.  And I worry the WHOLE time that he won’t be able to swing his arms around in time to complete the jab-hook-cross-uppercut sequence.  I mean, it’s SOOOO distracting I can’t focus on anything else.

Except for the repetition-countdown-clock in the lower left corner of the screen.  That I watch like a FRIGGIN’ HAWK!  And ya know what?  Tony spends the whole time trying to pull a fast one on us.  He constantly does one or two more reps than we’ve accounted for.  CUT THAT CRAP OUT RIGHT NOW, Tone-ster.  None of us are here to challenge ourselves.  We’re here to survive.  And in Wesley’s case, he’s busy just trying to remember where he left his black orthopedic shoes and turtleneck.

Instead of your rep-rip-off scam, Tony, why don’t you focus more on coming up with creative Kenpo-specific exercises?

You see, there comes this point in the dvd where he clearly runs out of things to do and it suddenly becomes “X Time.”  Basically “X Time” is an airborne spread eagle done over and over again.  There may be some “power noises” we’re also required to make during “X Time.”  My power noises may sound suspiciously like swearwords aimed specifically at Tony’s manhood.  But aside from the “power noises” I’m not sure what the rest of “X Time” has to do with martial arts.  So KNOCK IT OFF!  It’s way too pee-provoking and I don’t care if we’re trying to buy Wesley some time as he lurches around in the background towelling off.  More karate, less jumping.  Now back to work!

And speaking of WORK, if I had a job I wouldn’t be doing ANY of this nonsense.  So…more jobs, less nonsense!

But until that job arrives…while I’m mostly focused on Wesley (and Tony natch), I do have to mention that there are two other folks in this dvd.  One is a red-haired chick named Vanessa.  All I know about her is that she’s engaged to a dude in another P90X dvd.  In fact, I think he’s in the Ab Ripper X dvd.  So I see him quite frequently.  Perhaps more frequently than Vanessa does?  Either way, it’s best that they’re together.  I find that fit, Tony-Hortonish people should marry and have fit, Tony-Hortonish babies and leave the rest of us out of it.

Finally, there’s Tony 2.  He’s #2 because he’s also super fit and fanatical about it?  No.  Oh, he’s ALSO named Tony!  Noooo.  That’s not vain in any way, Tony 1.

And Tony 2 is of the Dominic from the Plyometrics dvd school of torture.  Everything he does is way over the top and executed with military precision (he’s a former marine who looks and acts like Billy Blanks of Tae Bo fame).  So unlike Dominic, he might actually put up a fight when we jump him in the parking lot after class.  But that’s ok.  I almost have my jab-hook-cross-uppercut sequence perfected.  Wesley won’t be joining us.

Happy Easter to all…and to all a good night!

I found my power as a mother yesterday.  In an unexpected place.

We had to take new puppy’s fresh poop sample in for giardia testing.  He had giardia (some nasty intestinal thing you get when you eat yours/some other creature’s poop.  Or just living here in CO will do it to you as well).  He had antibiotics.  Then we test again after a period of time to make sure all the giardia eggs/spores/whatever are gone – thus the need for the fresh poop sample.

This poop sample due date dovetailed with the start of Spring Break for Sissy and Sonny (which will be a STAYcation for us this year since I – uh – don’t HAVE A JOB.  Thanks for bringing it up), so they were home when the fresh poop appeared and the sample was swooped up and bottled.  And this is where my power began (mwa ha ha – evil laugh).

You see, you can pretty much make your kids do ANYTHING you want when you’re holding a fresh poop sample.  Especially when the poop container is most likely tightly closed, but might still be leaking scent.  And the warm poop has begun to fog up the container’s interior.

“Get in the car!  We’re going!!”  Rustle, rustle, scramble.  The kids are in the car, buckled, waiting for me by the time I arrive.  Fastest getting-in-the-car process in the history of our family.  Ever.  [hmmmm…interesting]

Because the ride is all of 10 minutes, naturally they have to get the “bugging each other” portion of the event started right away – which consists of poking and swiping at each other from buckled positions.  This starts as soon as we pull out of the driveway.

“Stop TOUCHING each other!  It’s gonna go bad soon and then you’ll be in trouble and Spring Break just STARTED!” I say (in a shout-y sort of way.  Lenten Promise Mom left a long time ago.  Her work here was done).  I swing the hand holding the poop sample around to the back seat.  Both kids pull back from the container like zombies recoiling from a flaming torch.  [hmmmm…VERY interesting…POWER!!!]

Simultaneous to the poop container slash flaming torch scenario, the kids are also talking about wanting to see the new movie that’s out.  As they describe it, it sounds fairly dumb.  It’s animated and it’s the kind of movie that uses the phrase “filled with pratfalls and hi-jinks” to describe itself.  And we all know that any movie that uses “pratfalls” and “hi-jinks” to describe itself is pretty much GUARANTEED to blow chunks.

My “we’ll see if we can fit that in next week” doesn’t inspire confidence so they move on to another topic.  Sissy has gotten the brilliant idea to come up with as many alternative words for poop as possible:

Sissy: “Poop.  Poo.  BM.  Pies.”

Sonny: “No!  PIES?!”

Me:  “Yes, I suppose.  As in cow pies.” [why am I even PARTICIPATING IN THIS?]

Sonny: “Penis.”

Me:  “NO!  Not even close.  Stop it.”

Sonny: “Diarrhea.  Bowl winder.  Toilet snake.  Poop bridge.”

Me: “Ok.  I’m not sure those are actual terms anyone uses.  How about ‘stool’?” [WHY AM I PARTICIPATING IN THIS???!]

Sonny:  “What?!  Stool??  Mom, that’s dumb.”

Sissy:  “Hey!  I know!!  Let’s come up with other names for throw-up!” [variations-on-a-theme I see.]  “How about puke, toss-your-cookies, vomit and throw-up.  Well, that’s about it.”  [Ok, I’m for sure NOT participating in THIS conversation.  Otherwise I’d add “blow chunks” to the list.]

Me:  “Look!  We’re here at the vet.  Sissy, can you please run this in??”  (Sissy wants to be a veterinarian.  Which means I can make her do just about any dog-related activity I want if I use the phrase “well, you’ll need to get used to doing this if you want to be a vet.”  At which point she promptly complies.  Even to the point of taking up “the torch” in the form of the poop sample container.)

While she’s gone, Sonny – who remains intrigued with the way our vet tested the new puppy’s ears for infection BY SMELLING THEM.  THOROUGHLY AND REPEATEDLY – poses the question, “what if vets had to test for giardia by putting the poop in their mouth??” He then promptly descends into maniacal laughter.

Sissy is back shortly and a round of the “do-your-hands-smell?” game ensues.  (You know that game, right?  You pretend YOUR hands smell and then you ask the other person – ohhhh, say for example someone who’s been holding a poop sample container – if THEIR hands smell.  When they go to smell their hands, you smash their hand into their nose.  That’s a fun game, right??)  Except in THIS version, we’ve skipped the making-the-other-person-smack-herself and we’ve just gone straight to smacking her directly.

And alas.  I turned in my “power” at the vet’s office.  So I don’t even try to intervene.  But it occurs to me during the ride home that this Spring Break STAYcation is going to be FILLED with “pratfalls and hi-jinks.”  I’m going to need a LOT of poop sample containers to get me through.

Have you seen this Lenten Scam?  It’s called a Crown of Thorns.

Some “lucky” group of sinners wins it at an innocuous Friday Fish Fry and then spends the rest of Lent being worthy of it.  The point is to pull out all the toothpicks – one toothpick for every good deed you do.  By Easter Eve, you should have all the toothpicks long-gone and then you can decorate the triumphant Crown of Thorns and reflect on how GOOOOOOOD you’ve been preparing for Christ’s rising.

The problem we’ve run into is that this is TODAY’S picture.  We’re at T minus 2.  And there are a LOT of toothpicks left.  Too many in fact.  We’re not gonna make it.

(Now, if I had said “We’re not gonna TAKE it,” that would be cause to resurrect my 80’s-song-for-every-moment-of-life theory.  But I didn’t.  Instead I worked the word “resurrect” as a pun into a blog about the Crown of Thorns.  Either way, I win.  And so do you.  Thanks for stopping by.)

The main flaw-in-the-plan as identified by my husband is that “there are about 150 too many toothpicks for any one family.”

The main flaw-in-the-plan as identified by me is that “the toothpicks have somehow been BAKED into the crown and now won’t come loose despite our best efforts.”  In essence, this whole thing has devolved into a King Arthur sword-in-the-stone effort; One that leaves you with splinters in your fingers.

But now?  Now we’re in a mad scramble to get the toothpicks gone (break ’em off if you have to – success at all costs!).

Puppy pee-pee’d outside?  Pull a thorn for him!

Sonny (who continues to hold out hope that there might be some way we could actually EAT the bread crown once the thorns are all gone) came down for breakfast after TWO reminders instead of FIVE.  THREE thorns for him!!

Sissy’s uniform skirt made it NEXT TO the dirty clothes hamper?  It’s a pull-one-get-one-free special!  

So.  The lesson here is…should you be the lucky “winner” of a Crown of Thorns next year…give it away to another family of sinners as your Lenten Good Deed.  Either that or stop being such a family of sinners.  At least  for 40 days.  Is that too much to ask?  Now pass the olive-oil-and-balsamic-vinegar.  This is gonna taste GOOOOOOD!

Me to Hubby:  “How do I look?”

Hubby to me: “Fine.”

I look absolutely ANYTHING but fine.  But this man will not be phased.  He uses “fine” for just about everything – from how I looked on our wedding day to that time I was shuffling to the bathroom before my in-and-out throat surgery.  The bathroom is totally visible to all the other patients sitting in their little partitions-open-to-the-front.  I’m using one hand to push my I.V. along and the other to hold my hospital gown closed; I turn to him and ask him if you can “see anything.”  He says, “No, you’re fine.”  At which point I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror that’s mounted along one entire wall of the day-surgery area and see my ENTIRE A$$ HANGING OUT OF MY HOSPITAL GOWN!!!  “Yeah, folks.  Bow-chic-a-wow-wow.  Enjoy the show.  Me and my ‘fine’ a$$ have to pee!”

While that was a LONG time ago, nothing has changed.  I still look “fine” to him.  I’m wearing a silver hat with faux black fur poking out the front.  It has ear flaps that snap under my chin.  It’s complimented by a hand-crocheted green cowl scarf wound twenty times around my neck , a jacket that makes me look like the Stay-Puff Marshmallow Man (‘cept in black), massively big exercise pants worn over top of my actual exercise pants and tucked into silver boots that have shiny black toes.  Alpaca mittens with little alpacas on them cap off the look.  For good measure I wear big movie star sunglasses to add a dash of mystery and glamour to the whole ensemble.

It’s 9 degrees out and I’m getting ready to walk the new puppy.  This is akin to walking a stuffed animal on a piece of a string.  It mostly consists of dragging it along behind you, with the odd throw-it-out-in-front-and-then-catch-up-to-it manuever added for fun.

No, all you dog lovers, I don’t ACTUALLY pull the dog along behind me (much), so don’t report me.  But the whole thing IS an exercise in tedium.  Long catatonic pauses followed by five-foot mad dashes are not my idea of fun.  Added to the fact that the dog is scared of absolutely EVERYTHING (the pine tree, car tires crunching on the snow, the tiny, pretend-dog that exhorts him not to poop in that yard, the fifty MILLION birds that live in every other yard) and it’s no wonder I long to get this over with and get at the day’s P90X assignment.

And when it finally IS over?  It looks like I’m returning from a demented shopping trip to the poop store, swinging my purchase jauntily from my wrist.  “Yes, please, sir.  I’ll have a half-pound of poop, sliced thin and wrapped up tight to-go.  And we’ll be back tomorrow!”

Me:  Mirror, Mirror, on the wall…who is the LEAST crafty mom of all?

Mirror:  YOU ARE, NEW STAY AT HOME MOM!

…………………………………………………..

To set the scene:  Daughter had a Sock Hop Sunday night.  I checked around with all the neighbors to see if they had a poodle skirt we could borrow.  Bust.  I checked with various same-sized-daughter friends to see if they had a poodle skirt we could borrow.  Bust.  I traveled to D.C. for my mother’s birthday party and in the process raided TWO nieces’ closets in the hopes of finding a poodle skirt.  Big FAT FLIPPIN’ BUST!!!!

Duh-duh-duh-daaaaah.  Not to fear!  Least crafty mom is here!!

“Hey, I have TIME!  AND an MBA…I’ll make a poodle skirt.  How hard can it be?!  I’m sure there’s something on the internet I can use.”

Turns out people BLOG about poodle skirts.  Super.  Easy.  Poodle skirts!!!  No less than a dozen blogs later and I still can’t figure out how the math symbol PI has anything to do with anything and I’m busy collecting the parts of my brain that juiced out of my ears after my head imploded.  WHY IS THERE SO MUCH MATH INVOLVED IN MAKING A CIRCLE SKIRT?!??!  Screw you, CIRCUMFERENCE!  AND the horse you rode in on!!!

And all you poodle skirt bloggers out there?  GET JOBS!  You SUCK!!!

Because it turns out that taking a waist measurement and dividing it by 4 and then cutting out a waistmeasurementdividedby4 smaller circle on top of the howlongyouwanttheskirttohang bigger circle (which is already too short because I cut it out using a big, dumb, jerry-rigged protractor on the short side of the fabric instead of the LONG side.  GAAAAHHhhh!) doesn’t ACTUALLY RESULT in an appropriately sized, no-sew waist.  It results in a waist that slips down over the head and keeps right on going to the floor where it lands with a plop and looks like the waist of a Christmas Tree skirt!!!!  At which point the easy, no-sew skirt becomes the massive sewing project of the century.

Here’s the net damage…

Poodle applique: $3.78 (using a 40% off coupon at Jo-Anns)

Ribbon: $0.58 (full-price.  Screw it.  I can’t be bothered to find a coupon for 50 cents)

Felt: $4.02 (40% off coupon at Jo-Anns.  Separate trip from the poodle applique trip.  BLEEEEEEP!)

Elastic waistband:  $3.93 (40% off coupon at Jo-Anns.  Yes, a THIRD trip for this crap.  AND?  They wouldn’t honor my 50% off coupon because THIS WASN’T CONSIDERED A FABRIC!!!)

Thread: $1.46 (25% off entire purchase.  ALSO purchased at Jo-Anns.  Don’t even say it.  I’m warning you.)

My time:  5 HOURS/$250 (5 hours x the $50 per hour I COULD have been making as a Principal Product Marketing Manager and MBA graduate)

% of brain now missing:  99%

I could have just gone to the party store and BOUGHT a #%-#^*& poodle skirt for all the time and trouble it’s taken me to make one.

And the best part?  The f*#^ing thing was SEE-THROUGH!!!  So I had to run to Kohl’s and get a slip.  Gawd, I LOVE Kohl’s.  The slip cost $15.00 but I had $10 in Kohl’s cash (oh, no reason I had Kohl’s cash.  None.  Stop asking.).  And I had a 30% off coupon that expired last week BUT WHICH THEY HONORED ANYWAY!  So that whole effort cost me $3.78.  Have I mentioned that I LOVE YOU, Kohl’s?!  Pay no attention to anything previously stated about you here or here or even here.

After I helped my daughter into her skirt (which we couldn’t pull UP over her soccer-player thighs because there was something really, really wrong with the no-sew waistband [which I renamed “the waistband of tears which had to be sewed anyway”] – so we had to pull it DOWN over her head with the usage of circus-freak contortions of her upper body while lots of weird ripping noises came from the waistband-of-tears-which-had-to-be-sewed-anyway), she said, “Wow, Mom!  You should make clothes for people.”

Uh.  No.  I shouldn’t.  The mirror, mirror doesn’t lie.

I had my dental hygiene check up this morning.  With Marge*.  She was the “first available” hygienist since I had to cancel my previous appointment.  It’s now totally obvious to me why she was “first available” and why she won’t ever be “first available” for me again!

Marge is no less than 80.  And smells like smoke.  Perhaps she’s actually 60 and just LOOKS 80 because she smokes?!?  Either way, this is her second career and she comes in once a month to work with Dr. Chew. (How funny is that?  My dentist’s name is ACTUALLY Dr. Chew.  I choose my dentists the way I choose my racehorses.  All based on name.  I find this to be a sound practice.)

And Marge spent the first 5 minutes of the appointment SNEEZING INTO MY MOUTH!  Gaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!

She claimed she was allergic to the mask (thank God she had a mask on.  But STILL!) so she went to change masks.  Then proceeded to breathe heavily through the new mask as if she were in a P90X yoga class.  I mean, she was LOUD.  In fact I had to glance up at her a few times to make sure she hadn’t fallen asleep and was SNORING instead.

Nope.  Wide awake and looking down at me.  Filling my entire field of vision with her ill-fitting goggles which she had to keep pushing up on her nose.  (Uh – Marge, I wasn’t ok with you sneezing into my mouth and now I’m ALSO not ok with you touching your nose and putting your hands back into my mouth.  Please get better goggles.  And also?  I’m not sure what you’re so worried will hop out of MY mouth and get you in the eye, but you should be LESS worried than I am.)

Then we did this gum-counting-thing where she checks every tooth with her dagger device and shouts out numbers.  (Let’s see, the super annuated perineum tooth is a 2-2-3.  No.  It’s a 2-2-4!  Oooh.  4!!   Apparently 4 is bad and means my death-from-gum-disease is imminent.  Oops.  No.  Got that wrong.  That tooth has always been a 4.  Just loose gums on that particular chopper I guess.  Phew!  Good thing we cleared that up.)  And she also checks for bleeding gums during this process.  (No SH** my gums are bleeding, Marge.  You’ve been POKING THEM WITH A DAGGER!!)

But now SHE’S DEMONSTRATING HER SMOKER’S COUGH…DIRECTLY INTO MY MOUTH!!!!!   GAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!

And I can’t flinch my head away because she snuck up from behind and literally has my head in that head-lock move they had to put Dr. Hannibal Lechter in BEFORE they put that face mask on him.  Is this even a REAL hygienist move learned at a REAL school and sanctioned by the Dental Hygienists’ Union??  Or has Marge just “been around teeth” so long that they let her work on them any-old-way for minimum pay once a month?!

But I have to say the head-lock move was SLIGHTLY better than the “gold watch pressed (PRESSSSSSSED) into the forehead” move the dentist from my youth used to use.  (Hi Sissies!  Remember we were just talking about this?)

And the gold watch move was a MILLION times better than the “resting the right forearm across my chest” move Marge employed shortly after the headlock.  I couldn’t concentrate on all her coughing because I was worried I was being molested; And was too busy with all my subsequent self-talk about lines-not-to-be-crossed.  As in, “ok, if her arm goes ANY further, she’ll get nipple and then I’ll KNOW I’m being molested and then I’ll have to say something.   But only then.  Not now.  Her arm is still in a (perhaps reasonable and authorized) chest slash top-of-breast area.  No nipple yet.  Still no.”  At which point she claimed someone has taken her polisher and that she would be “right back.”  She was actually gone 5 minutes and smelled even MORE like smoke when she got back.

“Ok.  Did she just take a SMOKE break?!?  While pretending she was looking for a machine part?  I don’t think this can be right.  Are they allowed to take SMOKE BREAKS?!?  Right NOW???  If she takes another one, I’ll have to say something.  Not now.  Not right now.  Still no.”

But I do have something positive to share about the whole experience.  Marge was the FIRST hygenist who actually wiped OFF of my nose and face all the crap she splattered ONTO my nose and face.  Usually they just let me walk out with toothpaste flecks and flossing detritus all over me.  Not cool.

What’s also not cool?  While Marge got my nose (she was oddly thorough with my nose.  So thorough in fact, that I thought we might have entered a “bonus facial” portion of the visit), she totally missed the bloody gum-chunk sitting right on my neck.  GAAAAHHHHHHHH!!!!

(NOTE TO SELF: Don’t wear cowl necks to the dentist.  And don’t see Marge at the dentist.  And pick a different dentist.  The way you pick dentists is dumb.  Totally, totally dumb.  In fact, screw the teeth.  Go get a facial instead.)

*Marge’s name was changed to protect the innocent.  Her real name is Lucy.