Category: Memoirs

Nitrous Oxide

Published on by cmglife

“Now, you want the nitrous oxide, right?”, asked the dental hygienist.

Hell, yeah!

“Yes, please”, I responded.  My hands were already balled into fists.

Wikipedia: dentophobia or individuals with post-traumatic stress disorder, caused by previous traumatic dental experiences.

The latter is the category I feel I fall into.  I’m not going to bore you with horrific old stories of needles hitting a nerve or anything like that, just suffice it to say, I have “dentophobia”.

I like to think there is an upside to everything.  This particular silver lining is called nitrous oxide. It’s not exactly a high, just a nothing feeling.  So much so that the 45 shots I got in my gums and cheek  for a recent root canal didn’t even faze me.  Even when I think the dentist did hit a nerve and a jolt of electricity went through my tongue, I didn’t flinch.  Amazing stuff.   I would enjoy my life so much more if I could wheel a canister of it around during the day the way oxygen patients do.

Idea of the Week: Sparkling My Wine

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My cousin in England served me a sparkling wine last year and after more bottles than I am willing to admit to sampling, I have yet to find something comparable in this country.  That’s when I came up with an idea that I could sparkle my own wine.

I used to drink wine mixed with Sprite because I breastfed my youngest daughter for so long that I had to start drinking!  I figured that diluted wine would be the safest bet.  This is TMI isn’t it?  Still, adding Sprite to wine wasn’t exactly the thing I was looking for.

Last night I was at my sister’s.   I had bought her a Soda Stream last year for Christmas.  My sister carbonized some plain water and added it to my wine…it was delicious.  I heard recently, that if you drink equal amounts of water with your alcohol you won’t get a hangover because you won’t get dehydrated.  Well, I thought maybe if I added “sparkling” water to my alcohol it would kill two birds with one stone (I’m always looking for ways to streamline my drinking). Still, adding sparkling water to my wine wasn’t the thing I was looking for.

I had read an article called “Going Rouge with my Soda Machine”.  It was like it was written for me.  The author had tried sparkling his lemonade and it didn’t work out so well, something about a “mess”.  He said the Soda Machine manual forbids using anything except plain water.

I’m still going to try to Soda Stream the wine straight, warning or not.  Two reasons;  I want to and I’m no longer breast feeding anyone.

Cat Guts

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Last week Allison came home from school with her “story of the week” I like to call it.  I’m always afraid of these because I wonder how much this school is affecting her psyche. After all I’ve tried so hard not to let my psyche affect hers.  It’s complicated.

This is the story this time:

Allison:    Today in science class Mr. Ross passed cat guts around the classroom.

Me:          What? Did you say cat guts?

Allison:    Yes,  and we could touch them if we wanted to.  I touched the kidney and it made my fingers tingle even after I stopped touching it.

Me:          Yeah, formaldehyde will do that to you.  You washed your hands after this right?

Allison:    Then I touched the liver, well I thought it was the liver, but it turned out to be the bladder and it was full of urine!

Me:          (dead silence, but with a horrified expression).

Geek vs. Eccentric

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I’m not sure if you’ve already read the “screamo” post earlier, but that was the night it was brought to my attention that at least my family thinks that I am a geek.  I don’t have any idea what the criteria of a geek is.  Actually, just like everyone, unless you are “beautiful”, “rich” or “thin” no one likes to be labeled.  Especially when it is a false label! Which this clearly is!

“I am an outsider,” I say, “not a Geek!”

A nerd?  Creative?  Eccentric? Or am I everything? Maybe I am granted a pass to all extreme or weird behavior because I have been diagnosed with BPII (Bipolar II). I’m shortening Bipolar II now. I’m tired of writing the whole thing out. It makes me feel like I am trying too hard to make that distinction between the manic depressive kind and the kind I have.  I guess I am trying hard because it still does matter what people think of me.

My sister said the other day, “We always considered Aunty Katherine the eccentric in the family, then we thought it was Daniel (our cousin).  It turns out it was you all along”.

I still haven’t got back to her exactly how I feel about this.  And the fact that obviously there has been some great discussion going on behind the scenes about where I belong in the family.  I mean really, Daniel has been dethroned as the resident crazy person and now the crown has been passed to me? Should I have been watching for the smoke to turn white?

The Day Heavy Metal Died

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John and I were out the other night having a hamburger at a bar that has really good bands playing every Saturday night.  We never get to go because for some reason John will spend $800 on a kayak, but won’t spend $5 on a cover charge.  I picked up a flyer, and it turned out the weekend that Emily and her husband, Paul, were coming there was a showcase of metal bands playing.

“Great,” I said, “we’ll take them here that weekend”.

I sensed John didn’t really believe that I would plan this, but I did. That Saturday, Emily got Grace to sleep, Tristan babysat and off we went. I was really quite proud of myself for planning a night out, just like the old days I thought to myself (really old days, like 30 years ago).

We left at 7.  We got there at 7:10.  We just walked right in, giggling that the bouncer wasn’t there to charge us the cover charge. John was over the moon.  He must have mentioned it a couple of times before the drinks arrived.

We were talking and laughing.  It was really fun until we started to look around and notice the band members coming in one by one, bringing in their equipment.  A lot of them had those t-shirts with very disturbing images on them, devils, hatchets, ghosts, skulls etc.    The table started to doubt what kind of music was going to be played.  Not me, of course, I had seen the flyer.

To prove it to them, I dug around in my purse. After a while I pulled out the flyer, found the date and pointed out that it did indeed say“Metal Band Showcase”.

Paul laughed and said, “Metal is screamo!”

“No, it’s not, Metal is Heavy Metal”, I said a little condescendingly (just a little, really).

“No, mom, Metal is screamo,”Emily said, with a lot of condescension in her voice.

I look at John for help and he gives me a helpless shrug.

“No”, I continue this ridiculous argument, “Heavy Metal is Led Zeppelin, Rolling Stones.”

“No, mom,” Emily says patiently, “that’s classic rock”.

“What? I don’t understand”, I keep looking at John begging for some clarity, he’s no help!

Then the band starts and I am still holding on to my naive belief that the band will begin its opening set with “Gotta a Whole Lotta Love”  or “Living on a Prayer”.  No such luck.

The music started out okay, until the singer began to roar into the microphone.  I’m sure there is a technical name for the noise that came out of that kid’s throat, but I can’t imagine that it is more descriptive than roaring.

Everyone thought it was so funny, but I didn’t.  I was thoroughly disappointed.  We left after the drinks and went over to a boring old bar and had chicken wings.  John’s only recollection of that night is that at least he didn’t have to pay the cover charge.

17 Years

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Recently I thought, “I think Alex would have loved Adam Lambert.  I think he would have thought he was beautiful.”

I miss my best friend Alex.  I don’t think about him every day anymore, that bothered me when I realized it.

He did not think he could take life anymore and killed himself 17 years ago.  I remember the day like it was yesterday, but on the other hand it shocks me sometimes when I realize he’s really not here anymore.  I don’t want to write about a lot of sad things and try to extract deep emotions from you, except maybe a giggle.  Alex would not have minded, he was irreverent to say the least. This was the man that dressed as a pregnant Linda Ronstadt for Halloween.  Those size 13 pumps were really something to see!

Missing Alex made me realize I miss having a gay friend.  I think I’ll have to go out and get one.  It can’t be that hard.  I am a girl after all.

I miss that sense of fun and joy that only a gay man and a straight woman can experience.  I think, for me, it is finally feeling understood by a man.  And for the man maybe an intimate look into femininity? Come on gay men, help me out here, what is it?

A couple of weeks ago I thought my luck had changed and I had fallen head over heels for a gay man again. Alas, it turned out he is just a nerd and a married nerd to boot.  I mean from the Big Bang Theory nerd.  He is a live action role playing (LARP to those of you that are in the know), War Craft on line, making swords for his outfit for the “ren” fair nerd.  If shortening The Renaissance Fair is not a dead giveaway of a through and through nerd I don’t know what is.  Though I am strangely fascinated with him, it’s not the same.

I’m not a spring chicken hanging out at the clubs anymore, so where does a seasoned mature woman find a man of the “musical” persuasion (Alex’s terminology, not mine)? It’s hard to meet anyone interesting when all you are doing is working with children, coming home to children, carpooling children, you get it.  I can’t just walk into a gay bar and start picking up men. Or could I?

I wonder if Adam Lambert is lonely.

Pomander. What? Who?

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Definition of a pomander: a ball made of perfumes.  The pomander was worn or carried in a vase, also known by the same name, as a protection against infection in times of pestilence or merely as a useful article to modify bad smells.

They may have had serious applications during the days of the plague centuries ago, but now they are just pretty!

I drive myself crazy the way I approach a project.  I never have all of the ingredients together.  This time  I had the oranges, but didn’t have the cloves. It was a week before Christmas (I know, shouldn’t I have been doing something more worthwhile than making a pomander?) and all of the inexpensive cloves were sold out at Wal-Mart. I guess there were a lot of people in my area making pomanders that Christmas when they should have been doing something else too.  The only cloves left were $7.39 a bottle! I bought them, after all I was on a mission.

I got down to business and began my pomander, the instructions I had were illustrations. Not always a bad way to go as far as instructions go, but these were not the best – I like photos – good ones like they do in the DK books.

I took the orange and drew dots in the places I would push in the cloves, seemed easy enough.  After half of the cloves were in I took my bloody finger tips and rinsed them under the sink, muttering all the way something about “ this better be @#^$(*@% worth it”!

To make a long story short, the pomander looked decent, I think.  I didn’t really have much of an idea what it was supposed to look like.  I apprehensively put it into a brown bag and placed it on a shelf in the furnace room, as the instructions directed.  And then, of course, forgot about it. Not completely, I would remember every other week, but forget to follow through on that memory and retrieve it from downstairs. Really, how often does one wander past or enter into the furnace room?

I did manage to bring it upstairs last week. Although it smells gorgeous, I can tell you that looks aren’t everything to a homemade pomander.

Operation Rescue

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Having just left work, I flipped the lock button in the door of my car to unlock the hatchback to get out the snow scraper I have back there. I have unlocked and locked my doors maybe thousands of time since I’ve had my 2003 Outback. Then why did I flick it the wrong way and lock all the doors this time?

That is the main question I thought of as I went around to check each door hoping against hope that I hadn’t really done what I knew I had done. Oh, and yes, the car was running!

Inside were my phone, purse and inside my purse were my spare keys!

I tromped back to the school in my sorrel boots from 1993 through the falling snow, wind and slush. I felt the students looking at the boots and snickering.

My sorrels are the only thing left over from my five years in North Dakota (don’t ask) that I can actually appreciate. This morning I got up, took a shower and put on my regular work clothes. Then on my way to the kitchen for coffee I passed by the sliding glass door to see at least 5 inches of snow on the deck and it was still snowing. I didn’t feel like getting changed into jeans so I said “Screw it!”, and went to the garage to dig out my trusty 20 year old sorrels! Good to go.

This is not a story about my sub zero, clunky old boots by the way, although you might think it is with all my goings on about them.

I finally made it back to my desk trying to remember my daughter, Allison’s, cell phone number. I pick her up after school everyday and it is only ten minutes until her bell rings. Now if you remember I left my phone in the car, and since I live in the cell phone age I never actually have to dial a phone number. Instead I called John to see if he could run up the keys to the school. He says Tristan is home and he will. That’s good, but now how am I going to pick up Allison?

My very good friend and office colleague, Geri, offered to drive me to Allison’s school. I accepted and headed out the door with her. We got to the car and I reached in her back seat to get the snow scraper. By opening the door I inadvertently disturbed an overhang of snow that fell on my head and down my coat into my neck! I had to take my glasses off and sit in Geri’s car melting and thanking her profusely while she laughed and shook her head at my predicament.

As we pulled up to get Allison at her charter school, Geri laid on the horn (which is never done) and started to wave her arms frantically to get Allison’s attention. I do the same because she won’t recognize Geri’s car. We looked like a pair of orangutans.

We arrived back at my school just in time to see Tristan as he was arriving with the spare keys. Geri drove us back to my car, I unlocked the doors, put the car into gear, peeled out of the parking lot and drove home.

I felt compelled to write about this day not because of the series of unfortunate events, but I felt really blessed. I don’t realize often enough on a normal day what great people I have around me until I end up really needing it. I guess when I feel lonely or unloved I will remember this day. One of the days when I needed the troops and they rallied. Thank you troops!

What fresh hell can this be?

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Anyone who knows me knows that I am a surviving victim of the catholic school system.  When Allison came home telling me she was assigned St. Catherine of Bologna as a history project, I almost choked on my mouthful of  Lean Cuisine.

After getting myself together, she told me the class was learning about important figures from the Renaissance.  The other kids were assigned fabulous characters like King Henry VIII, Queen Elizabeth I and Joan of Arc.  What evil forces were at work when she was assigned a nun? Allison was far from pleased to have to wear a nun’s habit when  the other girls were going to be decked out in all the Renaissance splendor that the era is known for.

Not only did she have to research St. Catherine, but also dress up like her, memorize and recite an entire page of a single spaced typed biography. Oh, yeah, spoken with an Italian accent, oh mio Dio!

No, she is not enrolled in a college preparatory school.  No, she is not in an arts school or even a gifted and talented program.  Just a little ‘ole 5th grader in a charter school that take themselves far too seriously.

The preparation it took for the final presentation was more labor intensive than the summer Olympics in London last year.  Hours of researching, typing, memorizing and  practicing a renaissance era Italian accent with just the right Bolognais dialect.

We started looking at photos of St. Catherine on the internet.  I found some perfectly lovely drawings of her, but all Allison could focus on was the mummified body of the actual original nun preserved and sitting in the chapel of the Poor Clares in Bologna, Italy.  I do not exaggerate.

And then there’s me, catholic PTSD every night I have to think about sewing that damn costume! I am not usually a procrastinator, but with this particular project I could not get my act together and left it until the last minute, or until the Saturday before the Monday she was going to present.  Off we went to store to buy a few yards of white, brown and black broadcloth.  I then proceeded to drape and cut and do a little (very little) sewing.  I thought she looked fabulous, for a dead nun.

That morning I was on pins and needles wondering how it was going. Was she going to choke? Was the wimple staying in place?  Did she remember the rosary?  Was the Little House on the Prairie book wrapped in brown cloth believable as a bible?

She ended up choking on the speech part (cazzarola!), but got an A for effort.  Phew! I’m glad that is over. Yesterday I got an email from the school announcing a “Civil War Re-Enactment and Ball” for the 5th and 6th graders in April.

Oh, what fresh hell can this be?

Tootsie Rolls

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Is it shameful of me to turn my music higher because the voices of my fighting children are bleeding through the music?

I haven’t turned the music that much louder. I can still hear a sharp inflection in one of their voices here and there. I don’t leave the music blaring for very long, my conscience won’t allow me. I tentatively pause my music every two or three minutes and turn it back on when I hear a moment of silence. Unfortunately, I am not totally removed from my family, I can still feel the angry footsteps as they approach.

Tonight the argument is about sorting Halloween candy. My ten year old has just gotten around to dumping out her pillow case full of candy on the floor. My 16 year old, who acts like a 10 year old, is harassing her about giving him the candy he wants before it is thoroughly sorted into piles. I remember how important the sorting was. I asked him if he could remember that far back, have a little empathy. He just gave me a look while loudly chomping on a tootsie roll…..I guess not.