Crazy Stuff

The Freddie Mercury Rule

This happened.

We were eating dinner, and out of the blue Dylan said, ‘Freddie Mercury is dead, right?’

I looked at him for a split second before answering, skeptical as to how my easy-listenin’ loving ten-year-old knew about Freddie Mercury. Then I dismissed it.

I mean, it’s Freddie Mercury. Music 101. Pop Culture 101.

Decisions, decisions

A few weeks ago, I had implant surgery. No, not that kind of implants. Dental implants. It was done in the surgeon’s office, with some count-backwards-put-you-completely-out general anesthesia. Before they… Read more >

Thwarted by Old Man Jenkins

It all starts when Alyssa has to use the bathroom. And then I have to use the bathroom. And then Dylan has to use it, too. We’re on vacation, on… Read more >

Living life toothless. Or alternately, Why I have become a recluse.

Yesterday I found some old lip gloss tucked away in a travel bag and I got a little excited.

It was my old favorite, Cover Girl Hipster, sooo pretty.

I haven’t worn it in about three years. In fact, I haven’t worn any lip gloss or lipstick or lip stain or anything else on my lips.

You’re probably wondering why. (Or, you may not care, but I’ll tell you anyway.) Because lipstick doesn’t look good with braces, and it looks even sillier when you have braces and you’re missing two teeth.

Am I really THAT old?

Note: Names have been changed to protect the middle-aged.

Ashley Scott was a high school phenom. She was young and beautiful.

Cheerleader. Beauty Queen. Perfect-in-every-way.

She had everything. Everything. And did I mention she was beautiful? She was also young, like me.

I should say that I never personally knew Miss Ashley, because she went to a different school. But we were from small towns, and in small towns, everyone knows everyone. Everybody especially knew Ashley. I did say she was beautiful, right?

I don’t think I’ve seen her since high school, though, and really, I haven’t thought about her either.

Until the other day.

I was scrolling down my Facebook page and saw that one of my FB friends was tagged in Ashley Scott’s photo. Gotta love FB’s seven degrees of separation. My curiosity took over, and I had to click on it. I just wondered what she looked like now.

Why I will never, ever be a judge

Last week I learned something very important about myself: I will never be a judge. I mean the courtroom kind. No bench sitting or black robe for me.

Give me Dancing With the Stars and I could run with that. (First order of business–buh bye Nancy Grace).

I always expected that judges sat on the bench, listened carefully, weighed the facts, and then dolled out punishment. I thought they separated truth from fiction. Found the holes in testimony. And most of all, I thought judges didn’t tolerate bunk.

I think I’m pretty good at all those things.

But that’s not what happens, at least not in traffic court.

What doesn’t kill you …

Last Thursday I had a terrible day.

It actually really began on Wednesday when my orthodontist said I was ready for my jaw-breaking surgery. (This was a good thing since it is the first required step to getting two missing teeth replaced). But then minutes later, an x-ray showed that I did NOT have enough room for an implant; the root was NOT diverging; and it was possible that I had an abscess. The short story there? I was NOT ready to have surgery.

If you’ve ever been toothless for three years, then you know what a blow that was.

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