notes from orlando: diving for lettuce

My cousin Corinne fell in the grocery store yesterday when going back for the right kind of lettuce. If only she'd gotten the right kind in the first place. . .

Me: (joking) Are you going to sue? (We really aren't litigious people.)

C: No! I can't! I slipped on nothing. There was nothing there. We looked. Bailey said he thought it was a berry, but there was no evidence of such. It's so embarrassing. . .

Me: Did anyone see you?

C: No, which was a-maze-ing, because there were tons of people around. This one woman came up to me and said that she didn't see me, but that she HEARD me fall. She actually heard me hit the ground.

Me: Ouch.

C: It was my knee that made the loudest thud and then the SPLAT-SPLAT when my hands hit and nobody came to rescue me. I'm lying there splayed on the ground clutching the wrong kind of lettuce and even my son, he just stands there in horror with his mouth open. In complete shock. I had to toss my bottled water in his face to snap him out of it.

Me: You okay?

C: No! My knee hurts, my hands hurt, my entire body is aching. I can't believe I slipped on nothing.

Me: Are you sure you won't be suing.

C: No. I think I'm just wearing ultra slippery shoes today. We were speed skating this afternoon at work, so I know they're slick.

Me: You were speed skating? In the store?

C: Oh yeah! The showroom floors are super polished and there were no customers and so we had a speed skating tournament. We went back into the warehouse to announce it and everything, "At 2:30 we will be holding a speed skating competition!"

Me: Did anyone show up?

C: No, so it was just two of us, skate-skate-skating around the store.

Me: Sounds like. . .

C: STOP EATING PAPER! That's just weird.

Me: Wha-?

C: Bailey has taken a huge bite out of a piece of paper. I just won't have that sort of person living in my house!

Me: You gotta draw the line somewhere. Did you get the right lettuce at least?

C: No! So now I have the wrong lettuce, a huge knee and I've scuffed my favorite skating shoes.

Me: And you've driven your son to paper-eating.

C: No, no that he did before.

i heart my teeth

It's been an embarrassingly long time since I've been to the dentist. There. I've said it. It's out. You may revile me, but your revulsion is no less than I deserve and is better than the hate I've born within myself.

But I'm done. I can't take it anymore, because for the past few months I've found myself waking up in the middle of the night in cold sweats and half-panicked, fearful that my teeth, untended by a dentist in said embarrassingly long time, were going to spontaneously fall out of my head.

They were going to fall out of my head and I would be like that sad woman in that low-budget, local commercial we've got. The one where she's hiding behind the Venetian blinds, lips pressed firmly together, because she's too embarrassed by her missing teeth to go dancing. And then she gets dental implants(!) and she can dance again, with some old guy, but it's okay because she has her teeth and she's wearing sequins, sequins that sparkle under the light of the cheap-ass disco ball the prop guy borrowed/stole from his daughter's bedroom. And I don't want to be that woman. I want a real disco ball. Hence the panic.

But embarrassment has outweighed panic thus far. And I don't know if you know this, but embarrassment compounds over time. So because I've been embarrassed about not going, I couldn't quite bring myself to go. And so I've been caught in this vicious cycle of panic and shame, panic and shame, panic and shame and it's been enough to seize up all the sphincters I own.

I. am. blocked. up. I tell you.

On the side of panic, are the plethora of commercials touting toothpastes, and whitening systems and high-tech, vibratory machines that sonically remove plaque and tartar, not to mention the blindingly white smiles that grimace at me from every magazine, television show and movie I see. It's as if everywhere I look teeth are shouting at me, showing off their gorgeous loveliness, looking down on my teeth with pity -- as if I were a bad mother, and my teeth, 32 sadly abused children. I'm surprised no one's called the dental DFACS people. Except that abusers know how to keep secrets. We know how.

Everywhere I look, there are beautiful smiles and gorgeous gums and here I am letting my mouth rot. How will I find a husband (that is supposing I decide I want one) with rotty teeth? How will I get another job if the one I currently have kicks me to the curb? What if, somehow, I accidentally fall through a fissure in time and find myself in some age where dental care means chewing on a stick?

I must tend to my teeth, but how can I? I just know that when I finally go to the doctor he's going to take one look at me from across the room, not even looking into my mouth, he'll just be able to tell with some super-sensory dental power that I've been remiss and he'll turn his back as he hisses over his shoulder, "You don't deserve dental care. Get out of my sight you vile woman." OR and possibly worse, midway through the exam, he'll say to the dental hygienist in that eerily quiet and calm way doctors have, "We'll need to schedule a complete extraction." And then I'll be that woman behind the Venetian blinds!

But as I said at the beginning, this cycle of panic and shame has gotten to the breaking point. So yesterday, I went to the dentist and the experience was. . . I can't believe I'm writing this. . . WONDERFUL.

Instead of derisive recriminations, the guy was fabulously, marvelously kind and understanding and really, really shiny. He kind of looked like a fake person, he was so shiny, but that was okay because his shininess not only distracted me from my toothful insecurities, but it also reflected (literally) what a good, bright, and wonderful person he was. And in his shiny face, I could see my own reflection and I felt good and shiny, too.

So I gazed into his shiny face and I confessed my sins and he just listened and nodded and smiled and shined and then said, "Well let's take a look."

So we did.

And surprise, surprise, after an embarrassingly long absence from professional dental care, I still have NO CAVITIES. Not a one.

"You've got to be kidding me!" I exclaimed around the rubber-gloved fingers poking around in my mouth. "Are you sure you don't need to remove anything?"

"Just a little tartar," he smiled. "You've done a remarkably good job with your home care."

"Really?"

"Really."

Wow.

Wow!

I am awesome! My teeth are so solid. They're so solid, they're made of rocks. MY TEETH ROCK. The relief! Oh the heavenly sphincter-relaxing relief!

And then he handed me a little slip of paper.

"What's this?"

"It's a referral to a periodontist. There's some gum recession, you might want to get checked out."

"What?"

"Not a big deal. She'll just do a little tissue grafting and. . ."

Apparently, while my teeth are made of rocks, my gums are made of tissue.

Tissue paper, that is.

So much for feeling shiny. So much for feeling good. So much for the oh-too-brief respite from panic-constricted sphincters. But God help me, I won't stand behind Venetian blinds, so I'm off and up a link in the dental chain. Embarrassment be damned.

when does lunch count?

What is it called when an attractive man rings you up out of the blue and asks you to lunch? Asks you to lunch and gives you a choice of locations at which you may dine? Shares a meal with you, is complimentary and engaging and then pays at the end of said meal? When all parties familiar with the two individuals going to lunch start waggling their eyebrows and nodding their heads knowingly? What is that called? Because I would call it a date. Wouldn't you? Wouldn't you call that a date? It's a date, right?

Or is it?

What is it called when the attractive man who calls to invite you to lunch has a girlfriend? A girlfriend he tells you about, whom you proceed to discuss? A girlfriend he speaks of in glowing terms? What is that called? I might venture to say that's called Wasting. My. Time. What do you think?

There was nothing inappropriate about the lunch. If it had been a woman, I would have just chalked it up to a little networking and perhaps a foray into friendship. But the whole MAN element throws me.

*sigh*

Okayokay. . . for now, let's just call it a foray into friendship, shall we? But still, it's con-FU-sing. And I don't appreciate confusing. I get crazy over confusing.

It just seems like the traditional rules don't apply any more. Gay men asking out straight women (happened to me at least three times). Married people who refuse to curtail their single habits despite vows to the contrary. Those people who juggle multiple relationships like plates on sticks. Then there's the whole open relationship thing which due to my own puritanical conservative upbringing I just don't get at all.

It all just seems so dangerous to me. And I don't mean physically dangerous -- though, that, too. It's the emotional danger that spooks me. It's like a minefield of hurt waiting to happen.

But then what are the options? Because even the ones who aren't gay or committed are playing games. And they're not sharing the directions!!

Take my friend A. She recently met this really great guy who within the first couple of dates took her hand and looked into her eyes and expounded upon the importance of respect in their relationship. Did everything he could to make her feel safe and cared for and then two weeks later -- poof! -- he's gone ghost.

I once dated a guy who would add a Mrs. to his own last name when addressing me, but then he would disappear for days and weeks at a time between phone calls.

On the other hand, my friend M. has a habit of collecting male friends who "claim" her for theirs despite the fact that she has never and will never (having explained in no uncertain terms that she won't ever) go out with them, effectively blocking all other male beings within a four mile radius whenever they're together. Of course, these guys call ALL the time, but most can barely even feed themselves.

The seemingly normal and on-paper available ones are so extremely unreliable these days, that I almost can't blame people for jumping the gun for the affluent, attractive, able and intelligent gent who just happens to be in a weak relationship. Get him while the gettin's good, right?

So back to the lunch date. I asked a male friend of mine -- a male friend who is married and who loves his wife and is a total traditionalist and honorable and thinks he scored the lottery by marrying who he did and wouldn't do anything in the world to jeopardize the relationship -- what was up with this lunch. And he said, simply, "It's on."

"But he has a girlfriend!"

And this paragon of honor, he just sort of shrugged.

I asked my friend M. and she said, simply "Well, he's not married, right?"

"But he has a girlfriend!"

And she just sort of shrugged.

So was he wasting my time? Or given the state of the world and sexual politics, should I just bide my own? Though, honestly, in the long run, I don't really see how it matters either way.

a dinner with the girls at a posh restaurant

Once in a while there are those lovely nights, or days or very occasionally even weeks that are so very lovely. So very lovely, that even in the middle of them they are savorable. Yes, I just made up the word savorable. It may be the liquor talking. Though more likely it's the wine that came after the wave of dirty martini's. The wine that the waiter described as full bodied, with an essence of chocolate and like a warm blanket. And while I'd usually not drink a warm blanket or any blanket for that matter -- even a chocolate one -- oddly he was right and remarkably it was delightfully good. Worth $14 dollars good? Well, I'm cheap, so rarely is any beverage not found in the middle of a desert after my camel dies and my Sherpa flees worth $14, but as tonight wasn't about money, I'll let that one rest. And lucky me, I've apparently imbibed the blanket upon which to sleep. And it only cost me $14! (Don't you just love circular logic?)

Anyway, tonight was one of those lovely nights. It was "A Dinner with the Girls at a Posh Restaurant" as the email invite -- though not the Evite (which for the record I HATE as much for its implied demand of commitment as for its pressure to be clever with a YES) -- suggested. And it was divine.

It was divine for it's lack of drama, and the intelligent conversation and the 2005 optimism (such a stark contrast from the 2004 desperation), and the pretty people and the fabulous food and the blankety wine and the perfectly brackish martini's with three fat olives in each and the waiter (Zack!) who followed us around the restaurant with drinks and eats -- so very Sherpa --, because no one could seem to sit still for more than five minutes at a stretch, and the tower of fire and the succulent meat, and the architectural lights and flowers overhead and just simply for the feeeeeeeel of the place.

I felt like I was on vacation.

I felt like I could breath.

It was just one of those nights when the temperature of the space -- physical, emotional, spiritual, social -- choose your perfect temperature of choice -- is so right-on right-on that even in the moment you'll pull yourself out of it and above it to look down on it to reminisce over when you're old, before diving back in it to savor for all it's worth. That kind of night.

*sigh*

Thanks girlies. You divine lovelies totally out-poshed the restaurant.

have tomato will nap

I'm sitting in my living room. I'm sitting on the couch with my feet up on the coffee table and my laptop in my lap. Fred is sitting on the couch across from me. Staring. I can't see him, because my screen blocks his little body from view. Hold on a second. . . .

Yup. He's still there. Staring. Intently. Unblinking as the Sphinx. He's not speaking, but since we're psychically connected I know what he's thinking. I can read his thoughts and his thoughts are these:

Pay. Attention. To. Me.

Throw. The. Ball.

I. Want. A. Tomato.

He wants a tomato, because I'm eating tomatoes. I've got a bowl of those tiny sweet ones. Delish. Fred loves them, too. But you don't really care about that, do you? I don't even care about that.

I'll be honest. I'm stalling. I have about eight ideas I'd like to write about all lined up on a couch in my head. Staring at me. Intently. Unblinking as the Sphinx. Vibrating with desire for the ripe tomato of my attention.

However, one is depressing, another emotionally wrenching, three are about work and then I've got this soapbox to stand on . . . one addresses religion and politics, but I'm just way too over it, while the last is about something that is as yet rather amorphous, but has to do with pubs and parks and Luddites and fear of weddings.

So this is a piece about nothing. About the uncomfortable in between of inspiration and realized creation. This is the part where I take a nap and hate myself just a little for not pushing through. And where Fred sighs deeply in that way of long-suffering pooches everywhere that says, If you're not going to write/work/paint, you should at least be taking me for a walk.

Sorry, Fred. Have a tomato.

t.m.i.

So I came across this little dialogue I wrote last year. Or rather I should say transcribed. It's just something I jotted down after a conversation I had with my very pregnant friend Nicole. It's somewhat indicative of the many horrifying and wonderful chats I've had with pregnant friends over the years. Enjoy.

Nicole: Hey, I'm not sure I feel up to dinner tonight.

Me: That's okay. Are you feeling alright?

[Pay attention to the use of correct form when talking with a pregnant friend: the immediate acquiescence to her wishes followed by concern for her health.]

Nicole: Yeah, I'm okay. I really should come. I mean, I want to. It's just that I don't know if I feel like it.

Me: That's okay. Whatever you like. It's totally an open invitation. If you show up, great. If you don't feel up to it, no hard feelings.

[Meet indecisiveness with complete acceptance. What. Ever. She. Wants.]

Nicole: Thanks.

Me: Well, okay, I gotta . . .

Nicole: Hey, did I tell you that I had a contraction yesterday?

[Probably, but there are countless people I know who are currently pregnant and after months and months of pregnancy discussion, I frankly can't care to keep track. Moreover, I've got guests coming over in twenty minutes!!!]

Me: Really? Like a labor pain?

[Note tone of interest and encouraging follow-up question.]

Nicole: No, just a little pain that . . .10 minutes of blah, blah, detailed blah, blah, blah, description of the contraction blah. . . called Braxton Hicks.

[As Nicole talks, I straighten up the bathroom bathroom, finish up with the dishes, set out the appetizers and pour myself a glass of wine. Mid sip, as I'm contemplating whether ginger-scented candles are appropriate for a spring dinner party I begin to realize that Nicole has stopped speaking. It's a silence that indicates my dear friend has stopped her blah blah blahing and is waiting for me to respond. But I really haven't been listening and now have NO IDEA what she's talking about! I grapple in panic for a response and decide to just repeat the last words I heard.]

Me: Who's Braxton Hicks?

Nicole: The contraction? Like I just said, it's called a Braxton Hicks.

Right! Of course!

Me: So, now you're naming your contractions?

Nicole: Funny.

Me: Will you name one after me?

Nicole: No, I'm naming them all after my husband.

Me: Fair enough. But you're feeling okay, right? You're just tired?

Nicole: I'm fine. [Big dramatic pregnancy sigh.] It's just that nothing fits. I feel like a house. Even my vagina is huge.

Me: Um. . .

[Her WHAT is WHAT?! If I weren't so stunned I'd be spitting Merlot, but I'm frozen in place, suddenly very aware of my own, apparently not very large, vagina.]

Nicole: It's so swollen, it doesn't even look like mine anymore.

Me: Oh. My. God.

Nicole: Yeah, you know how it usually fits in your underwear?

Me: (nervously) Uh. . .huh.

Nicole: Mine doesn't. It's so big, it's completely unrecognizable.

[All rules about being kind, solicitous, understanding, sympathetic go out the window, because now she's just saying this stuff to freak me out.]

Me: OHMYGOSH, Nicole. You must go buy bigger panties and stop talking about this. Right now! I can't help it. . . I'm picturing your vagina with one of those Nike pump attachment thingies and a big fake nose and eyeglasses and I'm just a little more than disturbed. And frankly, for the record, I don't know that even if I had to, I could pick mine out of a lineup.

Nicole: Don't be ridiculous? It's all perfectly normal. It will happen to you, too.

Me: No, no it certainly will not, because now I'll be adopting, thankyouverymuch. There are tons of needy kids out there and my vagina need not swell to care for them.

Nicole: You say that now. Just wait.

Me: Right. Enough. Whatever you say, dearie. Listen, if you and your vagina can fit out your front door and squeeze into your car, you should come over tonight. I'll put a chair in the freezer for you, just in case.

Nicole: Thanks. You're too sweet.

Me: Yes, I know. But, Nicole?

Nicole: Yes?

Me: You may not speak of this. Ever again.