Why I Love My Dentist

1. He has a moniker: Painless Pete.
2. He practices dentistry in a "Grateful Dead" T-shirt and flip-flops. Together with his walrus moustache, it's like being worked on by Jerry Garcia.
3. He has done a root canal on himself. I told him it's too bad he doesn't have footage of that. I for one would pay good money to see it.

It's All So CLEAR Now!

After spending an hour at United Way, today, helping draft a position paper on comprehensive immigration reform, I have discovered whom we're really up against.
http://www.sltrib.com/news/ci_5762668
Of course, it's possible that it's a big misunderstanding. The councilman was misquoted and it's all Santa's fault.

Swing Your Partner, But Carefully

OK, I'll experiment with inserting links today. Last night before work, while shoveling in my Healthy Choice at my desk, I scrolled through my favorites to the web site for my home-town, Markesan, Wisconsin, pop. 1,365. http://www.markesanwi.com/ Time to check out the festivities planned for June Dairy Days, even though I won't be able to be there. I read that the city is trying to book the Farmall Square-Dancing Tractors for an appearance in August. They're looking for underwriters. You can check out their web-site at http://www.farmallpromenade.com/

Running Around in Little Circles

Literally. This is what I do now, instead of running in the neighborhood near my work. I got tired of all the dogs that run around loose, and after the incident where 5 Chihuahuas followed me, yapping furiously, I bought a membership to my local county rec center. I didn't like being known as the Pied Piper of Poplar Grove.

So, now I run on an indoor track, round and round and round. This is boring, but tolerable, in light of the Chihuahuas.

Today was the run I had been dreading. I have a little training schedule, torn out of "Cooking Light" about 4 years ago. So I've been at this run before. It's 5 minutes running as fast as I can sustain for that length of time, then walking for 4 minutes. I have to do that 4 times, and each time, My visualizations become more desperate.

First time - I'm a machine! ZZ Top is playing in the spinning class adjacent to the track and I do 5 minutes without any problem. Uh-haw-haw-haw-haaw.

Second time - No more ZZ Top. Depeche Mode just isn't helping much, and anyway all I can hear is my own puffing. I think "I need an iPod." Then I try to imagine that I am just lungs on legs. Just a mobile oxygen processor.

Third time - "Lungs on legs" is starting to notice inconvenient realities, like the fact that my ribs are getting in the way of my breathing and that my butt really still there and needs to come along. I resit gasping "Little Engine That Could" stuff like, "I think I can I think I can", because that would be so embarrassing. I settle for telling myself that all I really have to do is pick my legs up one at a time; gravity will put them down for me.

Fourth time - No rational thoughts left. I'm left with my most stripped down mantra: "Child-birth-hurts-worse. Child-birth-hurts-worse". Just as much fun, but without the sutures.

Don't Hate Her Because She's Beautiful

Introducing my 8 year-old daughter, Sara. Sweet- tempered, mild-mannered blue-eyed, freckle-faced blond with an A-line bob and emergent adult teeth that are somewhat too big for her face. It would appear that I had no genetic input whatsoever.

Two days ago, she came home from school with a ring. She told me that it was a gift from O., one of her playmate/guy-friends. "So," I said, hopefully, "friendship ring. Nice!" "Well....O. told me it's a little more than just 'friendship'." Then she actually pulled this COY look and said, "He has a matching one." Hmph.

Plot thickens. O. has a rival. Guy-friend B. presented Sara with a necklace yesterday. B. told Sarait was worth hundreds of dollars. I can see, to my relief, that it is most likely purloined from a dress-up box.

Sara tells me, with the utmost transparency and guilelessness, that she just doesn't understand why so many boys are in love with her. "I guess it's just that I'm really smart and beautiful." I choke on a bite of supper. I mutter something about how it can't be her modesty that attracts them. Her thoughts have already drifted someplace else and she doesn't hear me. I'm glad, because I suddenly regret responding at all. I thought, holy cow, here I am about to tell my daughter to be more unassuming ...and I can't.... but I should, because she comes across as being so...full of herself...but... won't she get that pounded out of her in junior high anyway? Soon enough. I regret that I can't recall ever declaring myself "really smart and beautiful".

I drop it and settle for, "There isn't any kissing going on, is there? That would not be OK." "No way, Mom. This is the only kissing going on!" And she swooped down on me and gave me a few, so, cool.

Frustrated English Major

So, how many times have I read and watched "Jane Eyre"? But I am an Eyre junkie, and was up 'til way past midnight watching the second half of the "Masterpiece Theatre" version. Thanks, Moira, for taping it for me! I slept badly, waking often from lustful dreams of getting laid by Mr. Rochester. I don't remember if I called him "Sir". Well, totally forgivable - Rochester was HOT. Thank God he wasn't played by Colin Firth, or I would still be tormented. Those serious, tight-lipped English types really turn me on.