A Hygenist Nightmare

My husband went to the dentist yesterday to have his teeth cleaned for the first time in about 2 years. And as you can imagine, he handled it like a man.

Let me first answer your initial question. Why? Well, again, he's a man. Second question - why didn't I make him. OK, let's see. I have nagged, bullied and begged. Finally, I did what only a wife can do. I threatened not to kiss him anymore.

Well, he finally went. But he refused to go to the same dentist our kids and I visit. Probably because he knew the dentist and I would have a good laugh about it.

So as he left the house yesterday I sweetly gave him a peck on the cheek and told him, "I hope they have a jackhammer ready."

The appointment started at 8:30 a.m. and finished at 10:20 a.m. Luckily, the hygenist put on a topical anesthetic.

He called me afterwards and our conversation went something like this:

Him: My mouth hurts.

Me: Well, I bet your teeth feel really clean.

Him: My mouth hurts.

Me: Take some aspirin.

Him: I hate going to the dentist.

Me: Don't you love that fresh-from-the-dentist clean feel?

Him: My mouth hurts.

Last night as we sat on our patio, he was in a much better mood. A couple of Tylenol, and gin and tonics did wonders.

"I think the hygienist got tired," he told me. "She actually poked me once in the lip."

"I'm never going to do this again," he said.

What? I've got to fight this battle again?

"I've learned my lesson," he said. "I'm going back in six months."

As he finished telling me about his two hours in the chair, I didn't have the heart to tell him that this year he needs to schedule his first colonoscopy. I'm working from up to down on bettering his health.

The Wondering Texan


 

What Perfume and Lard have in Common

It's after spring break, the crowds are gone and so is the sunny, warm weather. Today is a gray, misty, cool day, and in a little while I've got to get blood drawn for my upcoming oncologist visit, and afterwards I have an appointment for my annual OB/GYN visit. As you can tell, the weather outside mirrors my day ahead.



The small skillet was filled with rust and leaves.

But as I reflect on the past weeks, I have to say it's been overwhelming positive and chaotic with many firsts for me. To start, I participated in my first Relay for Life event to raise money for the American Cancer Society. So far, this little town of about 8,500 people has raised about $70,000. During the event I received ACS's Hero of Hope award. I was shocked. So shocked in fact that when my first name was called I just stood there looking around for the recipient to walk forward. Then I felt stupid. Feeling stupid while standing on a stage receiving an award is awkward to say the least.

Next in the "firsts" department when I tried this week to "cure" an old cast iron skillet and Dutch oven for the Boy Scouts. The boys were busy last weekend cleaning out their storage shed and trailer and came across the two rusted pieces of iron. I brought them home with the promise that I would revitalize them. As I told my neighbor, a West Virginia native, of this latest project of mine she looked at me as if thinking:

1) She's going to drop those on her foot
2) She's going to set her kitchen on fire
3) The poor dear has snapped
4) All of the above

She then asked, "Do you know how?" I stammered, "Um, well, I thought I would Google it." That's when she took charge telling me to thoroughly clean the pots with steel pads and liberally grease them down with lard, "Not Crisco, butter or vegetable oil. Lard," she told me. Then cook the pots in the oven at about 275 degrees for hours. Clean and repeat as needed. She then looked me square in the eye and said, "You got it?" Shish, of course. Just one more question, "Where do I get lard?"

So I tried it on Tuesday. The results are mixed. The pots are better than before but not what Paula Deen would be proud of, but then again, this is for Boy Scouts so maybe they won't be critical.

Then last night, my husband and I spent our first night in our guest bedroom. You see, our son came home from baseball last night with about five pounds of red dirt on him. He took a shower and then proudly came out telling me, "Mom, the bathroom was all stinky so I sprayed it with your perfume." My bedroom and bathroom still smell like Chanel. I wonder if my West Virginia neighbor has a recipe for perfume detoxification.

I know there have been other recent firsts, but my mind has drawn a blank and/or they are too mundane to mention. So, signing off for now.

Wondering if I have the energy to tackle the pots again this afternoon.

The Wondering Texan





 

Fish Sticks and Middle School

The other night my husband asked why I'm not writing as much anymore. I told him I'm really busy and besides, I haven't had much to write about.

He looked at me and said, "Seriously, you work in a middle school."

True, middle school is a target rich environment with acne, young teenage drama, drug sniffing dogs and  adults who are simultaneously trying to maintain control and stay sane.

Last week was my first encounter with a drug sniffing dog. He was black and white with a patch of black fur over one eye. He was so cute I wanted to pet him but figured that probably wasn't allowed. Anyway, the principal, the assistant principal (who is a giant of a man), and the police officer came into the classroom asking everyone to leave the room minus backpacks, jackets and purses.

Afterward I told my husband who asked if the dog found anything. "No, except probably my leftover venison chili."

Which brings me to another school topic  -- lunches. Occasionally I will eat a school lunch. And let me tell you, the school lunch matrons are as intimidating as they were back in the '70s and '80s when I was in school. Hair nets are never a good look on anyone. Anyway, right before Christmas I was going through the line when one of them asked, "Why are you here?"

I was stunned and felt like Oliver Twist asking for more porridge. She then caught herself and said, "It's just that in the teacher's lounge a special holiday lunch has been set up for you guys."

Last week, my husband made my lunch. I hate making lunches. I would rather clean an entire kitchen after a tornado than make lunches. I went to the teacher's lounge and opened my bag. Inside he neatly tucked a little note saying, "I love you. Have a good day." And then I pulled out two pieces of cold, leftover pizza; a handful of red grapes, and about six pieces of Hershey's kisses in red and green wrappers. It looked like a five-year-old's lunch. Poor guy, apparently packing lunches isn't his favorite thing either.

Occasionally at school some students will ask me if they can eat in the classroom with me. It's OK with me as long as they follow my rules: 1) clean up their own messes 2) don't be too loud, and 3) don't bug me when I'm reading my Kindle.

But I imagine they are eating in the classroom for the same reasons as me -- it offers a quiet refuge from the noise and drama of middle school.

Some of these kids are in desperate need of a hug. But since I can't do that I smile at them, listen to their stories and tell them to take another bite of their turkey melt.

Wondering why after all of these years the basic dynamics of middle school haven't changed?

The Wondering Texan

Miles and Miles of Texas with a Deer on the Hood

Skull on the ranch.

As with everyone else, I've been busy with post holiday craziness -- packing up Christmas ornaments, trying to lose the extra 5 lbs. that has landed on my hips, and cleaning out the refrigerator of unrecognizable leftovers wrapped in red Saran Wrap. So far, I've be successful with clearing the clutter and tossing the bio-hazards from the frig.

But we did have a nice holiday seeing friends and family in Fort Worth, and trip to our friend's ranch in Noodle, Texas, where my son killed his first deer. No 11-year-old could be prouder. You know that scene in Family Christmas Vacation when Chevy Chase ropes a huge Christmas tree to the top of his family's vehicle? Well, for the seven hour trip back home, we had the deer affixed to the top of the SUV. You know you're in Texas when you pull through a McDonald's for lunch and not one person is surprised, startled or disgusted by the deer. They only register a mild raised eyebrow. So, us and deer headed home through Paint Rock, population 273; crossing Hog River; and skimming through the Hill Country. As the song by Asleep at the Wheel says, we saw miles and miles of Texas.

Now, our son has the hunting bug and last Sunday he and my husband went duck hunting at a nearby ranch in Fulton, Texas. Rain was coming down and it was something like 40 degrees outside. Surely they wouldn't go hunting I thought. I was wrong. When they came home, my son raced through the den as I asked, "How was it?" He immediately shot into a steaming hot shower where he stayed for 10 minutes. His lips were purple for an hour. But he had fun and they shot a duck.

So, to my friends who have only girly daughters and/or husbands who don't hunt, let me tell you what it's like to live with these types of men and a tomboy girl.

1) I have waders drying from a hook on my patio. They will probably be there for a while since it's been raining for two days now.
2) I have shotgun shells drying out on my laundry room counter.
3) I have a deer head on my patio shelf that the dogs have pulled down in an apparent attempt to make it a raw hide.

Our wonderful Abilene hosts.

4) I have to separate my laundry in the usual fashion -- whites, colors, darks. Plus add one, camo/hunting clothes which stink like dirty feet and cheese.
5) I have homemade dried venison jerky.
6) I have to light candles to mask the smell of gun cleaner out of the house.
7) I have to be the sane one when my husband suggest we should put the gutted deer on the front lawn as a deterrent against neighborhood deer eating our plants. I told him we would probably be reported to MHMR and PETA.

An old gas station in Albany, Texas.

8) I have to find an ice pack for my daughter who got a huge raspberry between her eyes from the rifle scope as it kicked. Yes, my daughter. And I had to reassure her that it would be gone by the start of school.

So, add all of this to the normal routine of managing a house. Not that I'm complaining. I'm really not.

Wondering how to cook duck.

The Wondering Texan

An Albany church.

Albany has a few cute shops dotting it's old town center.

A House of Jokers

Well, we just couldn't help it. Over the last few weeks my husband and I have been having quite a lot of fun playing jokes on neighbors, co-workers, kids and the likes.

The first recent joke was my husband's irritating ribbing of co-workers who are UT alum. When TCU beat UT in Austin (the first time since like 1969 -- almost the same amount of time of us being on this earth) he had to crow a little. So, for a week he wore nothing but purple shirts to work amid a sea of UT alum. One told him, "You can't possibly have that many purple shirts!" to which my husband proudly defied. OK, he's obnoxious at times I admit.

Then down the street our neighbors suffered the best practical joke. Winnie and Warren carefully placed cute, lighted deer on their lawn for Christmas.They sparkled so prettily it was too much to resist. So, instead of doing the obvious joke of putting the deer in inappropriate positions (a thought we had but feared the retirees would be too offended), we speared the deer with arrows. The baby I pulled out of the ground and put him on his back with an arrow through the gut.We should have taken photos of the crime. Maybe the real deer in the neighborhood will run in fear!

By the way, speaking of jokes, my husband has launched an all-out war on the moles in our backyard. If you have ever seen Caddy Shack with Bill Murray then you can imagine my husband in our backyard. Seriously, the man (my husband) is possessed. He's tried setting traps, flooding the moles out with the garden hose, training our bird dog to smell out moles, and the most scary, spraying ether in the holes and lighting a match. I shudder at the thought. I can just envision the conversation with the insurance man: "Well, you see, my husband was trying to kill moles and he accidentally set the house on fire. Yes, he was using a gas. Yes, he lit a flame. But can't I claim my husband as a natural disaster? Will this increase our insurance rate?"

So next week, I'm going to Fort Worth for a final cosmetic surgery for my breast reconstruction and to meet my oncologist. This means my husband is left alone to his own devices for a few days. The kids are starting to get nervous and our neighbor has offered to provide food and provisions.

Wondering if suffering and disorganization really ever hurt anyone and if my house will be standing?

The Wondering Texan

Two Little Boys Dish Out Life Lesson

Last Saturday night, two little boys ages 5 months and 2-years-old did what parents and health teachers only wish they could accomplish. After babysitting the boys, my daughter and her friend have decided never, ever, to have kids.

This suits us just fine. Considering the girls are 14 years old, we realize that this proclamation probably won't hold up, but hopefully it will get them through college.

When the girls got home at 12:30 a.m., they both rushed up to my husband and I saying, "It was horrible! They were everywhere, the baby wouldn't stop crying. How did you do it?"

Then the girls looked at each other and decided that THEY couldn't have possibly been as much work.

"I wasn't like that was I mom?" my daughter asked.

Well, in all honesty, her brother at that age was more difficult to get to and stay in bed. In some respects, he hasn't changed.

At one point, the two-year old wanted to talk to his dad, so my daughter called my husband who pretended to be Tripp's dad. "Are you being good?" my husband asked. "Now, listen to the girls."

So the night went on. Putting the baby down. Putting the 2-year-old down. Trying to rock the baby back to sleep. Putting the two-year-old back down. Changing the baby's diaper which my daughter said, "luckily it was only pee." Putting the two-year-old back to bed. Bouncing and walking the baby around. Putting the two-year-old back down.

Of course, I had to use this as a teaching moment. "See, that's why we tell you it's important to have a baby only when you're totally ready. As a parent, you don't get to go home at midnight. And no one pays you."

So, the next morning the girls slept in. At 9 a.m., the smoke alarm in her bedroom started to beep for a new battery. My husband went in clanging the ladder around to change the battery. The girls didn't stir. Then I went in to put up some laundry, they didn't even turn. We had the TV on, our 11-year-old son running around, and two dogs barking at squirrels in the backyard. Armageddon could have come and the girls wouldn't have opened an eye.

When they finally got up, all they wanted to do was watch TV.

So, it doesn't look like I will be a grandmother in the next decade which is A-OK with me. But when it does come, I'm going to relish holding and cuddling a new baby. Then giving him/her back to my daughter to change the diaper.

Wondering if I could now get my daughter to swear off junk food?

The Wondering Texan

Working On My Relay for Life

Well, it's been a while since I've written here. I've started substitute teaching, had some more surgery for reconstruction (which looks fantastic I might add) and started volunteer work for the upcoming Relay for Life for the American Cancer Society (ACS). As my mother-in-law told my husband, "she can't stay still can she?" Guess not.

Anyway, my friend Dana recruited me to the planning committee for our area's upcoming Relay which will happen March 22, 2013. As I attended my first meeting talk came around to the kick-off dinner. One of the planners said, "We need a speaker." Then someone else said, "Someone new. Someone people haven't heard their story."

I could feel the stares burning my skin and hear the tapping of fingers on the table.

"Someone who recently battled the disease," ACS lady said.

OK, I give. When I offered to speak, they all acted surprised. Gee, they are REALLY BAD ACTORS! No Oscar winners in this group.

So I jotted down some comments and stood before about 30 organizers the following week. I tried to hit the fine line between depressing and naive or worse, Polly Anna. I started off by saying, "Well, when I first got the diagnosis my husband and I sought some solace. We went to a bar." That got some laughs.

I rattled off some positives of cancer -- get to try a new hairstyle; people bring to you loads of food; you can take a guilt-free nap at anytime. I also said that some people thought my death from Stage III breast cancer was eminent, I became a walking, 5'2 confessional booth. Now those people are starting to look a little worried.

That got more laughs.

Anyway, after I finished, the newspaper editor rushed over to me, asked for my notes and interviewed me. Then the ACS lady came over.

"That was so good!" she gushed. "I didn't know you could speak. Why didn't you tell us? You should do this more often."

So now I'm on their Speaker's Bureau.

But what was really great for me was hearing other stories. I met someone whose sister was diagnosed with terminal cancer. That was 15 years ago. Then I heard of someone who has successfully battled three bouts of cancer over several decades. I also met a woman my age who was diagnosed at age 25 with breast cancer.

"I had been married for a year and a half," she told me. "We didn't have children yet."

She went through surgery, chemo and reconstruction. She's accomplished raising a family, working full-time and being a multi-year Relay for Life participant.

So this weekend I'm off to San Antonio for the South Texas Summit. I've been told to wear purple which should be pretty easy since that's TCU's color too. From what I gather, the Summit is a planning, sharing, and bonding experience. I'm really looking forward to hearing more inspirational stories.

But between now and then, I've got to pay bills, walk the dogs and do laundry. Life doesn't stop even for cancer.

I'll let you know how the Summit goes.

Wondering if I should spray paint my hair purple? Nah, maybe I'll just buy some super purple eye shadow.

The Wondering Texan