Nuh oekoo oh uh uh nuh bu!

by Patti


S and I went for our semi-annual teeth cleaning the other day. I hate getting my teeth cleaned. I mean - really? Who does love getting their teeth cleaned? But I REALLY hate getting my teeth cleaned. I have what I call "weak teeth". They aren't satisfied unless they are crumbling and cavity-ridden. And they have a love affair with dentists, because they can't go more than a few months without having to see one.

I have had the same dentist for 11 years. A few months after S was born, I started visiting this guy, plopping S down in her car seat next to the dentist chair while he drilled and chiseled my mouth back into health. Today, as I settled into the chair of doom, I commented to him that I could not believe that 11 entire years had flown by in what seemed the time it took him to tell me I had a new cavity. And now, my kid, that once-baby that cooed at my feet while my dentist tortured me, was in the room next to mine, getting her own crazy teeth buffed and shined while he actually DID tell me I had a new cavity. My fourth in is as many months.

"We're going to have to up your visits to once every three months."
At this point, my mouth was pried open. Yet, he waited for my answer.
"Uh-huh," I nodded into his latex hand.
He poked around a bit more, pausing every so often to chat with me. As he chatted, he dangled the dangerously sharp plaque-scraper over my face, twirling it carelessly as he emphasized his words. I shrunk back into the chair, my eyes instinctively blinking to protect themselves from becoming decorative instrument tips. Yet, at the same time, my mind couldn't help but think that if he DID poke my eyes out, I'd be able to sue him, and WOW, would we be rich. Sure, I'd be eye-less, but we'd be rich!
"So, how's work?" he asked me as he dug further into the back of my mouth. My mouth was now stretched practically over my head, inside out.
"Oh, nuh un ow. I un oo ee aeeore"
He nodded, as if he understood what I was saying, and then proceeded to pepper the rest of my appointment with complex questions that could not be answered with a mere shake of my head.

Once he was done with me, he informed me that he was going to go down the hall to check out S's shark teeth, and that the hygienist would be in to polish my teeth. In breezed the peppy hygienist - officially the sweetest woman on earth. She is one of those people that probably bathes in sugar and makes you feel mean by simply standing next to you. Radiating sunshine and butterflies, she bent over my mouth, her kind eyes twinkly. "We have a new polisher!" she declared proudly. "It's a little loud, okay?"
Suddenly the room began to shake and I realized she had turned on the "new polisher". She hovered it over my mouth, her eyes full of apology.  And then she dove in, jack hammering each tooth with an explosion of mint. "So, how have you been?" she yelled over the "new polisher".
"Eyeee uh uh ee".
She tapped me lightly. "No, no. Don't move your mouth!"
Really?
"All done!"

I rose from the chair with shiny teeth and a vibrating head, and went to check on S. She grinned at me, her soon-gonna-cost-me-$7,000-in-braces teeth also shiny, and then we headed home. In the car she turned to me. "Mom, why does the dentist always ask me so many questions when my mouth is open?" Kid, you got my teeth. Better start now perfecting the art of "nuh oekoo oh uh uh nu bu!"

There, there

by Patti

When M and I were first dating, whenever I was upset or sad about something, a mere snuggle into his chest would immediately give me comfort. His chest was a magical place that smelled like lemons and Tide and home. It was that easy.

Now, years (and years. AND YEARS.) later, notsomuch. Much of the time now, if I am upset or sad, it's because he did something to make me so. And a mere snuggle into his chest is the last thing I want or need. I want understanding and an apology, damnit. And even when it's not something he did, I still want understanding. I want it on "girlfriend" level. You know: the kind of understanding a woman can get from her female friends, but rarely, if ever, from her beloved, til-death-do-you-part husband?

I remember a friend once lamented to me that her husband was the most insensitive human being on the planet. "Why?" I asked her, curious at the level of her fury.
"Well, I was standing in the kitchen last night after we finished eating dinner, and suddenly - I just started crying."
"You did? Why didn't you call me?"
"I should have! I just felt - I dunno - sad. And I needed Chris to comfort me. So he came up behind me and put his arms around me, and as I cried, he mumbled something. I thought he was being all comforting, but then I realized that he was asking me if I was going to eat that last piece of pizza!"
She then went on to tell me that she had furiously pulled out of his arms, and that he had gotten mad at HER for her reaction, telling her she was being overly sensitive. In his mind, he was killing two birds with one (big, fat awkward, insensitive) stone; in hers, he was an asshole.

I remembered this story the other night when I had my own attack of "sad for no apparent reason". And when it hit, I needed that comfort. I turned to M to find it, hoping for that magical chest. To his credit, he did put his arms around me, but then he had to go and do it. He patted me. He there, there'd me. Is there anything more patronizing, more "hurry up and get over it" than being PATTED?

Husbands around the world will unite and claim that the pats were sincere, and that what else did I want? A freakin' personal parade of non-patting, spirit-lifting clowns in my own kitchen? They might say that I am being demanding and am probably one of "those" that are simply just never satisfied. But let me tell you, husbands around the world: Never, ever PAT your wife when she is sad. And don't ask her what's for dinner while she's crying.

This is what you do: You gather your sad wife in your arms, and you say, "What can I do to make you feel better?" And then you just listen. That's it. See how easy?

And when you're done listening, you make dinner. And wash the dishes.

What's Up, Tsuts?

by Cathy

Indulge me as I vent about one of several pet peeves I have about my husband.

Let me preface this by saying that he is usually asleep when this occurs, rendering him clueless (I think) about what he does, but STILL. 

So picture this: he's fallen asleep, usually way too early for my taste. He's either laying on the living room couch with the lights off, the television now watching him instead of the other way around, or he's already in bed, mummified under the covers, which are pulled up to his nose.

Since I am always shuffling around the house until some crazy hour because of the million little things I have to do  before I can carelessly flop into bed, I am walking in and out of rooms constantly. Most of the time, I am in my own world of To Do's, so I may or may not be aware that he has fallen asleep in a particular room. Regardless, I usually try to keep the noise level down.

However, there comes a time where I HAVE to turn on a light, or check the sound on my alarm clock so that I don't oversleep the following morning, or clean up, or look for something or maybe, just turn on my bedside lamp so I can sneak in a few pages of reading before I hit the hay.

And how does he react to any one of those things? He tsutses. You know, that noise you make when you click your tongue off your upper teeth in annoyance? Yeah, that. He tsutses.

Now if I've purposely woken him up, dropped something ridiculously loud or started singing at the top of my lungs, I can see how he would react like that. But to tsuts at my cleaning the house and preparing to go to bed, I mean, come ON. I know he doesn't know the difference if he's asleep so I try to ignore it sometimes, but others, I respond with a "WHY are you tsutsing?!?" And almost always, I get no response because he's back asleep in no time.

I then chalk up his tsutsing to a mindless reaction - an instinctive reflex.
A rather annoying one.