My Retainers or My Marriage

I know it sounds pathetic, but at 30 years old, I still need to wear my retainers at night. If I don't my teeth slowly creep back into their natural state which is sort of a cross between a redneck in Alabama and a peasant during the Dark Ages in England. However, as aesthetically important as it for me to wear my retainers (yes, the original ones I was given at 16 years old) I have come to realize they are beginning to hurt my marriage.


For example, when I put my retainers in I instantly develop a fantastic lisp and speech impediment, and the amount of spit I typically produce in my mouth increases by 100 times. Consequently, I usually try to slip my retainers in right before I'm about to go to sleep so I don't have to speak to anyone. However, my husband, who I think has super human powers in regards to my retainers, always knows when I have them in, and without fail, finds some way to make me feel like a complete idiot. For example, if I say good night, and that word "night" sounds a little extra "airy" I will actually feel a smile spread over his face and then he'll innocently ask, "Before you go to bed would you tell me a story?" I can not fully describe the rage that surges through me when he makes this diabolical request. And then, as if I'm not embarrassed enough, he'll then roll over and try to kiss me. Now, I'm not what you would call "shy" in the kissing department, but when metal bars and 14 year old plastic is covering my teeth I'm not really in the romantic mood. Eventually, I am forced to retaliate by tickling him, he begs me to stop, I yell at him for making fun of me and we both go to sleep with zero trust in one another. So, you can see my retainers might not to be worth the martial problems.

* Above are some of my favorite moments with my retainers. What can I say Halloween wasn't complete without my retainers. #1 picture: Halloween 1999 #2 picture: Halloween 2000.

I Can Handle the Truth

This morning while I ate my breakfast I was reading through my "friends'" statuses on Facebook. I have to admit I hate when people write things like, "John Smith is off to Italy." Or "Rachel Goodwin is baking cookies." Or "Tim Anderson is excited about his $10,000 raise he received for being the top salesman at (insert stupid company.)" I really wish people would be more honest. Like:

"Emily Carter is feeling completely constipated."
"David Wright is hiding homosexual tendencies by going out with a girl from work."
"Jane Mann is wondering if she is pregnant and who the father is."
"Jessica Roberts just ate the entire batch of cookies she made because she feels insecure and alone."

Now those statuses would be interesting.

Me, As a Mom

A few weeks ago I placed a beautiful pot of flowers on my porch. I then proceeded to meticulously water the thing for a few days and then...I sort of forgot about it. I hope this isn't a sad indication of the type of mother I will be. I can just see it at my first parent/teacher conference:

Teacher: "Now Billy is a good student."
Me: "Great."
Teacher: "He's nice to everyone."
Me: "Great."
Teacher: "My only concern is that he's been bumming rides to and from school."
Me: "Yeah...I haven't seen him much, but he likes first grade, right?"

Sh#t Happens

Since my fascination with the word "Sh#t" in first grade I have always tried to keep a clean mouth. I have taught myself to yell, "Dang it," and "Son of a B" when I'm mad. I say things like, "How the heck are you?" and "That guy sure is an A-Hole." However, there are times my makeshift swear words just don't cut it. For example, I woke up at 4:20 in the morning (which I sort of still consider Monday since the sun is not even close to being up), rode my bike in the dark to work, stood on my feet for 9 and a half hours, got called "Love" three times by three separate men (who didn't even leave a tip), rode my bike home, convinced myself to wash my car, drove in traffic for 30 minutes to reach the Costco 2 miles down the road from the car wash and when I pulled into a coveted empty spot I realized I had left my wallet at the house. To ensure I didn't lose my wallet somewhere between the house and the car wash I called Mr. Hick (name has been slightly altered to protect the privacy of my husband) and asked him if my wallet was in the apartment. When he said, "Yep, wallet. Check." I screamed, "Shiittttt." (Sorry no censorship this time.) Come on, let's be honest, a "Freak!" Or "Gosh, Dang it" just wasn't going to cut it. So what's the point of this story? Well, 1. I'm exhausted and for some reason this experience struck me as funny. 2. I think I was on to something in first grade. I loved the word "sh@t" before, and I still do.

A New Friendship

Today I had a strange experience at work. No, it didn't involve the co-owner, who looks like the ugly twin to Nicholas Cage, rubbing my shoulders and winking at me - though the more I think about it, I really hate when he does that. Question: When the owner is sexually harassing who do you inform the dish washer or just steal more food to make up the difference? Answer: Option B. until you grow tired of the food and then scream "rape" next time he touches you. Question 2: What kind of grown man winks at people? Answer: Clowns, Popeye, Pedophiles and Adam Lambert.

Okay, I'm not sure where the one sided Q&A session came from. My apologies. No, the strange thing that happened today was I think a girl was trying to date me a friend. I mean, she wasn't flirting with me, but as I talked to her and we expressed the same interests she said, "We should totally become friends. What are your digits?" My digits? How did we go from talking about working out to becoming best of friends and giving each other our phone numbers? I was completely confused. I then said something equally as awkward like, "Oh, my husband and I sure do a lot of things together." (I'm not sure what this was supposed to mean other than, 1. I don't swing that way, if that is what you are looking for, because I have the world's worst gay-dar and 2. I typically like to find my friends in more conventional ways like working with them for awhile, at church, introduced to and in play groups my mom used to put together etc.)

Unfortunately, my cryptic answer did nothing to deter her, and while she waited for her coffee, and called me "honey" about three times, I relented and gave her my home phone number. (The home line doesn't have an answering machine. It's the sure number for creepy chicks trying to be your friend and the relief society.) I don't know what I'm going to do when she comes back into the restaurant. Am I going to have to be her friend? She does work for ESPN...Kate....no.

Shut up Ned Flanders

In my building lives an old man, who, no matter the time of day or the day of the week, is ALWAYS freaking happy. Now, I'm not talking the polite smile and nod when you see him at the mailboxes, or a kind holding of the elevator. Instead, I'm talking about shouting at you down the hallway to have a great day or high-fiving you that you finished a day of work. I don't know where this guy came from or what type of drugs he is using, but man, he's the happiest person I've ever seen.

Now, I know this sounds terrible, but if given the chance I try everything I can to avoid this man. It's not that I envy his bliss or wish that everyone walked around in a quiet stupor. It's just that sometimes I can't handle the "How's Pepperdine?!! or "Go Waves!" or "Hidey Ho. Make it a great day!" I don't know what it is but sometimes I just want to give him the finger or tell him, "You know old man, what would make my day great?...Is you shutting that hole of yours."

I know, it doesn't make any sense, but I just can't take it anymore. Today, we entered the garage at the same time and you would have thought a murderer was chasing after me by the way I was pounding on the elevator button. Unfortunately, the elevator got caught on the floor above me, and as I closed my eyes and prayed for strength, I heard the door open and then the fateful words, "Alright we get to ride together. Go Waves!!" For a second, I thought about how sharp my keys are and then quickly regained control. I can't say he'll be so lucky next time.

Man-Card

Chris Hansen (name has been changed to protect the privacy of my husband) made an astute observation while watching me watch the Bachelorette tonight: you really do have to turn in your "man-card" before you go on this show.

Big John

I love my job...today I got to meet Eric Bruskotter. No idea who that is? Well, he only starred in one of the greatest movies of all time in the 80s - Can't Buy Me Love. I attached a little clip. He's the meat head in the pink shirt.



Side note: For those of you, who have seen the movie, will remember that his character was known for unbelievable farts. He said for years people always asked him to fart so they could experience the smell. I thought that was funny.

Penny Lover

While counting out the ridiculous amount of pennies, people leave us in our tip jar, I was reminded of a special moment I experienced in college. Okay, I probably shouldn't use the word "special" because it doesn't involve clothing the naked or feeding the hungry. But, it does involve a near death experience...

One night my freshman year in college, my coach had our entire team over for a barbecue. On the way home, the entire freshman class, which consisted of 8 people, were jammed into a Ford Explorer and a Isuzu Trooper. At the first stop sign, I grabbed a handful of powdered doughnuts and threw them at the Explorer. (I would like to say I was being an immature freshman, but if given the chance, I would do the same thing tomorrow.) In retaliation, the Explorer unleashed a handful of cut up fruit and a water bottle. And so it began. At each stop sign, we would get out of the car and throw food at each other. Eventually, we ran out of food, so we decided something a little more lethal...pennies. My roommate always had a cup full of them and I could never figure out why she had such a stash...until now. I'll never forget the sound of those pennies pinging off the hood of the Explorer.

Now, this is where the fun took a bad turn...after the last stop sign the Explorer got in front of us, and while driving through a narrow bridge, decided to turn the wheel all of the sudden and cut off the exit. Again, 12 years ago, and I can still remember putting my foot on the dashboard, and while screaming, "Brakkeee!!!" seeing the horrified faces of my friends in the approaching Explorer. I'm happy to report that my roommate didn't hit the Explorer, but I did wet my pants.

So, see pennies are good for nothing. One, they really can't buy anything. Two, they cause potential accidents. Three, they cause grown women to wet themselves. AND Four, they aren't substitutes for tips. Come on you cheap bastards - drop at least a quarter in.

Six Months

This morning a homeless lady came into the restaurant and informed me that she had been in prison for six months and now she needed to use the bathroom.

Question: What kind of prison was she in that didn't allow her to pee for six months? And more importantly, what crime did she commit that warranted such a punishment? Man, I used to think waiting through an entire movie was torture.

Anyway, those were just side thoughts...the real thing I wanted to write about was what happened after we tried to kick her out of the bathroom. (I say "we" when I should really say "my manager." "I" wasn't really a part of the equation. Instead, I stood back about fifteen feet and halfheartedly nodded every time my manager said, "Let's go." What can I say, I'm a total weenie. My mom knows...and she still loves me.)

Again, anyway...after "we" (refer to the above paragraph) got her out of the bathroom she then proceeded to sit on the floor and tell all of us, who could hear, that she was going to kill us. (So, maybe that was the crime.) Eventually, my little manager (the guy is probably 5"6) grabbed her things and tried to lead her to the door. Again, more threats. Now, instead of killing us, she was going to pee right there on the floor. (Come to think of it, the woman had waited six months. I guess a little bathroom time would have been nice.) Finally, the cops came and removed her from the restaurant. For the next couple of hours I just watched her pace the street. I wonder if she ever got to go?

The Odd Ball

I have never felt more conventional and boring than while working at the restaurant. For example, the other day I learned that my barista left home at 16, apprenticed as a piercer for a year, got hooked on LSD, moved to Ashville, North Carolina to grow and sell pot, left that booming enterprise to squat on Lisa Beniot's (Lisa from the Cosby Show) property in Hawaii, got pinworms from drinking sewage water, went to rehab, started a coffee training company, lost all his money, married a girl and moved to Venice, California. And just when I thought I had heard enough, another girl chimed in and said she too left home at an early age and became a professional belly dancer and worked little kid birthday parties as Cinderella. Cinderella? Crap, I finally found a card that trumped my Mongolian Card. I can't out do that.

So, there I sat, wondering what to say. Do I make up a cool story about a brief brush with prostitution and how I once spent an entire year in Tanzania learning how to make a pot out of cow dung and straw? Or do I just shoot from the hip and talk about my functional relationship with my parents, my 3.9 grade average in high school or the fact that I can count on one hand the classes I missed in college? I know it was a tough decision. Finally, I decided to go with option 3: Grip a knife, look off into the distance and mutter, "My parole officer said this would be difficult." What can I say I want to remain "mysterious."