Another Trip

Today I figured out why I’m not a drug addict. It’s because I associate all the best highs of my life with being at the dentist. I went back today for part two of my cleaning. Part one consisted mostly of me laughing uncontrollably due to the Nitrus gas. So naturally when the hygienist asked me if I would be needing the Nitrus again today, I said yes. There was no laughing today- I came prepared. I decided earlier in the day that I would take the opportunity to just relax and let myself fall into it.

Within minutes, my mind was flooded with memories. I remembered playing at my friend Rachel’s house, on the floor next to her bed. I remembered her flowered bedspread with matching pillowcases and the bed skirt that would brush up against my leg as we played with our Barbies. My bed at home didn’t have a bed skirt and I was fascinated by it. I wondered if I put one of Rachel’s Barbies under her bed if she would ever find it.

I remembered swimming in her pool and how the water seemed darker than the water in our pool. Somehow it seemed much deeper and almost like an adventure to swim at her house. I remembered getting out of the water and the feeling of my swimsuit slowly drying on my skin, lightly scratching me as it returned to its original shape. I thought I looked better in my swimsuit than I did in my clothes. I wished I could wear it to school. I felt that the people who weren’t nice to me would be nicer if they saw me in my swimsuit. A voice called me out of my memory and asked me to open my mouth a little wider.

As I drifted away again, I thought about how I ended up at this dentist in the first place. I was eating popcorn and it pulled out my crown. I then remembered being very small and watching movies with my parents. I worried that we would run out of popcorn. I wished there was infinite popcorn. I would watch my parents almost as much as I watched the movie- to make sure I laughed when they laughed. I remembered my dad noticing this and telling me to enjoy the movie and to laugh at what I thought was funny. I said I understood, but I lied. It was so important to me to laugh when he laughed.

This happens to me at the daycare all the time. If I laugh, even if it is at something I have just read on my phone, at least one kid near me will catch my eye and laugh too. I think it’s about feeling like they are part of something with me. Maybe it makes them feel closer to me. Or maybe they just like to laugh.

The chair moved me into a more upright position. She started cleaning my lower teeth. There was more poking and scraping, but not enough to keep me out of my memories. I remembered lying on my bed, drawing with my mom. I wanted her to be there and watch me. I remember needing help drawing the arms of a girl, but not wanting to need help. I remember getting angry with my mom for how she drew the arms. She added the crease of the girl’s elbows, and I didn’t want it there. I erased it furiously and shook off all the eraser bits. My mom asked me if I knew where all those bits went when I blew them. I looked up at her in wonder, and asked “where?”- Anticipating some magical answer. “The floor,” she said, smiling.

Remembering this made me laugh out loud, startling the dental hygienist. I had been so quiet up until that point. She asked how I was doing and told me it was time for my polish. She said I could pick my flavor. I had the choice of mint or a whole bunch of disgusting flavors, so I chose mint. Because of the noise, I couldn’t really escape. When she finished, she went to find out if my insurance covered fluoride treatments and she left me alone with my gas. I started to miss Rodrigo. I wished he were in the chair next to me with a gas mask on as well. I imagined us holding hands and talking about how each of our days had gone. I told Rodrigo I had to pee and asked him if I should even bother getting up and going to the bathroom or if I should just go in the chair. He said he wouldn’t judge me if I went in the chair, but I’d probably be happier if I went to the bathroom. I was smiling when the hygienist came back and told me my insurance did not cover fluoride treatments. She turned off the gas and turned up the oxygen. Within moments I was completely clear and back in the present.

The New Girl

There was a new girl in my art class today. I think she is about three. She is funny and sweet and had no problems with the other kids. She had so much fun in art and participated the whole time. We made temporary sculptures from objects we found around the room. We stacked them up, taped them together, and then took them apart and did it again. This new girl made a particularly successful sculpture of a small boy doll taped between two pieces of plastic bread.

After art class and lunch, most of the kids take naps. A few kids go home early. This girl was one of the kids leaving early. Her mom would be arriving in a few minutes. Seemingly out of the blue, she starts crying out that she misses her mom and she wants her mom to hold her. I tell her that she is in luck because her mom will be coming in a few minutes and she will give her a big hug. Still crying, she looks me in the eye, and very clearly, like she is explaining something to a one or two year old says: “I know but I want her to hold me right now,” and then starts crying even harder. I rubbed her back and told her I knew how hard it was to miss your mom and then I told her that when she saw her mom she could tell her about all the fun things she had done. She looked up at me hopelessly, so clearly thinking: “you just don’t get it.”

She was really suffering. She wasn’t scared that her mom had forgotten her, or that she wouldn’t show up. She was just expressing with absolutely no shame at all, how much it hurt her that she couldn’t have what she wanted most at that moment. It was heartbreaking, but also so beautiful. She hasn’t yet learned to hide her feelings because they don’t make sense to other people.

I picked up a book and started reading it to her. Still whimpering, she climbed in my lap and listened. I had just about finished the book when her mom showed up. At the sound of her mom’s voice, a huge smile broke out across the girls face. She jumped out of my lap, sprinted towards her mother, and leapt up into her arms. Her mom asked her if she had fun and she said “yes, but I was very sad because I needed you to hold me and you weren’t here. Then she sighed and said “I’m better now, but I’m still a little sad.”

Here is the sculpture she made:

The Overflow

It happened just as we were walking into the main room to sit down for lunch. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed one of the girls fascinated by something on the floor. She was poking it and squishing it in her fingers. I asked her what it was and she said, “Chicken poop.” I told her it looked a little bit too big to be chicken poop. Then she said “Oh, then it’s kid poop.” It sure was.

I picked her up fast and washed her hands before she could stick her fingers in her mouth. As I was washing her hands for the third time, she told me whose poop she thought it was and then she said “its okay. He’s like me. I poop too.” Inspired by her inclusive and non-judgmental attitude I said, “that’s right, everyone poops. I poop too.” “But do you poop on the floor?” she asked. No. I guess I don’t.

After she was clean, I decided to go check on the possible culprit. I asked him if he had poop in his diaper. He said he did. He seemed pretty indifferent about it. I took this as a good sign. If he didn’t care, then maybe it wasn’t that bad. I was wrong.

There was so much poop in that diaper that for a moment I just stood there staring at it. I finally snapped out of it, and began to change my first diaper ever. I didn’t really know what I was doing. I mean, I get it in theory – take off the dirty diaper, clean the kid off, put on a clean diaper. Its just that there are some in between steps that are not explained in that theory. I had seen regular pee diapers changed on the changing table, but this was a whole different story. I’m not even sure where I went wrong. I think it might have been how I grabbed the diaper. I underestimated its weight and it kind of flopped the other way. Poop fell all over the place. Luckily the kid is awesome, and he was in a really good mood. He was smiling at me and saying poop a lot. I cant imagine what it would have been like if he were crying.

I finally cleaned everything up and we made it to lunch. To my surprise, I had not lost my appetite. In fact, I was starving. Apparently so was the boy. He made his way through three bowls of rice and peas. I looked up at the clock and smiled. I only had five more minutes of work. He could eat as much as he wanted. The next diaper he filled would be for someone else.

Elementary Letter

Dear Julie,

Mrs. Sherman is making us all write you letters because you moved to Kenya. I can’t believe you are IN Kenya! Did a giraffe really lick your face? That is what Caroline told everyone. I wish you were still at school but don’t ever come back. Jessica B. told everyone you got your period and now everyone is laughing at you. Even me. I know I will get mine too but not yet! Justin said it was because you had a big booty that you got yours so early. Is that true? I am sorry for making fun of you but you wouldn’t want to come back anyway because the classes are a lot harder this year and you know you are not very good at school. Don’t be sad if you don’t have any friends. I will still be your friend even though you moved to Kenya. I will write to you even though I don’t have to. If you want to be my pen pal then write me back!

Your friend, Olive

That Nasty Brew

We are living in an age where it is possible to clone human beings and regrow hands with magic science powder. We are obviously living in the future. So how is it possible that cough syrup tastes just as awful as it did when I was a kid? It makes me gag. It makes me shiver. It makes one of my eyes close. It tastes like alcohol and sugar and rubber and gasoline. I would rather be sick for a few days than swallow a spoonful of NyQuil.  I would rather have a sore throat and a cough. I would rather suffer in silence and complain out loud than drink that nasty brew.

Rodrigo however, does not agree. He stares at me as I argue and whine and present really well thought out arguments as to why I don’t need the medicine. He stands next to me patiently, cough syrup in one hand, spoon in the other, as I lie right to his face and promise to take it later. He smiles at me and pours the syrup. I threaten him. I look at him through squinty eyes and a wrinkled brow. I tell him the only reason I am taking it is for him. He hands me the spoon. I take the medicine.

I gag and I shiver and my eye closes a little bit. I run to the kitchen and stuff my mouth with blueberries and cheese and I drink Gatorade. Everything tastes like cough syrup. I glare at Rodrigo and tell him he just likes to see me suffer. “How does your throat feel now?” he asks.

Dammit! It feels better.

Seriously?

Let me just start off by saying that I am loving art history this semester. We are studying so many of my favorites that it is overwhelming. Monet, Rodin, Degas, Cezanne, Van Gogh to name a few so far. I also like my teacher. She is fair and passionate about art and slightly hard of hearing. It makes things fun. My only problem is that my class is from 5:30-8:20pm. It is my last class of the day, a day full of classes that begin at 8am. By the time I am sitting in my usual front row seat I am so tired that everything is funny. Things that would normally make me smile to myself give me uncontrollable giggles.

Take today for example. We were looking at a painting by Winslow Homer called “The Lifeline.”  It is a painting of a man holding a woman he has just rescued from a sinking ship in treacherous waters. There are crashing waves all around and one very big, very white splash behind them. The guy sitting next to me asked, “what is the light source for that big white area of the painting?” My teacher “what big white area?” The guy points to the painting and says “the big white area.” My teacher, “show me” (handing him the laser pointer). The guy “seriously?” Now this may not seem funny to you, but it almost had me in tears. They were both just so sincere in their desire to communicate and it was just so not happening that I couldn’t control myself. Its interesting, I am always too tired to be there, and I always leave class in a good mood.

Disposable Daughter

We got to Napa around 3pm with an idea of what we wanted to do, but with no real plan. We drove to the hotel we stayed in last time only to find out that they had raised their room price by about $200 and they were fully booked for the night. The snob behind the counter told us that most hotels were booked for the weekend. He said “good luck,” but he meant “you’re fucked.” We decided that we would eat something first and worry about getting a room later. We tried all the restaurants, but they weren’t serving food until 5. The only other option for food was the bars. As we were walking towards them, we remembered that our friend Chloe is not yet 21. I had just gotten my new driver’s license and I still had my old one as well, so I gave it to her in hopes that no one would ask for it. We ended up in a bar called the Bounty Hunter whose main attraction is its beer chicken. The waiter explained to us how it was cooked – an entire chicken impaled on an open can of beer – and then served on a platter. It actually looks delicious. We ordered our food and a few glasses of wine. The waiter then asked us for our I.D.s. Rodrigo showed his first and then Chloe and I handed ours over at the same time. Holding a California license belonging to Charlotte Dean in each of his hands, he looked at them, read the birthday out loud on each and then handed them back to us saying he would be right back with out order. We all just sat there and stared after him. He was a nice guy, but he wasn’t just being cool and doing us a favor. He really didn’t see it. Our meal was great and we ended up finding a hotel room soon after for a pretty reasonable price. We walked to a winery and did some tasting. It wasn’t until after our last sample of wine that Rodrigo explained to us that we weren’t supposed to drink all of the wine they gave us, we were just supposed to taste it. So, we had a really nice buzz. The air outside was perfect. It was warm and breezy and we had a great time walking around the town laughing.

The next day we decided to try and make it all the way to Florence, Oregon to visit Chloe’s mom. This meant a full day of driving. We left Napa around noon after a delicious meal at a small Mexican restaurant. I could tell the food was going to be great because all of the hand written signs in the window were misspelled. These people weren’t wasting time with grammar. They were cooking. Rodrigo and I took turns driving three hour shifts. We stopped for food with the idea of getting something healthy. We ended up doing an all you can eat lunch buffet. I ate pretty well. Rodrigo got fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and cornbread. Twice. We kept driving. We found out that the three of us have a special gift when it comes to Mad Libs, coining phrases such as “disposable daughter,” “slippery mother,” and “barfy blonde.” We laughed and slept and drove and got peaches on the side of the road. We kept driving. Around midnight we stopped at a Wendy’s to pee. Rodrigo ended up ordering a chicken sandwich from a very strange looking cashier. He looked more like a drawing than a real person. He was really tall and thin and looked like Adrian Brody mixed with something Shel Silverstein would invent. Rodrigo looked at him for a minute and asked him: “Have you ever heard of Shel Silverstein?” The guy replied: “What’s that, a gas station?” Wow. Talk about making my day.

Long Walks on the Beach

 

Why does everyone on dating sites say they like taking long walks on the beach? I don’t. I don’t think I even know anyone who does. It’s hard to walk on sand. Every time I do it, my calves hurt, I sweat, and I start breathing like a stalker. I can’t imagine that being a pleasant first date with someone. Yet universally, it seems to be that “a romantic dinner followed by a long walk on the beach holding hands” is the ideal first date people describe. I think it’s a lie. I think that it is probably the best answer to a seriously messed up multiple choice question like:

Describe your ideal first date:

A. A romantic dinner followed by clubbing seals.

B. A romantic dinner followed by watching a 12 hour marathon of Toddlers and Tiaras.

C. A romantic dinner followed by a long walk on the beach holding hands.

D. A romantic dinner followed by a 6 mile run.

I’d still probably rather watch Toddlers and Tiaras than walk on the beach. I guess I’m just not outdoorsy.

Sweaty Singles

I have always secretly wanted to be someone important. Not like the president or someone who makes a sex tape. Important like a person who lives close to a stadium and gets to charge people to park on their lawn. That was the best part of going to Dodgers games with my dad as a kid- parking on someone’s lawn. Oh how I envied and admired those families, sitting on their porches, promising to watch our car and at the same time looking like they were going to beat us up. The dad or drunk uncle would stand in the yard in his dirty tank top with a handful of cash smiling a near toothless smile and squinting into the sun. Unfortunately that was never in the cards for me. I never got to walk around in my bikini and heels as a ring girl in a boxing match. I never worked security at the airport, “randomly” selecting people to wave my beepy wand on. I never even got to wax a hairy back and complain about it. The closest I’ve ever gotten to that level of importance was working at Popeye’s behind bulletproof glass. I collected sweaty singles from strippers and counted hundreds of pennies from angry old ladies. Every day I worked there, at least one customer swore they would never return, but they always did because it was open 24 hours. One day, a woman threw her chicken at my face, but it hit the bulletproof glass in front of me instead and slowly slid down to the floor. Then she said “now look what you make me do bitch,” and walked out. That day I felt really important.

Every Day is Different

Everywhere I went today, I ended up behind a farter. It happened twice this morning in the grocery store. There was a farter by the ready made sushi, and different one ahead of me in line at the checkout stand. I knew it wasn’t me because I kept smelling myself and I did not smell like farts and I wasn’t farting. Also, the two smells were different. Then, this afternoon at the airport, I was surrounded by farters. I think the woman who checked my bag was farting. I made constant eye contact, searching for a trace of guilt but there was none. Now that I am on the airplane, I am behind another farter. He has been farting almost non-stop for two hours and fourteen minutes. All through the in flight meal as well. I ate a peppered ham and cheeze croisant with a touch of fart. I could even taste it in my coffee. Now, I know what you must be thinking. Is it just me? Do I have ass breath? Have I recently eaten ass? The answer is no I have not. I just have bad luck today. Tomorrow will be better. I just have to make it through the cab ride home.