Dr. Kermit and the Root Canal

So apparently I've been grinding my teeth while I sleep.  Which I didn’t realize I did, until it earned me a cracked tooth.

But not just any run of the mill cracked tooth.  No, mine is severe.  The cracks in my tooth resemble a Southern California fault map, at least according to my dentist.  When she showed me the x-ray, I had no choice but to agree.  And that of course, immediately set off an alarm in my head, because I thought there can be no easy fix for this.

Turns out, alarm in head = justified.

My dentist gave me the horrible news: root canal.  At the sound of those two words, my stomach did a flip-flop and I got real teary.  And then my dentist reacted to me reacting, and she got a bit teary.  And then in hopes of making me feel better, she revealed that she hates going to the gynecologist for 'that exam down there’.

*Sigh* that’s SO not the same.

Let me give you some history on my teeth.  When I was about six, I had a bastard of a dentist give me a shot of Novocain prior to a filling.  But the amount of Novocain he gave me wasn’t enough, and I could feel him drilling and thus, LIKE ANY NORMAL HUMAN, I tried to pull away from him.  This made him mad.  And instead of asking me if I was feeling pain, he decided to slap me hard, right across the face.  Then he decided to ask me if I was wiggling because I was feeling pain.  Then he proceeded to give me enough Novocain to numb-up an elephant. 

Hence, my tremendous fear of dentistry was born and it continued to grow and flourish after a couple of other bad dentistry experiences. 

Suffice to say, these combined dental experiences resulted in my almost obsessive care of my teeth.  Since I was teen, it has been my daily practice to brush my teeth four/five times, floss, and go to bed after swishing around a healthy shot of Listerine. This regimen has kept my teeth sparkly clean, my cavities to a bare minimum, and resulted in the unintended effect of providing mini-on-the-spot-orgasms to every dentist and hygienist who peers into my mouth for the first time.

So you see, it’s a major pisser that I cracked my tooth.

Knowing my complete fear of dentistry, my dentist recommended an endodontist to perform the root canal.  His first name was Kermit.  This was unfortunate, as I had misgivings about letting a guy named after a green frog with a questionable relationship with a pig, work on my teeth.  Then she told me Dr. Kermit can give me nitrous oxide to ease my discomfort. Hmmmm…this little tidbit made the situation seem more tolerable.

So off to Dr. Kermit I went.  My husband, who knows my freakish fear of the dentist, gallantly accompanied me. What follows is a recount of what happened at my appointment.  Please note, I can take no responsibility….

As we walked into the lobby of his small building, the first thing that hit me was the awful dentist office smell (I think it's a combination of medicine, cleaning fluid, and fear).  This made me queasy, so I turned to walk right back outside, but my hubby, who knows me well, is ready for this reaction and grabs me by the shoulders to redirect me back to Kermie’s door.

Kermie’s receptionist had me fill out one of the typical forms you get at a physician’s office: name, address, insurance, medical conditions, blah, blah, blah…..except this form had something I have never seen before.  On the bottom of the back page is a series of cartoon faces with different captions meant to represent the cartoon guy’s mood.  Kermie’s office wants me to indicate my mood by circling the cartoon face most accurately portraying what I’m feeling…..

So naturally I circled FRIGHTENED and ANXIOUS.  But that didn’t seem quite right.

So, I decided to add a new one….

After filling out the form, the nurse took me back to the patient room, which is quite spacious and ironically, had a glass paned door that leads to the outside.  I filed this information in the back of my mind for potential use later.  Then the nurse grabbed a dental bib and asked me to sit. 

France (F): Uh, I have to pee.  Do you have a bathroom here so I can go pee before we start?  Because I don't want to have to stop during the procedure to pee.

Nurse (N): Sure, it’s down the hallway leading to the waiting room on the right.

F: ‘K, thanks, I'll be right back.  After I pee.

(I don't know why, but I felt the word pee was the only thing I had in my arsenal to use against this nurse).

So off to the bathroom I went, not to pee, but to hideout.  I was in there for probably three minutes (which actually wasn’t that unpleasant, since Kermie’s bathroom was spacious, clean, serenely decorated, and smelled vaguely of Febreeze.)  When I heard footsteps walking up to the bathroom door and pause, I turned on the water. I waited another minute and decided to give up my futile attempt and go back to my assigned room.  Only the nurse was not there, which was completely unexpected.  So I decided to take that opportunity and to sneak out to the patient waiting room, which was empty (my hubby ran back home to get something).  To the right of the door in the waiting room, against a short back wall, was an oak bookshelf.  Between the bookshelf and the door, was a wall that jutted out about two feet and created a nook. And this is where I decided to tuck myself into.  About a minute later, I heard this:

N: (talking behind the waiting room door to the receptionist) Did you see where she went?  Where did my patient go?

The nurse opens the waiting room door and pokes her head out. She couldn't see me hiding in the nook.

N: France?

I don’t reply.

N: France?

I still don’t reply (by the way, this not replying thing is a great technique I learned from my hubby after being married a few years). Then the nurse walked out into the waiting room, turned, and saw me standing in the nook.

N: France?  What are you doing? 

No reply, instead I look down at my feet.

N: Come on, we are ready for you.  It’s time to go back.

Damn.

She followed me to the waiting room and firmly ensconced me in the chair, then she surprised me by walking over to the glass door in the room that led outside and ensured it was locked.  Dang....she’s on to me.

Kermie came in, all masked up and ready to start.

K: You wanted the gas, right?

F: Yes.

K: Okay, I’m going to swab the side of your mouth, start the gas, and then give you a couple of shots, which will be the worst part (That? I so know THAT is a to-tal f*ckin lie).

F: Umm.  Do you mind if I put in my headphones?  I can leave off one ear if you need to talk to me, but I plan on turning up the music really loud.

K: No problem, you can put them both in. Ready? Here we go.

He turned on the gas and I proceeded to inhale with deep slow breaths.  Meanwhile, I’ve cranked the volume on my MP3 to thirty and Eminem is now screaming in my ears, beckoning the real Shady to please stand up. After a few hits of gas, I’m starting to realize, HEY I’m the real Slim Shady…. I need to stand up….I need to PUHL-EASE stand up, as I’m SO down with standing up....which I was, until Kermie unexpectedly pierced my bravado with a muffled question.

K:  How are you feeling?

I giggled. That’s the funniest thing Kermie said to me the entire time and I give him a tentative thumbs-up.

First Novocain shot: tolerable.  Second shot: also tolerable, but I think only because they turned up the gas.

And after such a promising start, things immediately started to go downhill.  Because I’m pretty sure after they thought I was good and buzzed, they pried my mouth open with a couple of crowbars.  Then the drilling started.  Then the nurse with the evil suction tube tried to use it to steal my tongue.  Then Kermie began prospecting for gold in mouth.  And that’s when I started wiggling and moaning and kicking up my legs.

K: Are you in pain?

F: Ghaaa?

I pulled out my earplug.

K: Are you in pain?

F: Aaaah eeenn eennaaal aaaaanne

I didn’t think he understood, so I pointed to my forehead.

K: You have a headache?

NOOO asshole, I don’t have a headache.  You asked me if I was in pain and I pointed to my head to indicate I’M IN MENTAL PAIN.

See regrettably, sometime around when Kermie started poking around in my tooth, my right side brain decided to take over and it refused to let my left side brain enjoy the nitrous oxide haze.  It commandeered my thoughts and began conjuring up all sorts of images of what exactly, was taking place in my mouth.  And it was not pleasant. 

About 10 minutes later, Kermie finished up, much to my relief.  The gas was turned down and whatever buzz I had slowly ebbed out of my system.  I was left sitting in the chair feeling a bit, well, orally soiled.

The nurse walked back and said Kermie needed to talk to me.  Taking wobbly baby steps to the receptionist area, I found Kermie, my hubby, and three prescriptions waiting for me.  Then Kermie dropped the bomb.

 K: You have to come back, can you come on Friday?

F: Whaaaf? (I’m still numb from the Novocain)

K: Unfortunately, it didn’t go as well as I had hoped.  Here’s a prescription for an antibiotic, Vicodin, and a 10mg dose of Valium.   I want you to take the Valium 45 minutes prior to your appointment.  I think it will help you.

Huh?  It’s not done? I have to come BACK?

My hub rubbed my back.  To be honest, we're both a bit surprised I was given a prescription for the highest of dose of Valium available, nary a request.   Kermie must think I am a bad case. Or a head case.

Later that evening, my hubby asked what happened during the procedure, so I explained the entire sordid tale.  After shaking his head at my pitiful attempts at root canal avoidance, he rendered his opinion:

H: You couldn’t relax because you had the wrong music playing.

F:  What do you mean?

H: Who listens to Eminem during a root canal?  You needed something soothing.

F: Soothing?

H:  Yeah soothing. Something that would have helped you relax. Something like, say, Enya.

F: ENYA?  

WTF?

Maybe this man doesn’t know me as well as I thought.  Because Enya? Yeah, doesn't he know? I’d rather have a root canal before I’d freakin' listen to Enya!!

Starbucks

I have really tried to be one of those cool Starbucks people.  You know the kind, they can go to any Starbucks, order their coffee without trying, then sit with their computers or books or friends and, well, function.

But not me.  I’ve tried to function at a Starbucks, but can’t.  It starts the minute I walk in the door.

First I have to scout for a place to sit.  It can’t be too close to the door otherwise I will catch a draft.  It can’t be too close to a window otherwise I will be looking outside to see if something better is happening.  And it can’t be too close to the bathroom either, because 1) it could potentially smell bad and 2) I would wonder what people are up to if they have been in there a bit too long.  The best spot is in the middle of the store, but not too close to the counter.

Once I find my spot, I put down my stuff (after I cover anything valuable with my coat before I go to the counter, in case you know, another patron has “sticky fingers”).  Then it’s time to order my coffee.  Now I’m a small, medium, and large kind of gal, but Starbucks doesn’t offer those sizes.  Instead the choices are short, tall, grande, venti, and soon, trenta.  Which I guess is equal to small, medium, large, extra large, and jumbo but in a fancier, half Italian, half American kind of way. 

Regardless, I need to check the menu before I can order my coffee from the girl at the counter (who I happen to call a cashier, but who Starbucks calls a Barista.  I thought a Barista was the person who makes the coffee, not rings it up.  Now I don’t know about you, but it has been my Starbucks experience that the person taking my money at register is not the one who is actually making my fancy coffee, especially in the morning.  This job title situation is very confusing to me.  So to get clarification, I checked the Starbucks career website and found only two types of retail career options listed: Baristas, who are the ‘face’ of Starbucks, and Shift Supervisors, who are ‘expert Baristas’.  Which makes me wonder, if you are a Barista, do you feel a little bad because Starbucks obviously considers you as ‘average’ vs. 'expert'? And how long does it take one to go from being an average Barista, to being a Starbucks ‘expert’?  Is there special Barista training that is required to become a Shift Supervisor? And let’s be honest here, the term Shift Supervisor doesn’t sound nearly as exotic as a Barista, even though it is an expert Barista.  In fact, since Starbucks is quite liberal with injecting Italian words into their vernacular, why not call the shift supervisor Esperto Barista, which in Italian, translates to Expert Coffee Maker?  That sounds so much sexier; if I were a Starbucks shift supervisor, I would lobby upper management for that title change, because think of how cool it would be to tell people you were an Esperto Barista, especially if you have the ability to roll your R’s.  Nonetheless, the Starbucks website description didn’t clear up my original confusion of why the counter person is called a Barista even though I usually don’t see them ever make the coffee.)

Back to my coffee order.  There is so much to read on the menu and I can tell the lady behind me is anxious for me to give the cashier? Barista? whatever she is, my order.  So I order what I know I want, which is a medium coffee.  But evidently medium coffee is the only option not on the Starbucks menu, because the cashier? Barista? needs clarification and bombards me with a bunch of probing questions:

“Does that mean you want a brewed coffee, a chocolate beverage, an espresso beverage, a frappucino blend, or would you like to try one of the featured offerings such as our Caramel Brulee Latte, ma’am”?

This is a lot of questions to ask of someone who, at the moment, needs an infusion of caffeine in her system in order to function properly.  So I falter, as my brain is stymied by all the choices.  I scan the menu again and blurt out,  “I, I…I think I want brewed.”

“Ok, would you like Regular Pike, Decaf Pike, Clover Brewed, Bold Pick of the day, or Coffee Mistro?” asks the cashier? Bartista?

Holy moly, that’s a lot of choices to think through.  The wheels in my head are turning so fast, I think there could be smoke coming out of my nostrils.  Plus I gotta figure out what I want and fast, ‘cuz I can tell the lady standing behind me is about ready to have a bovine birth right in front of the Ethos water display.

I decide to commit to Pike, but only because its name makes me think of Pikes Peak, a mountain I saw when I was in Colorado Springs, which naturally reminds me of mountains, which I believe is where coffee beans are grown, at least according to a Folgers commercial I saw, and of course Folgers = regular plain coffee.  Remembering I need to choose a size, I throw out tall, because tall sounds like more coffee than short.  When the cashier? Barista? asks me if I would like a baked item to go with my tall Pike, I hesitate and decide to pass on getting food, since that would take me another minute to figure out and a glance behind me reveals the impatient lady is now gripping her sienna handled travel Starbucks mug like a tonfa and is set to strike me with a karate death blow she recently learned at the North Shore Martial Arts Academy.

I get my tall Pike (which is so bloody bitter by the way, that I have to dump a quarter of it in the garbage and fill the rest of my cup with cream, milk, and a handful of Splendas) and can finally sit at my pre-secured table and proceed to the business of being a ‘cool Starbucks customer’.   I pull out my book and within 30 seconds my concentration is already wavering, because off to my left I catch a glimpse of shelves stocked with cool looking coffee mugs that are screaming for me to go over and buy, so they can sit in my cabinet and collect dust with the other 26 colorful mugs I had to own, but never use.

I will myself to back to my book.  This time I’m able to keep my focus for a full minute until my eye spies an indigenous Sasquatch walking through the door.  I fumble for my phone, ready to finally document the elusive creature, until a closer look reveals that it is actually a lady covered in a long shaggy patched fur coat, possibly made from road kill.  Her head is topped off with a raccoon hat and her feet are encased in furry pom-pom boots.  I try hard not to stare, but damn, she’s sportin' some of the fugliest outerwear I have ever seen in my life and I can’t help but wonder if she a direct descendant of a Canadian mountain man clan.

I close my eyes to try and get my focus back, but then become aware of the cacophony of sounds, which up to this point, have escaped me.  Today’s Starbucks concerto begins with an uneven blend of people talking and coffee grinding, crescendos with a meld of Starbucks art house music and children screaming, and ends with a series of audible farts, which I am guessing, eeked out of the old guy who just shuffled past my table.

*Sigh*

The convergence of distractions at Starbuck is insurmountable, because no matter how much I try, I seem to have the attention span of a gnat.  In fact, I am beginning to believe even Helen Keller would be distracted trying to sit here.  Frustrated, I throw away my coffee, collect my things, and leave.    

However all was not totally lost, as my attraction to sparkly mugs helped lead me down my personal crooked path to Starbuck coolness.  You see, clever girl that I am, before I left, I decided to purchase a ceramic Starbuck travel mug that looks just like a real Starbucks paper cup!  I then drove myself over to the Dunkin Donuts, where multilingual skills are not necessary to order and I can purchase a Boston Crème donut.  And although my medium coffee came in a tacky Styrofoam cup lettered with a font remnant of 1973, it didn’t matter, because I poured it right into my bright, shiny Starbucks mug!!  Tooling around town, I made sure my Dunkin Donuts coffee was prominently displayed in my Starbucks mug, for all to see.

And finally, I am Starbucks cool.  Well, almost. 

Silent Birth and FU Haiku Rant Updates: A Rare Mid-week Post

Silent Birth Update

First off, if you haven’t read my Silent Birth Rant, please do so to understand the meaning of my update.  http://francerants.blogspot.com/2010/12/silent-birth-rant.html

So Kelly Preston went on the Today show and explained the Scientology Silent Birth method, which:

 “……….is basically………just no words as much as possible……….it’s just bringing them in, in as peaceful and gentle a way of possible.  My kids have always been amazing.  Just very calm, very peaceful, happy and I absolutely know it’s very much because of that.”

Well I guess that explains some things, as during my births, I wasn’t quiet.  When I wasn’t in pain I was cracking off color jokes, and when I was in pain, I cursed. A lot.   My mild mannered Jimmy Stewart lookalike OB had a tendency to blanch at my unique way of stringing together profanities to describe my state of physical discomfort. (He also pretended not to notice when I yelled at a dumbass student nurse who decided to plop herself down on my bed, during MY labor, because her feet hurt.   I suspect he was also the reason she was subsequently banned from the delivery room, after he pretended not to notice that I grabbed an electric probe from a very nearby piece of equipment and threatened to stick it up the student's female parts to, you know, help distract her from her foot pain.)

Needless to say my children aren’t exactly calm and peaceful (although they are kind, boisterous, and happy).  If I had to do it over, no way would or could, I do silent birth.  If you haven’t figured it out yet, I am somewhat of a, uh….expressive person who doesn’t bottle up her feelings.

FU Haiku

Per my FU haiku, you learned I hate Illinois winters.  And to prove to you just how miserable Illinois winters are, I have posted a couple of very recent pictures of my cat, who is also unhappy with the current frigid temperatures we are experiencing.

In the first picture, she is cuddling up to a portable electric heater.  I kept chasing her away to no avail.  I finally had to unplug the heater when I smelled burnt kitty fur.  Notice the doleful look she is giving me?

The next picture is her second attempt at securing an additional heat source once she realized the portable heater wasn’t working.  This time she was trying to wedge herself under the sofa to where a heating vent is located.   Unfortunately, her ample kitty booty prevents her from completing her mission and this is my view when I look straight down (although this awkward position did provide an excellent opportunity for me to indulge in some friendly kitty torture, as I relentlessly poked her exposed parts, encouraging what I call “kitty squirms”).

See next you Monday, when I plan to rant about my recent Starbucks experience.

FU HAIKU

Much to the displeasure of my family, last week I toiled around in what can only be described as a Supreme Pissy Mood (think SPM instead of PMS).  My usual solutions, wine, cosmos, chocolate, more wine, more cosmos, then some aspirin, didn’t seem to help.  The source of my pissiness: the State of Illinois.

Yes. You read that correctly. The State of Frickin’ Illinois.

If you live in Illinois, you can probably guess what is causing my disgust.  For you lucky folks who don’t, there’s two simple words, no wait, make that six simple words, which can describe my displeasure: increased state taxes, shitty weather, and Oprah.   I feel a true rant coming on…….

Let’s start with the increased Illinois state taxes, shall we?

For those of you with limited knowledge of our state, Illinois is the epitome of politician corruption.   Since the 1970’s, three, THREE! of our governors have served jail time due to their affinity for breaking the law.  Their convictions include: bribery, tax evasion, bank fraud, misapplication of funds, perjury, steering state contracts and leases, and covering up bribes.  And this doesn’t even take into consideration our last ex-governor, the impeached and hairstyle impaired Rod Blagojevich, who in August of 2010, was convicted on one federal corruption felony count and is awaiting retrial on 23 counts.  All in all, that’s a whole heck of a lot of gubernatorial shenanigans for one state. (By the way, ever notice how you can hear goober, in the word gubernatorial?)

Our latest conundrum: Illinois is on the brink of financial ruin, as state politicians haven’t been able to work within the defined state budget (surprise, surprise).  And just like the Grinch who stole presents from sleeping Whos during the night, our elected officials recently voted to increase our taxes in the wee hours of the morning.  So last Tuesday, Illinoisans awoke to find their personal state income taxes were to be raised by 66%.  New Goobernor Grinch, er, Goobernor Quinn, explained the increase will only last four years and then state income taxes will go back down.  Gee, I guess I can believe that.  If I was total naïve, brainless, idiot, asstwit.

But enough of that, as I have already moved on to my next Illinois aggravation after peeking out the window.  It is time to rant about the sucky Illinois winter weather, which, what a co-inky-dink! also hit full force last week too.

Let me describe my take on an Illinois winter:  It’s gray, cold, gray, snowy, gray, cold, gray, gray, snowy, gray, cold, snowy, gray and gray.  Did I mention gray?  Like the elusive Punxsutawney Phil, the sun in Illinois emerges from the clouds for 5 seconds, approximately every sixth day, and then disappears back behind a perpetual gray shroud.  This goes on for roughly 36 weeks.  On those rare days when we are lucky enough to have the sun shine for 2 hours, you can bet the temp outdoors is 24 degrees below zero and your nostrils are trying to stick together from frozen snot when you’re inside. 

As for the snow, it goes something like this: it snows, you shovel the drive, salt the sidewalk, then the plow dumps a bunch of snow at end of the drive, you re-shovel end of drive, everything all clean; oops 3 hours later it snows again, repeat shovel your drive, salt the sidewalk, re-shovel end of drive, everything’s clean; shit it snows again, shovel the drive, skip salting the sidewalk, flip the snowplow guy the bird; and then mother f’er more snow!, look out the window, decide to wait for it to all melt in April, and watch while the snowplow runs over and kills your mailbox.

So to those peeps that keep telling me I should try to embrace the winter (ahem, hubby), well, you can Go. Suck. It.

Which leads me to the last thing on my Illinois aggravation list: Oprah.  As in Winfrey.  Which? I guess technically for most, Oprah is considered more Chicago than Illinois, but since Chicago is in Illinois, it fits the criteria for me.  And since I’m in such a foul mood what with the taxes and the snow, plus I just happened to see an Oprah ad, well, I’m off…

Suffice to say, I may be the only female in the entire United States (possibly the planet and universe) who does not swoon over Oprah.  In fact, I think her ego has increased exponentially with the size of her ass (no offense meant to big-assed people).  This woman has a successful TV show, a monthly magazine, her OWN network, and one hundred bajillion dollars.  But that must not be enough for Ms. Winfrey, because in a June 2010 interview with Fox News Chicago, her longtime beau Stedman Graham dropped these little nuggets:

 “I don’t think they (people in Chicago) understand the value of who she is as a human being and what she’s done...because a prophet has no honor in its home town.”

“From an insider’s point of view, I don’t think she gets the just due based on who she really is and what’s she done for the Chicagoland area...she’s brought a lot of international attention to Chicago.”

“I really don’t think she’s that appreciated. I think they take her for granted a lot...It's natural for people to take it for granted until you leave."

Oprah’s a prophet?  Oh boy.  Let’s see, I remember the Book of Genesis, the Book of John, the Book of Job.  Uh, was there a Book of Oprah?   Holy shit, I missed that!  Maybe that’s because I am not in the Oprah Book Club.     

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t begrudge her success.  But um, folks, she’s just a celebrity personality.  And you know damn well that Oprah must have put Stedman up to saying that stuff to the reporters, because if she said it, she would have come off as a total wanker.  AND I for one beg to differ with the OpSted analysis.  I was there and watched Oprah when she started with her new local morning show, AM Chicago.  She wasn’t that slick, but back then she had heart and her local Chicagoland audience was loyal and supportive and gave her space to morph into the TV star she became.  It was a collaborative relationship that benefitted both and I’m not sure she would have had that opportunity in LA or NY.  But hey, that’s just my humble opinion.  So to remedy what OpSted feels is a complete lack of general Chicago Oprah-appreciation, I guess we Illinois minions have two options: 1) Rename the city of Chicago to OPRAHville or 2) Nominate Oprah as the official saint of Chicago and hell, even Illinois.   
  

See?

I told you I was in a supreme pissy mood.  And throughout the years, I have found there is only one way to truly fix my SPM.  Using the gentle Japanese form of self-expression, I must write a haiku that reflects on the source of my frustration and cleanse the angst out of my system.  After several attempts, I found this one did the trick:

FU Illinois Haiku

Illinois I’m mad

UGH taxes, winter, Oprah

Pass me a fork now

Carolee Bildsten’s Unique Weapon

Carolee Bildsten has had a couple of rough months. 

One minute Carolee, a 56 year old registered dietician with the American Diabetes Association, was rhapsodizing about the safety of eating moldy food in newsletters (i.e. The Clinton Holistic and Health Advisory Ministry of Clinton AME Zion Church for the likes of Rev. William M. White, Jr.) and the next, she was a weaponry renegade, deviating from the criminal norm and using malleable-like ammunition on an adept police officer.

Confused?  Let me recount Carolee’s fascinating woes with facts, plus some personal speculation, that I have pieced together from various local news sources. 

Carolee first displayed a potential lack of judgment on November 9, 2010, when she decided to dine at Joe’s Crab Shack.  But her second real misstep was skipping out on the check.  Unfortunately for Carolee, Joe's Crab Shack management was ready for this potential scenario, as she had recently pulled this stunt there before.  As such, they immediately contacted the local police.  (Which?  I wonder if Corporate Joe’s honored the genius manager who recognized Carolee as someone who previously skipped out on a check, yet seated her again anyway, with a Joe’s Crab Shack Employee of The Month Award for Best Customer Service of the Worst Customer Possible.)

The police responded soon after and found an intoxicated Carolee passed out on the grass, right down the street from the restaurant. (Intoxicated?  Hmmmm, perhaps just like me when forced to dine at Joe’s, Carolee realized she needed a strong dose of liquid courage to aid in the palatability of a Ragin’ Cajun steampot.)  Carolee went on to explain to the officer that her money was at home and she would be happy to pay her bill, if only she could go fetch it.  Apparently drunken Carolee is much the smooth talker, as the officer agreed to this line of reasoning. At this point, I think we all need to take a moment and applaud Carolee for her impressive moxie.  

Together, Carolee and the responding police officer found their way to her apartment.  Once there, Carolee walked into her bedroom where she claimed her money was stored, opened her dresser drawer, and pulled out a “clear, rigid feminine pleasure device”.  And no, I’m not referring to her Visa.  It was a sex toy. According to the police report, she then held the ‘device’ over her head and approached the officer in a ‘threatening manner’ (Pause with me a second here.  If being threatened with a sex toy, what is the worst thing you could imagine happening to you?  Getting tickled?  Poked in the eye? Thumped on the head? Or having it jammed in your ear?)

Fortunately the officer sensed the imminent danger, and with deft precision, deflected the device in lieu of being struck.  (Which makes me wonder, does the police academy offer special training classes on sex toy defense?  I can visualize the class right now……“Listen up Cadets. Today we are talking about a serious danger to police officers everywhere, the dreaded sex toy weapon.  Now which of you bozos can answer this question, and think hard assholes, cause your life or your partner’s life might depend on it one day: when faced with a threatening sex toy are you gonna try to block or disarm it from the perp?  WEEEEELL"?)  

Back to the police officer, who chose the blocking tactic.  After successfully thwarting the attack, he placed Carolee under arrest and escorted her to the police department, where he undoubtedly succumbed to massive ridicule heaped upon him from his fellow officers. Carolee on the other hand, was released on a personal recognizance bond and issued a December 6th court date. 

December 6th rolls around, and wouldn’t you know, ole Carolee missed her court call.  This action provoked the honorable Judge Brian Hughes to issue a $75,000 warrant right before Christmas. The warrant was probably worded as such: Be on the lookout for a haggard Caucasian female, who may be trying to steal food, is probably intoxicated, possibly horny, and potentially wielding a uniquely shaped flexible plastic item as a weapon, even though it is totally meant for personal use.

As luck would have it, by December 29^th, Carolee AKA the sex toy fugitive, was apprehended and sitting in jail, unable to meet her $10,000 bond, and probably wishing she had gone to the Outback Steakhouse instead.  Her fate will be determined in the near future, as a new court date has been set.

And as if her current legal woes weren’t enough, Carolee must now endure the indignity of the dreaded unflattering mug shot photo, which a quick internet search shows, proves to be aplenty, as the feisty little Ms. Carolee has incurred past legal indiscretions.  Of the few I’ve seen, the picture where she is wearing a long sleeved t-shirt declaring she’s a “Sport Mom” was the most unexpected.  I guess her "Horny Mom” t-shirt was in the dirty laundry pile that day.

Meanwhile, according to the Chicago Tribune, while Carolee sat in jail (no doubt pondering her future and the wisdom of consuming seafood, moldy or otherwise), her lawyer, Neil Calanca, admonished the arresting police officer and claimed he “should be ashamed” for including the sex toy allegations in the police report, as he (Neil) would have been embarrassed to include such information.  Which I guess could imply that lying passed out drunk in the grass nearby a family restaurant after purposely not paying a restaurant food bill, is perfectly acceptable to Neil.  Or perhaps he was just grasping at straws, because what else is he supposed to say on behalf of such a nitwit of a client?  

After reading all this, curiosity got the best of me and I decided to take stock of my own armamentarium.  I ran upstairs to rifle through my dresser drawer to determine what I could use in a potential I-skipped-out-on-my-restaurant-bill-and-now-the-police-are-in-my-bedroom confrontation.  Compared to Carolee, I obviously lead a more insipid existence, because the best I could muster was a 1993 VHS tape of Homey The Clown skits compiled from various episodes of In Living Color, a pair of earrings I thought I lost, and an old lint brush.

Like other locals following this case, I am awaiting Carolee's new court date.  Given all the facts (and speculations) I have presented, I have some nagging questions about this case that I hope will be answered soon, namely:

• Was the pleasure device ever detained by the police as evidence?
• Will the device be taken in for forensic analysis to support police allegations?  
• Will Carolee.......ever get off?
• Will the Lake County penal system give Carolee......a stiff sentence?
• And finally……did Carolee ever get around to paying her damn food bill?

p.s. You didn’t really think I would adorn my logo with such obvious tackiness, did you?

2011 Resolution

I do not make resolutions for the new year because resolutions imply one must change something in order to achieve the intended resolve.   

Well, screw that. 

Experience has taught me to instead make a New Year To Do List.  Which I think is utterly brilliant, because how can I fail with type of list?  Procrastinate?  Yes.  Dawdling will most likely occur, which is why I prefer a NYTDL instead of a Resolution List.

Over the period of a couple of weeks, I thought hard about my NYTDL.  Since this list sets the tone and course of action throughout the year, I needed to ensure that any actionable items represented the perfect combination to balance my mental and physical well-being.  So after much deliberation, I now present to you my mish-mosh list, which I also entered in my new turquoise faux alligator embossed desk planner, cleverly labeled under the heading 2011 TO DO:

1. Quit smoking. (Actually, this should be relatively easy since I don’t smoke. And lest you think this To Do is gratuitous, then you must be unfamiliar with Stephen Covey’s third habit of highly successful people: Put First Things First ®.  Which I believe in this case translates to: lead the list with something I can cross off right away.)

2. Research why my pee smells funny after I eat asparagus, and if this occurrence is normal. (This phenomenon has been nagging at me for several years now.  Hopefully 2011 will yield some answers, because honesty? Asparagus has now reached a do or don’t point in my life.)

3. Stop using my pretend blow-up-fire-bomb button on my steering wheel (and while I'm at it, cease making the blow up sounds too) on bad drivers I encounter when my kids are in the car, as it could be signaling I am an  intolerant driver. (It should be noted that I am not an intolerant driver, rather I am bad-driver-sensitive.  Be assured that any bad driver that does get pretend-fire-bombed, most certainly deserves it.)

4. Eat four Dunkin Boston Crème Donuts in one sitting to establish if that magical number is my limit. (I have my reasons for this To Do, which I’m not sharing.  And while you may think this To Do is another ‘gimme’, it's worth mentioning that incredibly, this To Do may be difficult for me to achieve, because stupid Dunkin Donuts always seems to be out of Boston Cremes whenever I try to buy them.  Which begs the question, how can Dunkin Donuts run out of donuts?  Isn’t their entire business model predicated on selling freakin’ donuts?)

5. Call Avon to determine if I can use my nighttime recovery cream during the day. (Don’t roll your eyeballs at this, as there could be some special ingredient that is rendered inactive by daylight.  As you are probably aware, this type of thing happens to vampires all the time.  And the label on the bottle does clearly state to Use At Night.)

6. Lose the last 8 pounds of pregnancy weight I gained back in 2001. (And don’t EVEN roll your eyeballs at this either. I’ve been busy).

7. Consume more tofu.  (Although this one? Between you and me, I can tell you right now, is so not gonna happen.  I only put it down in case Glenn reads my NYTDL because he thinks Boston Crèmes are unhealthy.  And in case you’re wondering, no he doesn’t read my blog because I read it aloud to him and edit out the parts I don’t want him to know.)

8. Try to understand exactly what I am supposed to be doing on Twitter so I can graduate from being a twatter to being a tweeter. (I truly don’t comprehend how or why to use Twitter, even after reading the Help Center.  In fact, I’ve decided that when I twat? tweet? it feels just like when I’m talking to my family at home: no one is listening.  I guess the only difference is now I’m doing it in cyberspace and millions are ignoring me.)

9. Break up with vodka cosmos. (But only because they have acted with disrespect the day after.  Or perhaps it was my fault?  Nonetheless, I will mostly likely, definitely, absolutely hold off on completing this To Do until the latter part of the year.)

And that’s my list.  I sure hope I didn’t overdo it.