TICK-TOCK DENTAL CLEANING

Time to feed the parking meter.  I have a nine o'clock appointment that should take no more than forty-five minutes.  I am ten minutes early.  Usually I add way too much money, but do I dare risk just paying for an hour?  Two hours would be a total waste of money.  Ah, the hell with it.  I'll give myself ninety minutes.  Maybe I'll run an errand or get coffee afterward, and off I go with a few minutes to spare on my appointment and a whole lot of time to spare on my parking space.

Every six months, like clockwork, I haul my old teeth (what's left of 'em) to the dentist for a cleaning.  I never know what horror awaits me because I despise having bite-wing x-rays and I don't particularly enjoy sitting still for any length of time.  The good news is that my hygienist is used to this.  Over the years we've devised hilarious ways to get through the cleaning and x-ray process, and we always have a grand old time half-talking half-cleaning our way through the thirty or forty minutes we see each other twice a year.

The bad news is that I do not see my hygienist when I arrive.  Even worse, this new gal is running late.  Very late.  I can see her (after letting her patient out late) setting up for my cleaning at a pace that I would call "elderly."  Even a snail could move faster than this young woman.  While I appreciate her meticulous manner, I am quietly seething that I raced up here for nine o'clock.

This is when I notice the waiting room around me.  Until now I haven't given it much thought because I don't usually spend much time hanging out here.  Usually there are magazines and flyers and all kinds of reading materials and visuals.  There are paintings and windows and other things to distract the eye, but there have never been any clocks.

Hmmmmmm.  What shall the three of us sitting here, waiting ... waiting ... waiting, do?

Look at our phones, of course.

Yup.  Someone's brilliant idea of wiping the waiting room clean of magazines may well be a result of "Everyone is on their cell phones, and magazines cost money."  True.  However, in this age of waning paper journalism, yearly magazine subscriptions can be snagged for prices as low as $6 -- annually.  That's a crazy-small amount of money.  But, why have magazines if people do have their phones, right?

Wrong.

You see, cell phones have one thing that the designers of the waiting room avoided in the first place: clocks.  Now that we are all forced to entertain ourselves with our phones, we are all glaringly aware of how LATE the staff is running.

I have never had to wait here before.  This is when I start noticing other things, too.  The hygienist I now notice is not the only change here.  What has happened to the regular staff?  There is a new dentist doing all the consults, and the front desk staff has been replaced.  If I hadn't been given this extra time, I doubt very much that I would be putting these pieces together.

As my cleaning appointment is now starting twenty-five minutes late, I am relieved that the new hygienist is not doing x-rays.  But no, she is going to do the gum recession charting, which means forcing my non-bleeding gums to bleed.  "Don't worry," she says, "we now do it remotely."  Well, I don't know how "remotely" she means because she is painstakingly picking, talking to herself, turning to a computer behind her, and entering numbers ... one ... at ... a ... time.

Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock.

She takes so long doing this that the dentist comes in for his post-cleaning consult (meaning the end of my appointment) before the cleaning itself has actually started.  Meanwhile, my brain is ticking off the time left on my parking meter.  Dear lord, I am going to end up with a parking ticket because my forty-minute appointment is now surpassing one hour in addition to the late start.

Finally, mercifully, the cleaning ends.  I am slowly making my next appointment when the hygienist opens a drawer.  Do I want any supplies, like floss or a toothbrush?  My cell phone starts ringing.  I am expecting two important phone calls, so I push the hygienist aside, rush to my phone, answer it, breathe out, "I'll call you right back," and hang up.  Yes,yes, dear Jesus, give me one of everything or nothing or anything, just get me the hell out of this office.

Finally, I walk out into daylight, eighty-eight minutes after I arrived.  I have two minutes to get into my car and get the parking tag off of my dashboard before the parking officer makes another round and slaps a ticket on my windshield.  In my car I take a deep breath, lick my fluoride-covered, sore teeth, and return the phone call.

In six months I want someone to remind me: Be prepared to WAIT, pay for two full hours of parking, and bring my own damn magazine.  Oh, and find a new strategy for bite-wings; I'm not so sure this gal can handle the humor.

THREE-DAY ICED COFFEE

Tomorrow my life will slow down for a moment.

Maybe.

I write "maybe" because I never know what spontaneous fun is going to come my way, but lately I have been too busy to drink an iced coffee.  A small iced coffee, no less.

This is how it goes:

Wednesday the school year finally ends.  I am puttering about my classroom, trying to tie up all loose ends and lock up anything and everything that might mean something, all the while clearing out the last of this year's useless files.  A party is happening down the hall honoring retirees and people changing schools, and I have to go not so much because I haven't said goodbye to people (I have) but because there is cake.

Then, I have to fight northbound traffic to get to a hair cutting appointment.  There actually isn't as much traffic as there usually is, perhaps because it's a Wednesday and not a Friday, so I stop at the book store.  In my center console I sometimes keep random coupons, and in the bag of such coupons I discover a gift card that I haven't used yet.  Score!  I buy myself four books to go with the two hundred I have at home that need to be read.

I drive through the moguls of street expansion and still manage to arrive twenty minutes ahead of schedule, so I hop over to Dunks for a small iced coffee (caramel swirl).  While sipping my coffee, I check my email, then head across the street to get my hair trimmed and some hair cut off the front into bangs so I no longer resemble Cousin Itt.  When my hair is done, I still have most of the iced coffee.

At home I decide that a glass of cava is in order to celebrate surviving the school year, so I pop the iced coffee into the fridge, where it remains until the next morning.  On Thursday morning, I grab a few swigs before leaving to an all-day friend adventure, then I put the still-half-full Dunks iced coffee back into the fridge.

When I arrive home, I am ten seconds into my house when a deluge starts.  It is raining so fast and so furiously that if I'd hesitated one final moment at my car in the driveway, I'd be a drowned rat by now.  I hate thunder and lightning, so, just in case as the radar shows a huge red-orange blob heading my way, I hook the earbuds into my handy-dandy MP3 player, which has been malfunctioning and now only has about twenty-five boring songs accessible.  Weirdly, or perhaps fortuitously, the MP3 player gets stuck and will not pause, advance, repeat, or even shut down.

Friday morning I decide that I should probably replace the MP3 player.  I grab a quick breakfast of cereal, sip more of my iced coffee (yes, it still tastes fine), and stick the Dunks cup back into the fridge.  Later on after successfully buying a new MP3 player, I decide the oncoming humid air means I cannot wait any longer to put in the air conditioners, so, before adding tons of music to the new MP3 player, I clean all four air conditioner filters, then I install all four air conditioners in the windows.

This calls for ... I open the fridge ... it's only 12:30 ... slightly after noontime ... and I see ...  Dunks!  Hey, I can finally finish my iced coffee from Wednesday!  I do so over the course of several hours that I transfer all of my random music from computer files and actual CDs onto thumb drives (so I never have to do this again) and then onto the new MP3 player.  The iced coffee helps me make it through until after 1:00 a.m. when all the files are completely finished and transferred.

Not only is this the world's longest time to finish one small iced coffee, but, as a testament to Dunkin Donuts, the damn thing tastes just as fine as it did when I bought it fresh Wednesday.  Three-Day iced coffee.  Maybe it's a new thing.  Maybe it's not, and some of you already knew about the iced coffee longevity, but I am still a relatively recent coffee drinker, so I find this totally fascinating.

Now it's the weekend, though.  Do I tough it out with just tea, or do I start this crazy Dunkins adventure all over again?  It seems like it's a good way to pace myself this summer, but I'm a little nervous about it all.  The whole reason the iced coffee lasted so long is because I was too busy to drink it.  Maybe I'm cursing myself to a summer of ultra-activity.

Hmmmm.  I'll think about it and let you know how it goes.

SHATTERING SHOPPING EXPERIENCE

My friend is now the proud owner of sixteen brand new pint glasses.  To be honest, she actually has fifteen new pint glasses and one glass that is a pint plus two millimeters (however many cubic centimeters that may be).  If her housemate looks really closely, he just might see the difference, but we are betting that he won't ... look too closely or notice, that is.

The saga all starts at TJ Maxx.

First of all, we are looking for sandals for my friend.  I promptly find a pair of sandals and a pair of high-end flip-flops.  Into the carriage they go.  My friend also finds a pair of sandals, but not the ones she covets -- those she discovers are uncomfortable (as many covet-able shoes are).

We make the mistake of walking by the bathing suits.  I have not bought a new bathing suit in many, many years and am in desperate need.  I despise bathing suit shopping and have already rejected many suits this season in my quest to replace the threadbare ones I still have at home.  A recent trip to a pool has convinced me that it's time to buy.  After the half dozen swimsuits I've been through already at other stores, I load up with a dozen or more swimsuits, including two my friend recommends but that I doubt will be "the ones."  Turns out that both of the suits my friend finds for me will actually work (and actually fit).

By the way, I need a new carry-on suitcase because the one I own has a broken handle that keeps slipping and pinching my palm, and the wheels are getting worn out.  I find a nice one, perhaps a little too colorful for me in pink and black, but very suitable with the four wheels and a secure, non-biting handle.  Yes, into the carriage goes that sucker, too.

But, wait.  Perhaps we should check out the home goods section.  After all, my friend could use some glasses, perhaps a set of twelve.  Like me, she has collected glasses over the years, but not a set that matches.  Now that she is in a new place, it's time for real, guest-worthy, matching glasses.  So, we peruse the glassware section and find a decent set that may work.  We take pictures with me as the hand model, send them to her apartment-mate, and wait for the response.  There are only two boxes of eight pint glasses, not the twelve she would like, but sixteen might work.

In the meantime while waiting for a text response, we buy the items that we have and decide we will head down the street to Target.  Surely Target must have more glasses!  It will be like Glass-Mania there, right?

RIGHT?

Wrong.

When it comes to glassware (and plates and utensils), Target ain't no Wal-Mart or Christmas Tree Shop.  The selection is paltry and borderline embarrassing.  At this point a text from the roommate arrives confirming that the original glasses from TJ Maxx look damn fine.  We leave the empty cart inside Target and hightail it back down the street to our original haunt, making a beeline for the two boxes of glasses.

This is where I would like to simply say: "SUCCESS!"  This, however, is not the case.  When picking up the second (and only other) box of these particular pint glasses, we hear a distinct tinkling sound.  We are quite certain that my friend and her cohort do not want glasses that tinkle all on their own, so we open the top to discover that one of the pint glasses has shattered.

What to do, what to do.  A sale price is, after all, still a sale price.

What we ultimately decide to do is carefully remove as many of the glass shards as we can, and we gingerly lift the remnant of the broken pint glass out of the box and place it on a shelf.  This is when we are very, very, very naughty: We replace the broken glass in the box with a nearly identical pint glass that is sitting with a couple of others just loose on the display a few shelves above where we found the box of glasses.  The loose pint glass is ever-so-slightly taller than the other glasses but otherwise appears to be a match.

All we have to do is refold the top of the box and make sure the miniscule height difference does not set off alarm bells at the cash register.  All is well, and we run through the cashiers like we are running the damn gauntlet, like we are running from the Pamplona bulls, like our freaking pants are on fire.

As far as I know (and unless he reads this blog), my friend's flatmate has not noticed the extra few sips of refreshment in the glass, and the height difference will not be obvious to the naked and slightly inebriated eye.  We may not come home with the original sandals that are on the list, but we definitely chalk up yet another successful shopping misadventure.

BEST DAY ... WOOO, WOOOOOOOO, WOOO

The last few years of my career as a sports mom involved lots of lonely travel between my house, northwestern New England, and New York, particularly the Tarrytown, Albany, and Long Island areas.  For some inexplicable reason, I always felt better when the radio started blaring "Best Day of My Life" by American Authors.

Sports travel is long gone, along with the anxiety of late-night travels and of sometimes arriving home after midnight or much later, piecing together a few hours of sleep before hitting work.  Friday we have to deal with some mean girls (who aren't even good at it, which it makes them even more irritating) at work and a long meeting.  It has basically been the week from Hell.

My coworker, who is also my friend, invites me to an OAR concert in Boston.  I'll admit it: I know very few OAR songs, but I went with her last year and we had a blast.  The band puts on a fabulous show, plays for a few hours, and seems to truly enjoy Bostonians.  After a surly, snippy, mean-girl day, it's exactly what we need.  This could very well be one of those "best time ever" moments.

Yes, indeed: I am going to this concert.

Even better, though, is the surprise I get when we arrive for the concert.  The opening band is ... drum roll, please ... American Authors.  Damn!  Only about half the people are in their seats at this point, with many others milling around the booths of merchandise, food, treats, and alcohol.  Three-quarters of the way through their set, the familiar riff starts, and American Authors grab everyone's attention.

It's my travel song and, for today anyway, it's my theme song.

Suddenly in the audience people start with the familiar "Woo, wooooo, woooo..." From the concourse and from the booths, we hear the echoing of this followed by, "This is gonna be the best day of my liiiiife..."  Just like that, with the simple infusion of five notes, the world is one giant sing-along, and I no longer care about anything except this moment.  I remember my sports travel days and forget all about mean girls and meetings and useless wastes of my gray matter.

All is right with the world (for the next three minutes, anyway).

Later, as I struggle to stay awake on my ride home because it has been a long and stressful week followed by a long and relaxing evening, I realize that it really is one of the best says of my life.  Woo, wooooo, wooo.

BUBBLE WRAP MANIA

My family has long-since accused me of wrapping gifts like I'm trying to waterproof them.  Compared to the rest of my family, I am a goddamned amateur.

Seriously.

Sure, I'll put stuff in the mailing box inside of a plastic bag in case the delivery people leave the box outside.  And I tape boxes shut but only down the middle ... mostly.  If you think my taping jobs are precise, you have yet to meet my siblings, in particular, my older sister.

First of all, my older sister is an excellent seamstress, crafts person, cook, baker, singer, musician, horseback rider, card player ... There is not one thing on this earth at which I exceed my sister's abilities.  None.  She isn't openly competitive, either; it just happens.  She isn't smug or evil or sulky.  She just is better at absolutely everything.

Recently we attended my niece's graduation (my older sister's daughter), and we also helped her finish packing for a move.  My niece's stuff needs to go into temporary storage while she is between work assignments for a few months.  Of course, I am wrapping plates and glassware, not overly so, but enough that things will fit into the boxes and not start cracking and chipping. 

My sister is tending to the silverware.  Yes, the silverware ... in a plastic silverware tray.  Silverware that's made of metal.

The next thing I know, the giant roll of bubble wrap is almost nonexistent.  Hey, I think and probably even say out loud, I'm wrapping glassware here.  Where's the damn bubble wrap disappearing to?

Then, I see it.  At first I'm not entirely certain what it is.  It looks like a huge square bubble, or perhaps a container with a vital organ awaiting transplant at some nearby medical facility.  This package is so well protected that the entire Boy Scouts of America couldn't open the thing with a dozen Swiss Army knives.  Surely it must be some amazing treasure that my sister found while cleaning out kitchen drawers.  Perhaps it's some relic from bygone kitchen cutlery days.  Maybe it's a treasure.  Maybe it's the damn Hope diamond!

Nope. 

It's the silverware tray, now completely and totally bubble wrapped and waterproofed with clear packing tape.  My niece will need special carving tools just to cut through the outer layer (which is probably layer #6 of as many).

It figures.  My family may think I am the undisputed Queen of Waterproof Packaging, but I have been officially dethroned, and handily so, by my older sister, who wins yet again without realizing there was ever a competition afoot.