My dentist stabbed me

REPEATEDLY, in the roof of my mouth, with this:

Do you see what these are? These are DRILL BITS. He has many, many shapes and sizes of DRILL BITS that were then subsequently used to grind away at my teeth:


This is Mr. Thirsty. No joke. That's his name.

He comes and takes out all the spittle and blood. Mmmm!

This was my morning. Stabbing pain, numbed face, holes drilled into my teeth. And then I came to work, where I accidentally slipped on a bug. Seriously. A cockroach.

I'm walking down the hall, coffee in hand, coworker walking towards me. Unbeknownst to me, the heel of my boot mashes down on a cockroach and I slip in a graceful arc, and go down on one knee a la The King (Elvis, you fools!). Magically I didn't spill a drop of coffee. More magically, said coworker didn't laugh hysterically in my face.

Don't believe me?

Here is the graceful arc:


...and the bug guts:


Another coworker promptly assisted me in the flushing of the bug before I could document the little bastard digitally.

No, my day did not get better.

Bowling day blues

(E-mail to Charity Bowling Participants)
"Just an fyi, if you’re on the clock – which I’m sure we’ll all be – there’s no drinking at this event, per (company name withheld) regulations."

BryanZFresno: No drinking at the bowling event ... but can we go do some lines behind the bowling alley off a crackwhore's chest before we get started?
traciFresno: Well we better!!!
traciFresno: if not, I am so outta here.
BryanZFresno: I mean, cause bowling without some sort of intoxication is like ... just throwing heavy things
BryanZFresno: and I can throw heavy things at home
traciFresno: *sigh*

My exciting life.

Tonight is Monday night.

I made a crockpot chicken.
I will...
... probably do some laundry.
...possibly ruminate over recent changes in my physical appearance.
... likely be scolded by the Empress of All.
... likely scold the ne'er do homeworkers of the house.
...maybe do a little vacuuming. Mmmaaaybe.
...maybe, maybe, MAYBE bathe a dog or two.
...definitely drag the trash out to the curb.

This is my life, the exciting life of a single mother. There will be kids, tantrums, scolding, squeezing, giggling, phone calls, dirty dishes, dirty clothes, dirty diapers, and toilets to clean. There will be a thousand funny things said in my head, perfect comebacks to angry moments in my day, ample regret, and a large dollop of righteousness to fill the empty spaces.

My boys will make me laugh. My daughter will make me chase her. My dogs will make me infuriated.

My cat will vomit.

I will bathe my two-year old and read her a story. I will watch something funny on t.v. or the computer with my 12-year old, and listen to an overlong explanation of how the particulars of a game worked and the varied rules and how it was super cool that this guy got this thing in this place because it's so super rare, by my 10-year old.

Eventually, all will be tucked in, snug in their beds. I will then settle into the quiet dark of my house, the silent comfort of my small, squeeky, overfirm bed, eventually drifting off, in and out, weaving a pattern of sleep, only to wake and do it all over again.

Limbo.

What man, I ask you, could possibly resist the charm of a crockpot chicken?

Uh oh.

I was reading the newspaper today-- something that every good citizen should do daily-- where I came upon the following nubbin:

"Riding for the first-year Toyota-United team, Haedo completed the 130.7-mile stage — longest of the tour — in 4 hours, 41 minutes, 2 seconds. That's a little more than 24 mph."

I rode everything above that century mark today-- which is to say, approximately 30+ miles-- and I did it in about two hours forty five minutes.

HO-LEE CRAP that's a lot of riding, without the century along with it. My top cruising speed is about 15 mph.

Yyyeeeah... I'll be working on that, you know, speed and agility thing.... ahem.

On the plus side, I felt pretty good upon finishing the ride and it pushed my weekly total to about 75 miles. On the not-so-plus side, this weekly total mirrors the smallest daily total for the LifeCycle -- BUT I'm not going to fret. No sir.

Baby steps.

You are what you eat.

Apparently I am composed entirely of Snickers Minis and Cheetos.

My friend can swim 100 laps.

My friend, like many of my friends, is amazing. She is witty and stylish; she is smart and curious; she is wise and passionate and clever, and oh yeah-- she's 13.

And my friend can swim 100 laps.

In water.

This is what I hear-- second-hand-- and I believe it to be true. It might be a slight exaggeration. Maybe it's 75 laps; maybe it's 35. Here's my point: SHE'S 13 FRICKIN' YEARS OLD and she can SWIM MANY, MANY LAPS.

All I keep thinking about is where I was at 13. And where I'm at, now, at 36. Years and years and worlds apart. I have reinvented myself dozens of times over, and probably will continue to do so well into my sedentary years. (I have a sense that I will be the only octogenarian in my peer group with screaming pink hair.)

My point: You can be anything you want, at anytime, if you decide that's what you want to be. But it takes courage and committment to be that kind of an athlete. And she does it. AND she's 13.

Think about teenagers. Anxiety. Angst. Hormones. Body changes, peers wigging out, parents going from cool to geeky and back again inside of 20 seconds. It's a strange, heady world, one that is judged constantly and hypercritically by those on the inside AND outside tracks. Rules for existence can change on a minute by minute basis and trying to remain even-keel in such a world takes an amazing amount of emotional agility.

As adults, how do you explain that? How do you explain--earnestly-- that we get it, that some of us remember that world?

Anybody can be angst ridden. Anybody can have said they wanted to maybe one day at some point have tried to swim. Anybody can watch a group of people and have things to say about that group, be critical, foist opinions upon the world. Anybody can go out for the swim team and hey-- maybe even everybody can make it.

As an adult, I may forget many things about the life I lived at 13, especially EXACTLY what it was like to live in the trenches of teen-life.

But I can tell you one thing for certain, something I know in my bones to be true, cash in the bank: Not just anybody can swim 100 laps. Or 75. Or even 35. And at some point, this amazing friend of mine, she will swim more than that, and it will be just part of her daily routine.

How awesome is THAT?

This will shock and alarm you.

Brace yourselves, for what I am about to tell you will at first be exceedingly painful, causing you to weep openly and then, over time, slip into a silent, slack-jawed haze. Gawd knows that's what happened to me at any rate.

Alas, I give you the truth: I did not win the Mega Millions lottery. I KNOW! How sucktacular is THAT?

In fact, not only did I NOT win, I only got one number correct. Clearly, something was clouding my inner eye; my psychic abilities were completely off by FIVE WHOLE NUMBERS.

I am devastated in that way that potential millionaires often get when they place all their hope in one basket, only to watch that same basket later be ripped to shreds by wild jungle beasts, their hopes hence squashed against the ground and intermixed with mud and manure. Stinky, dirty hope.

I think you know what I mean.

Barbara Boxer and I are like *that*

"Dear Ms. Schock:

Thank you for contacting me regarding recent reports of domestic spying. I appreciate the opportunity to review your comments on this important issue.

On December 16, 2005, the New York Times reported that President Bush had repeatedly authorized the National Security Agency (NSA) to eavesdrop on American citizens and others without the necessary approvals from Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Courts. Until this program, which began in 2002, no widespread wiretapping had been conducted within U.S. borders without a court warrant.

I have worked very hard to help provide our law enforcement and intelligence communities with the tools they need to effectively combat terrorism; at the same time, I have fought to protect the civil liberties and privacy protections that define our nation. It is unacceptable that the Bush Administration has sanctioned programs that so blatantly violate this balance.


Many of my colleagues - both Republicans and Democrats - share my shock and disappointment that President Bush went outside the law and subverted the system of checks and balances that is so vital to our democracy. The Senate Judiciary and Intelligence Committees are currently holding hearings on this matter.

Rest assured, I will do all I can to make sure that this matter is fully explored and resolved. The American people should not have to choose to between their security and their liberty.

Again, thank you for writing to me. Please do not hesitate to contact me about this or any other issue of concern to you.


Barbara Boxer
United States Senator"

I can smell you standing there.

What is with the lying about the brushing of the teeth?

It doesn't take a genius to notice the quarter-inch of cheese-like film enveloping your incisors, so why lie? When I ask you, "Have you brushed your teeth?" and you grow quiet, do you honestly believe that the brilliance of your silence will throw me so completely that it will halt my investigative techniques? Do you think that by holding completely still, my t-rex-like brain will be utterly confounded and conclude you have ceased to exist? That, magically, there is no longer a ten-year old before me, and therefore, no custard-encrusted dental issues of note?

No sir. I am sorry to inform you that rather than a t-rex, my puny brain is more like that of a suckerfish. It has latched onto the fact that your snaggle-toothed grin, in both scent and visage, bears a striking resemblance to a wedge of Camembert and I will continue to ask you, hound you-- nay, berate you-- to BRUSH YOUR TEETH. I'm not above pinning you down and getting in there myself with a blow torch. In fact, I think I would quite enjoy it.

Ahhh, the sound of the electric toothbrush. Music to my ears.

Miss you, old man.

It was two years ago, almost on this very day, that I was awakened by the phone call that would forever change my life.

I had spent the entirety of the night before performing calisthenics with my then ten-month old daughter. She was teething and couldn’t sleep; I would get up, nurse her, get gnawed on, stumble back to bed and crash. Twelve o’clock; one fifteen; two thirty-five. And so went my night.

When my phone rang at 8:15 a.m. I wanted to scream. Somehow my baby was still asleep; I sent out a little prayer that she would stay so. And I ignored the call. Let the machine get it.

The caller hung up.

It instantly rang again.

Hoisting my tired arse off the bed, I answered to hear my sister’s panicked voice. “Trace, mom called. There’s something wrong with dad. Mom thinks he’s had a heart attack.” Internally I rolled my eyes. My father had cardio myopathy and had done very little to keep himself healthy. His on-again, off-again health regime was in off-again mode. This might be the kick he needs to get him started again, I thought. After all, the past five years had been a clutter of similar calls; all turning out on a positive note. Nothing life-threatening, nothing more than a “Harry, you’ve got to address the problem” kind-of thing.

And so I was certain that I was facing the same issue I’d heard several times before. I got off the phone and started to dress myself when the phone rang again. It was my mother.

My mom is universally regarded as the rock of the family. While the rest of us were overly emotional, tending toward hot-headedness or the ability to weep openly over The Barney Song, my mother is like a calm port in a torrid storm. When I heard distress in her voice, I knew my previous eye-rolling was terribly, terribly wrong. “Traci, we’re taking daddy to the hospital. I’ve got to follow the ambulance. Please, I think this is very bad. Please call a priest.”

I was stunned. After spending a few moments convincing her to ride with the ambulance instead of following it, I got off the phone and attempted to dial out. Anything. Anyone. I needed a priest. I needed to find someone who could perform unction.

On reflection, I see that my inability to dial the phone, let alone read the numbers in the yellow pages, let alone find the appropriate section in the damn book was strangely connected to the fact that I hadn’t yet figured out how to put on my pants. I was in shock.

My father had the good graces to die on a Sunday. God love him, fifteen calls to every church and number in the diocese of Fresno revealed that apparently, on Sundays, most Catholic priests already had plans. That was so like my dad.

Nobody prepares for the sudden death of a loved one. Nobody knows that the last time you see them is that last time. Nobody knows the importance of saying I love you, or thank you for my life, thank you for all the support, for loving me and giving me strength, thank you for being the greatest father anyone could ever be blessed with… nobody knows the intense desire, the overwhelming need to say all of these things until the very moment you hear, “We’re so sorry for your loss.”

For those that knew him, weren’t we lucky? Weren’t our lives richer for having that salty dog tell us those ribald jokes? For those big abrazos that no one else could ever, ever replicate? For those sweet, loving eyes, that could instantly smile or scold, depending on the occasion? And for that voice, that giant, larger than life baritone, so instantly recognizable and utterly unable to hold a whisper?

About two months before he passed, my father and I had one of those conversations that happens in movies, the turning point conversation where finally, after years of talking around an issue, everything hits the table and you just plain talk. Only our conversation was far-more simple and far-less dramatic than any movie would depict, and frankly, I don’t think either one of us realized we even needed to have it. At the end of our chat, however, I pointed to an old picture of my grandfather. He’d passed many, many years before, and I asked dad if he still thought of his father; moreover, if he missed him. “Every day, Trace. I miss him every day. It’s strange: You never get over the loss; you just eventually come to accept it.”

I understand what he meant. I really do.

Urp.

I got each of the kids a small, heart shaped box of See's Candy for Valentine's Day. I don't know if it was because she didn't want the candy, or because it was out of her reach, or because it was our of her reach AND slyly hidden under some old junk mail, but as of yesterday afternoon, Sydney had yet to open her box.

As I stared at it-- hormones raging, mind you, screaming for chocolate the entire time-- I was faced with an ethical dilemma. Would eating her candy make me a good, responsible mother, or a horrendous human being? She's just under 3 years old, and has beautiful baby white teeth. Did she need seven pieces of sugary cavity makers? I mean, come ON, she is so small-- think of the dammage it would do to her little body!

On the other hand, it's SEE'S frickin' CANDY! Food of the GODS! Ambrosia, if you will. What kind of horrendous person takes candy from a baby, let alone the greatest candy to ever grace the face of the earth?

I went for win-win. I went the route of the good mother. I ate the ones I knew she wouldn't like.

The fact that I found and scarfed down Harrison's box, however, I think that's the one that makes me a horrendous human being.

Me & Diane Feinstein are so close we're like *that*

February 16, 2006


Ms. Traci Schock
XXXX North XXXXX Avenue
Fresno, California XXXXXX

Dear Ms. Schock:

Thank you for writing to me about recent
revelations that the United States Government has
engaged in domestic electronic eavesdropping without
appropriate legal authority. I welcome the opportunity to
respond.

On February 6th, the Senate Judiciary Committee
held the first of a series of hearings into this matter, at
which Attorney General Alberto Gonzales testified about
the legality of the program. He provided none of the
documents the Committee required for proper oversight,
and his assurances alone did not allay my concerns.
Instead, he propounded a radical legal theory of
presidential power largely unrestrained by either
Congress or the courts.

I have carefully reviewed the Constitution and the
laws relating to this domestic intelligence activity, along
with the President's statements and those of the Attorney
General and other Administration officials. I believe that
the electronic surveillance program was not conducted in
accordance with U.S. law. The program, as described,
violates the Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Act, which
requires a court order for surveillance of Americans.
Congress has updated FISA many times since 9/11 in
order to provide our nation with all the necessary tools to
fight terrorism. The Administration has never asked for
the authority to conduct this program.

I believe the Administration also violated the
National Security Act, which requires all members of the
Intelligence Committee to be fully and currently
informed of all significant intelligence activities other
than covert actions. I am a member of the Intelligence
Committee, and yet I was not told about this program
until it was made public.

There will be further hearings in the Senate
Judiciary and Intelligence Committees. Once the facts
are clear, we can decide on appropriate corrective action.

Again, thank you for writing. I hope that you will
continue to write to me on issues of importance to you.
Best regards.



Sincerely yours,

Dianne Feinstein
United States Senator

Tips on MCing an event

Avoid saying, "uhm." Say it once, I understand. Twice, eh-- it happens. Five-hundred-sixty-two times? Shoot me.

Pay attention

If you're not political, read this. You will be.

My favorite quetions for the Simian in Chief:

"Mr. Bush: In your speech on the Patriot Act in Buffalo on April 20, 2004, you said the following:

" 'Now, by the way, any time you hear the United States government talking about wiretap, it requires -- a wiretap requires a court order. Nothing has changed, by the way. When we're talking about chasing down terrorists, we're talking about getting a court order before we do so. It's important for our fellow citizens to understand, when you think Patriot Act, constitutional guarantees are in place when it comes to doing what is necessary to protect our homeland, because we value the Constitution.'

"Is that the same Constitution that you now say authorizes wiretaps without a court order?"

"Mr. President, the CIA had described waterboarding, used with administration approval on several Al Queda suspects, as the following: 'The prisoner is bound to an inclined board, feet raised and head slightly below the feet. Cellophane is wrapped over the prisoner's face and water is poured over him. Unavoidably, the gag reflex kicks in and a terrifying fear of drowning leads to almost instant pleas to bring the treatment to a halt.' If this were done to an American soldier, sir, would you consider it torture?"

"You promised you would fire anyone involved in the leaking of CIA agent Plame's name. Your standard then was not whether a senior administration official 'committed a crime' but rather 'was involved in the leak'. You stated that you considered this a very serious matter and yet you praised Libby following his indictment. Why have you not fired Karl Rove who testified that he talked about Plame's employment with two reporters?"

"Mr. President, you have spoken often and with conviction of your Christianity and how you bring Christian principles to bear on your conduct of foreign and domestic policy. The 2007 budget you have just proposed extends tax cuts that mostly benefit upper income Americans, while drastically cutting programs that help the poor, including sick children. As news sources have pointed out, the cost of these tax cuts is far greater than the cost savings coming from entitlement program cuts. Given the number of times the Bible, and Jesus himself, references lifting up the poor and tending to the sick, how do you reconcile this proposed budget with your Christianity?"

"Given the emphasis you put on accountability as an indispensable virtue for the occupant of the White House, can you name three instances in which you have accepted responsibility or compelled members of your administration to be accountable for some mistake?"

Yes, I still do

Florida Susan gave me some well-deserved guff over the weekend. She overheard me talking emphatically about the wonders of riding a bike and my attempts to convince the poor listener that it is the greatest activity EVER in the history of bipedal locomotion. I could actually hear Susan rolling her eyes as she said, "Oh, so you're still riding then? Funny, I'd read differently."

DAMN ME AND MY BIG TAPPY FINGERS!!!

Alright. I admit it. I haven't been riding as much as I should have been. I was literally and figuratively too big for my britches to be making such statements. Happy? Happy now??

But I'm back on it. Again. I am. Back on the commuter circuit. Back on the insanely horrendous saddle. Back cursing the return of my adult acne. Alas, the training continues.

Overheard conversation

(Trevor and Sydney lying on the floor of Trevor's room, looking at a book)
SYDNEY: (pointing to a picture of a penguin) What's dat?
TREVOR: That's a penguin.
SYDNEY: No, dat's a duck.
TREVOR: ...That's a penguin.
SYDNEY: No, Treber, dat's not penguin. Dat's a duck.
TREVOR: That's a penguin.
SYDNEY: No, dat's a duck.
TREVOR: (Patiently)That's a picture of a penguin.
SYDNEY: (Earnestly, with much sincerity and sorrow that the poor boy is so confused) No, Treber, dat's not penguin... Dat's a duck. (Turns page. Pointing again.) What's dat?
TREVOR: (Taking the middle ground) That's a bird.
SYDNEY: (Earnestly, sadly) No, Treber, dat's not a bird, dat's a goose.

Happy birthday, Vi!

I remember the day I met Viola. Coworkers Elizabeth, Susan and I were tasked with taking the new empoyee out to lunch. Some task; the six secretaries begging to go was like listening to a bunch of nine year olds squabbling over who gets use the bathroom next. "It's my turn!" "Nuh uh! I haven't gone yet!" "Ooh-ooh--Me! Me!"

Of course we squbbled. Going out meant two whole hours of fancy lunch on the company dime. Out meant away; away meaning not in the office being verbally abused by the aristocratic overlords. Sadly, we didn't give a rat's patootie who Viola was and certainly cared even less about how entertaining she could be. We'd all dined with wet rags before; but dining with a wet rag over a rib eye and crème brûlée was entirely tolerable.

Little did we know that this mild-mannered British girl was actually one of the most cosmically insane and inspiring people we'd ever meet. I learned more in that lunch than I did in my preceeding 27 years.

Viola's life story inspires me to no end. And so, because she is a treasured friend, I share the lessons I've gleaned from her:

* Life is what you make it.Viola lived in what she called the "ghetto." Being a lily white girl, I had no idea what this meant. I envisioned some large brick tenement with poorly lit hallways. Upon visiting, however, I was inpressed by the grounds and the comparitively spacious apartment (compared, that is, to my expressway stinkhole). Looks can be decieving. Vi then told me about a murder that took place outside the apartment downstairs, about how the police roped off the area and about how they left the body laying there, unattended, for many, many hours.

A few months later, Viola's apartment was broken into by "crackheads." I presumed Viola's colorful vernacular meant "horrendous bastards." It was then that I learned that my dear friend was rarely, if ever, figurative.

Upon her return from vacation, Vi discovered that literal crackheads had literally broken into her literal apartment... through the outter wall. Bam. First they went into her attached storage shed, and from there, knocked a big arsed hole in her apartment wall, gained entry and stole what they could. Most people would sink down, cry, look for another apartment. Not Vi. Instead, this plain old secretary working in the same craptacular office as I, sold all she had-- and I mean EVERYTHING, down to her last pair of socks-- and bought a townhouse in Bowie, MD. BAM! Landowner.

* Occasionally, burn the bridges. Viola worked for a female higher up in the firm, who-- like her male peers-- was truly evil, just exponentially so. On her last day with Hell Pit Inc., Viola went into this woman's office and verbally let loose on her, calling her out for past wrongs, for her lies, for her petty behaviors. My favorite phrase was likening this woman to a bovine with sagging teets. You get the idea.

We all feared that doing so would lead Viola to the horrors of a dead-end work life. I mean, we all thought the bovine had connections. Apparently, none that Vi would ever need to worry about. And the calling out seems to only have made Vi stronger.

* Believe in yourself, or no one will. Vi changed jobs every few years, like every smart secretary should. It's the only way to remain in the profession and move up the seemingly invisible corporate ladder. She's worked for obsure and important transvestites. She's worked for the biggest DC lobbyists. (Yes, those ones, the ones you read about. Especially recently.) She has done it all.

Vi now lives in a 6,800 sq ft mansion in Maryland, living intuitively and continually moving ahead. It's not ever a question of can, but rather, the reality of is. Viola heeds her desire. She takes herself seriously and doesn't give a rat's arse whether anyone else does.

__

Simply, she emboldens me. She is an amazing friend in my storybook filled with wonderful people. Sometimes in life the Universe blesses you the presence of someone you might otherwise have no idea how they fit into your story, let alone why. In my life, Viola is like my personal deus ex machina, in the form of inspiration. Whenever I think I can't, or I don't know the way... my phone rings and this delicious British accent regales me with tales of her life. Wonderful. If only everyone were so lucky.

I'm so bi-coastal, call me a metrosexual.

Wait-- can girls BE metrosexual? Anyway, took a weekender trip to DC. Ho-leee HANNAH was it fun. I got together with some very dear girlfriends from a previous life and DAMN if they all didn't look fantastic and yet basically the same. Seven years, and you'd think one of them would have grown a conjoined twin or something-- but no go. They all looked fabulous and were twice as much fun.

The group of us met when we worked for a facist dictatorship in Washington DC, an econometrics firm where we were belittled, befuddled, and became braindead. The firm is still there and thrives like some third world regime... and like prisoners of war, we bonded; each of us eventually making our own daring escapes.

The event was a celebration of the 40th anniversary of the birth of our dear friend Viola. When invites went out, some of us politely declined, and showed up on her doorstep anyway, ready to eat her out of house and amazingly-palatial-estate-like home.

It was a fantastic party, complete with disco balls, tiaras and a DJ spinning classics like Michael Jackson's PYT and of course, Abba's Dancing Queen. Even better, there were a bunch of thirty-cum-forty-something women, who survived many of the horrors of their twenties and lived to tell about it... through the art of drunken interpretive dance in said basement.

I have become a rickshaw driver.

In my efforts to get in cycle training where I can (except you know, actually training, per se), I have purchased what is known colloquially as a "bike trailer," which I've used to tow my adoring two-year old around. The thought was that I could no longer use her existence as an excuse for not getting my arse in the saddle.

The reality is that my two-year old has become a slave driver. What started out to be sweet, simple rides to the park have quickly become forums for stinging criticism. "Faster!" she cries. I pedal harder, "Do again!" she snaps. If I sing? "No mommy! You no do dat!!" (To her credit, I am a horrible singer.)

If she sees something she likes, however, everything changes. Example: We pass a woman walking her new little puppy. Suddenly my miniature dictator is a simpering, sugary-sweet dollop of baby charm, her speech peppered with elongated syllables . "Awww, loooook at da puuuuuppy," she coos. "Hello puppy! Hello! Awww, mommmmmyyyyy, it's soooo cuuuuuute!" After we pass she sits in silent reverie for a moment. I pick up the pace, my body rocking back and forth with the pedaling motion. "STOP DAT!" she barks. Stinkyfina McCrabberton is back.

If I could hear her thoughts, I swear she would sound like Stewie from The Family Guy. Thank gawd her English is so underdeveloped.

Don't let the smile fool you. She's a killer.