Made of Dust

Lately I, like many others, have begun to feel a little stressed about how much I have to do. A turkey to roast, Christmas gifts to purchase and mail, a checkbook to balance...and New Year's Day will bring the pressure to resolve to do better in the next year.

However, I have also come to realize and am coming to grips with the fact that none of us will ever feel as if he or she is finally on top of everything. Our ducks will never be in a completely straight row. We'll miss the occasional dot of an "i" and be too tired to cross that "t." And I think it's meant to be that way.

The Bible says we are made of dust. So why do we feel that we need to have the perfect Thanksgiving centerpiece, work out at least 3 times a week, regardless of whatever may arise, and keep to our regimented schedule of housecleaning?

Structure is a good thing. But the sooner we realize that we are not superhuman, the better we'll feel. And I think we'll then have more energy to attack those tasks. Plus, I think God wants us to understand that we can't achieve perfection on our own. Some people may think of this with frustration. I embrace the thought with relief.

In light of these thoughts, I feel much better in my skin and my mind is more at ease. I'm happy with my imperfection.

The Closet Wookie

Recently I learned something I didn't know about my husband. Through three years of marriage (eight years as a couple), he had managed to keep a tight lid on his condition. Oh, there had been some signs. I should have known. Little did I know that my in-laws' cleaning out their attic could be such a significant turning point.

My husband is a Star Wars nerd.

Looking back now, I can see the symptoms. At the mention of anything Star Wars-related, my husband's eyes would brighten like a light saber. One Christmas, my mother-in-law gave him the Star Wars trilogy. Occasionally, his parents mentioned his Star Wars toys in the attic, and he would rattle off the names of a couple of the spaceships and characters. A country song by Mark Wills called Nineteen Somethin' that came out a couple of years ago included the line "Saw Star Wars at least eight times." My husband really related to that song. Of course, most of that is because that song is a tribute to the decade of the 80s, and my husband's love of everything 80s is so vast that it would require an entire other blog post. And sure, we went to the movies to see Episode I. But none of these events revealed the whole truth.

A couple of weeks ago I came home to find my husband in his parents' garage. (They live down the street.) They had cleaned out the attic. My father-in-law handed me a photo of himself and his little son, now grown into my six-foot-tall husband. My mother-in-law showed me numerous Pony League football jerseys and Little League baseball pants. There was even a wolf costume he'd worn in a school play. It was a nice, normal moment in time of nostalgia and reminiscence. Then out came a white metal popcorn can, the kind with a handle. It had his sister's name on it, so I felt absolutely no threat at its appearance. However, it held the secrets that had been locked away all those years in the attic. Hans Solo, Princess Leia, R2-D2, C-3PO, Yoda--they were all there. But I know their names. You'd have to be a total doofus not to know their names. But there must have been dozens of characters in that bucket of whose names I have no recollection. But my husband identified each one as he pulled it out, even giving biographical information about some of them. Eventually my mother-in-law handed him the boxes that housed the spaceships. He greeted each of those by name like long lost friends. Later, the artillery of the Star Wars clan was discovered, and he stated the name of each weapon as well as which weapon went with which character.

To be fair, I must note here that I did play with Barbies as a child. But I don't remember their Mattel-assigned labels. (Okay, I do recall that one was "Peaches and Cream Barbie.")

I sat for some time in the garage in the still air of that Texas autumn evening with my mouth hanging open. Troubling thoughts began to invade my Star Wars-impaired mind. Who was this man? Was it safe to procreate with him? Would our firstborn emerge from the womb with Wookie hair and powers of the Jedi?

Later we went home sans Star Wars paraphernalia. My sweet, normal husband was back. At least until the Target brochure came in the mail a week ago with Darth Vader Pez dispensers, among other Lucas creations, on its cover. I hope someday to learn more about this world he loves so dearly. But for now, I just don't quite get it.

Take Me to Your Leader

I try very hard not to read the newspaper or watch the news too much. I don't advocate ignorance. But I do advocate joyfulness, and I find it difficult to be joyful when being fed such depressing news stories. I watch the headlines that appear on the main page when I log on to my e-mail account, and when I see something on which I'd like more details, one mouse click reveals the full story.

Now news from Hollywood...ugh. I try not to subject myself to it, but I find that I, like many Americans, am drawn to celebrities' goings-on, despite my attempts to ignore such drivel. Why should I care whom Paris Hilton is dating now that she broke up with Paris? (That sentence would sound so stupid to someone not up on pop culture.) So, earlier this week (or was it last week?), I sheepishly clicked to get the full scoop on Demi's and Ashton's alleged nuptials. I clicked to watch the clip reporting Brad and Jennifer's putting their $26 million (think that's right) mansion on the market. But last night I saw a headline that repulsed me and sent shivers down my spine such that I was reminded of all the news stories about which I have no desire to know. The story? Katie is pregnant.

I have definite opinions, like many Americans, about Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes. I long for the days of a decade and a half ago when a photo of Tom was posted in my teenage bedroom. As Tom and Nicole's marriage fell apart and I watched with the world as Tom toted other women around as if he were doing them a favor (the whole Cruise/Cruz thing was so stupid; do you think it was for publicity only?), my faith in Tom's cuteness began to crumble. What a turd. I hate that word by the way, but if the shoe fits....As for Katie, I wish she'd remained the cute girl on Dawson's Creek. I didn't watch the show regularly, but I always liked her. Now...what a fruit loop.

The Church of Scientology is not an area of expertise for me, nor will it ever be. I do not have a hermetic argument prepared to defend my opinions. But let me offer a few reasons why I think Tom and Katie's baby will emerge and shock the world (well, those who haven't seen the signs that this was coming), as it will not be a human baby, but rather will be seafoam green, have one eyeball in the center of its strangely large head a la the Halloween critters Target stores are marketing (talk about scary...I want Casper!), and have ears reminiscent of Shrek.

1) Tom and Mimi Rogers' marriage did not produce children.

2) Tom and Nicole did not procreate. Their two children were adopted.

3) Katie has been required to accompany Tom to numerous events and has always been escorted by "chaperones," who often answer questions for her.

Tom and his cohorts have been searching for an appropriate victim to house and birth the spawn of their kind. Mimi and Nicole did not fit the bill. (Side note: I really like Keith Urban, so Nicole, you'd better be good to him. And good for you, for keeping company with someone who seems to have some spiritual ideas that make sense.)

I do not own a "Free Katie" t-shirt, but when that alien pops out of poor, brainwashed Katie in a few months, I may be inclined to say I told you so.

In other Hollywood news, Us Weekly has reported that Nick and Jessica have really broken up. For the love of all that is good in this world, I wish that story would die whether we know if it's true or we have to live in ignorance forever.

Acknowledgement: Thanks to my hubby for the title of this piece. Say it out loud in a nasal, robotic voice. It'll be fun!

Who Am I? An Answer, Not a Question

Until four months ago, I was a teacher. When issues regarding education arose in a conversation, I knew my role. "I understand," I would say with a knowing smile. "I'm a teacher." When a child misbehaved in public and the parent would apologize, I would shake my head dismissively and, with a wave of my hand, say, "No problem. I'm a teacher." I was a teacher. That was my identity for seven years, and if you count the years spent preparing for the position, it was really eleven years. More than a third of my life focused on becoming or being a teacher.

Since resigning from my post, I have evaluated what comprises a person. Our society tends to rely on occupational labels. Upon meeting a new person, one typically asks, "What do you do?" Recently I read an online discussion of the usage of the terms "housewife" and "homemaker." A woman said that at her high school reunion, she had asked an old friend, "What have you been up to?" The woman defensively said, "I'm a housewife." Maybe she used the term "homemaker." I can't remember. My point is that we seem to attach our complete identities to our ways of earning income. And, depending on our own perceptions or on what we think are the perceptions of others, we may struggle with these labels. Why the labels? If asked what I do, I would be correct in saying, "I breathe. I cook. I sleep. I dream. I love. I hurt," would I not?

I have been surprised by my lack of concern about this issue since I severed ties with my old label. Teaching, I have been finding, will always be a part of my identity. Teaching is not confined to the walls of a classroom, nor does it have to be attached to a paycheck. I also laugh, write, bake, listen, sing. It is the sum of all the things we do that comprise our identity.

And isn't one's identity more than verbs? What we do is certainly part of who we are. But what about the nouns? The ocean, the South Texas hill country, books, wine, the color blue, cherry-flavored Kool-aid, Spode dishes, a fondness for red-headed children--aren't these part of my identity? The people in our lives, too, must be considered in our evaluation of our identities. The experiences we've had with them, the good ones, the bad ones, the ones that still hurt us, the ones that taught us lessons even though they hurt, the ones with people for whom we've learned to smile in remembrance of, even through the tears.

I think the next time someone asks me what I do, I will say...I live.

Festival Fun

Last weekend the hubby and I decided to check out GrapeFest, the wine festival held annually in Grapevine, Texas. Attractions included live music (band of one of hubby's work acquaintances played--Irish rock--they wore kilts--very fun to watch/listen), grape-stomping contest (had to sign up prior to festival--darn it! I wanted to pretend I was Lucy!), and various carnival foods. Yum. Somehow, blue cotton candy soothes my soul. We sampled quite a few wines. (Don't worry--we took shuttles that were provided.) Some were very tasty, and others would make a wino wince. I highly recommend Su Vino, a winery located, I believe, on Main Street. Very hip but not pretentiously so.

I love festivals. As I said, you can always get cotton candy. Then there's watching the kids ride the ferris wheel and the carousel. Observing parents deal with fussy, overly-tired children is pretty amusing, too...when you don't have one of your own! But what I love the most about festivals, carnivals, and the like is the huge range of types of people you find. There was the "goth" couple, with dark lipstick, nail polish, and piercings, accompanied by their very unadorned early elementary-aged son. Then there are the random single, middle-aged men, whose shorts ride a bit too high above their waists. They are often found near a music stage, nodding their heads rather geekily to the music. Usually, they try to tap their toes but manage to lose their balance in the process. This festival also had a booth devoted to Harleys, so there were quite a few biker guys and gals, who always look like they want to kill somebody, but, in my experience, are just big softies. I have to laugh as I see these people, but not maliciously. I'm so amazed at how many different kinds of people there are. As my mom often said, it takes all kinds of people to make a world. And at festivals, we all get along. We're all there to have a good time, enjoy the food, wine and music, and just kick back and relax. Would that we lived our everyday lives that way.

I do have to share what we observed as we sat on a park bench under a red oak tree, consuming aqua-colored spun sugar. (By the way, it's autumn, people. The tree had big, fat acorns hanging from it--beautiful.) A couple of feet away from our bench stands a bronze statue of a man in a suit. A rather ordinary-looking man, he has spectacles and leans a bit on a cane. Let me repeat that it's a statue. A teenage boy walked by with what seemed to be his mother and some other family member. He halted in front of the statue and stared into Mr. Statue's eyes for a full ten seconds. I guess he decided he was pretty safe and that it was an inanimate object because then he moved on. Hubby and I giggled that someone would think it was a real person. But we also had suspicions that he was a person with special needs, so we assumed that was the reason for his hesitant behavior. But in the next few minutes, three or so more people did the same thing. And these individuals looked like they had fully functioning brains. I've seen "living statues" at other festivals and at Covent Garden in London, so I can understand the apprehension of approaching something that looks to be a statue but could actually be a real person that will later scare the pants off you. But really--is it that hard to distinguish between a living human being and a metal one? It's all in the eyes. As it's been said, "The eyes are the window of the soul." I think I'll steer clear of statues for a while though, just to be on the safe side.

Beware of the Condiments

Occasionally, in the name of saving money, I make a trip to Sam's Club. Lifting the oversized boxes of Tide, large packages of chicken breasts, and giant jars of pickles is certainly a hassle, but on many items, we save a handful of dollars, so it's worth the effort. Among the items I regularly purchase at this discount dreamland are condiments. Two extra large bottles of Heinz 57 cost quite a bit less than even one medium-sized counterpart at the local grocery store. However, such thriftiness can come at a price.

About a month ago, after eating a lunch of fast food burgers my husband had brought home, he took our Goliath ketchup bottle back to the kitchen to return it to the refrigerator. Somehow, he dropped it. Such large plastic condiment containers may look invincible, but let me assure you that they are actually fragile creatures. Upon hitting the ceramic tile floor, the sides of the bottle collapsed, perhaps as a consequence of its sheer weight and size. After discussing in some unpleasant terms our assessment of the situation, we laughed it off and mopped up the sugary red goo that had splattered, if not to the ends of the earth, at least to the ends of our kitchen. Even our miniature dachshund did what he could to help clean up the accident.

Yesterday someone hit a repeat button. We couldn't have replicated the events so perfectly if we'd been performing a physics research experiment. As a result of the Heinz crash of September 6, 2005, condiments of enormous size will no longer be purchased by this household. I advise that you heed my warning before yielding to the temptation of a 4-month supply of ketchup in one bottle. I'm sure Kroger grocery stores will be happy to hear of my purchasing change.

In Memory of New Orleans

My heart aches. My heart aches for the lives lost and devastated by Katrina. And my heart aches for the city--the beautiful, crazy, eccentric city of New Orleans. This has been a year of loss in my life. My mind cannot wrap itself around the magnitude of this catastrophe and the extreme feelings of helplessness the people of the Crescent City must feel. Perhaps because of this, I am grieving the loss of the city itself. It will rise again, I know. But it will never be the same again.

My mother's family is from Louisiana. Some of them live in New Orleans. When I was 16, we took a family vacation to this gem of the South. I loved the architecture and the quirky and often frightening history of the place. I felt the emotions of the long-gone occupants of the Houmas House. Our visit to the Audubon Zoo was a fun-filled day, a pleasure to see the animals as well as enjoy the lovely layout and landscaping of the facility. We saw a man playing "Amazing Grace" on his trumpet at the Cafe Du Monde. Midway through his song, he noticed a woman with cerebral palsy trying unsuccessfully to hail a cab. The man stopped, waved down a taxi and, taking her by the arm, helped her into the car. He then turned and picked up where he left off and continued his rendition of "Amazing Grace." My mother loved to tell that story, explaining to people that he was truly living amazing grace. Also on that trip, I had a pleasant little flirtation with a boy on the deck of the dinner cruise river boat. He was visiting with his youth group from Oregon. He gave me a stick of gum. I still have the wrapper pressed into my photo album that holds pictures from that trip. It was a magical night, made more memorable by the charm of New Orleans.

More recently, my husband and I honeymooned in New Orleans. We stayed at the Melrose Mansion, a gorgeous white house, that boasts tasteful antiques and elegant southern hospitality. The Gumbo Shop was our choice for many a meal. It's the best gumbo I've ever tasted. We enjoyed speaking with Patrick, the maitre d' at The Bistro, the restaurant at the Maison de Ville hotel. He's quite a celebrity. I caught a show on the Travel Channel that featured him as one of the treasures of New Orleans. Of course, we rode the trolley along St. Charles. We did get a bit lost that afternoon, as we got off the trolley too soon in an attempt to sample the antique shops of the Garden District. But we eventually got there, feasted our eyes on gleaming 19th century furniture, stroked silk bedlinens in the trendy newer boutiques, and revived ourselves with iced cappuccinos. Eating at the Cafe Du Monde was a necessity. The beignets were warm, the cafe au lait was chilled. (Mind you, our wedding was in late June.) To top it all off, we saw an older man on the sidewalk by the cafe, playing a trumpet. I know it was the same man of my mother's precious tale of compassionate character. My husband spoke with him and purchased a CD from him. The man's name is Hack Bartholomew. I pray that Hack is safe in this world. If he's not, I pray that he's in his real home with his Father, the one about whom Hack told the visitors and citizens of New Orleans, I believe, every day in the French Quarter.

My husband and I had talked about returning to New Orleans. We talked with my distant cousin Mike at my mother's funeral this past March. We told him about how much we loved the city and missed it. There is a place in our hearts that calls New Orleans home. Cousin Mike, before parting, smiled at us kindly and said, "I've got to go take care of your city." So in this year of loss in my life, I grieve the loss of my mother, who I think was in some ways too good for this world. I grieve the loss of life in the bombings of London, a city my mother and I visited together in the summer of 1999. And I grieve the loss of the spirit, the beauty and the magic of New Orleans. I know that we will all be alright, in the end. But as the Bible says in Ecclesiastes, "There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under heaven." And now, I think, is the time for tears.

Note to Self

Make doctor appointments for the Friday before Labor Day. Most people have already begun their long weekends, and no one wants to sit in a doctor's office waiting room the Friday before a holiday. Therefore, the wait is not long!

In other news, my husband's health insurance is changing a bit and wants our glucose and cholersterol levels. This requires blood samples. Three needle sticks and two nurses later, my veins cooperated. Thank God it's over. I'm now sporting two cotton balls, one on my hand, one on my arm, which, as I found out running an errand after the doctor visit, make good conversation starters. They also make a perfect excuse not to cook dinner tonight and eat out. What a way to start the holiday weekend!

Annual Check-up

Tomorrow I have a visit to the gynecologist scheduled. I know, I know--'nuff said. I myself prefer the term "gyno." It sounds irreverent, which makes me feel as though I have a bit of an upper hand which, given the position I'll be in while in the office, is just ridiculous. Ladies, there are so many reasons why this is such an unpleasant item of our to-do lists, aren't there? Here are a few:

Making the Appointment
My husband doesn't understand this reason. Making an appointment to go to the "lady doctor," the term I was taught as a child, is not the same experience as making a dental appointment. Things have to be, shall we say, cleared for business when this kind of exam is going to take place. Math is not involved when figuring out which date to choose for your trip to see Dr. Smith, D.D.S. And apparently, my gyno's a good one because he's always booked for a looooong time. I suppose I could call further in advance, but quite frankly, I don't know exactly when my body's going to do its thing three months prior to a possible appointment. Or maybe I just don't feel like counting.

Male vs. Female
Some women prefer to see female gynecologists. Mine is male. He was recommended to me, he's straightforward, and he successfully removed a cyst from each of my ovaries in 2001, so I'm stickin' with him. Besides, someone has to do the dirty work, and I'm not in the habit of glimpsing myself "down there" with a hand-held mirror. The only hand-held mirror I own is a golden-gilded one which I used as a child when I was imagining I was a princess or a 1940s movie star. Using that bit of nostalgia from my childhood in such a way seems sacrilegious. But sometimes you just don't want a male you see once a year as a witness to the good stuff.

The Waiting Room
This truly is the worst part for me. First of all, the wait is interminable. Even the novel I'm currently reading (or papers to grade, when I was a teacher) does little to ease the boredom and general antsiness of sitting in one of the uncomfortable mauve-colored chairs as I await the dreaded exam. And really, you can't even concentrate in there. Pregnant women dot the room. A few of them have noisy toddlers who don't understand the gravity of the situation for the rest of us. Then there are the older women, probably there to tell their doctors how their HRT is working. They usually have frowns on their faces. I don't know if it's because they are grieving the loss of estrogen in their maturing bodies or if, like me, the din of the soon-to-be older siblings is distracting to the point that you just want to go sit on one of them to make them stop. But the proverbial straw that breaks this camel's back is The Pregnant Couple. You know the one. I don't mind so much the couple with the man who is so ashamed to be at the lady doctor that, to avoid eye contact, his nose is inserted between pages 72 and 73 of Motorweek magazine that's been ordered for his kind. I like that guy. He makes me laugh. I think he must hate to be in that room more than I do. But The Pregnant Couple...the woman has perfectly polished toenails that match her oh-guess-what-I'm-pregnant maternity top. The husband is dressed in business casual and usually whips out his PDA at some point during their reign in the gyno's waiting room. But they're not alone. Oh no. They've brought at least one set of parents, who are typically having a very loud discussion of whether they will be Grandma and Grandpa, Nana and Papa, or even something as horrible as Mimi and Peepaw. But that's not it, folks! Cell phones are inevitably put to use, contacting everyone The Pregnant Couple and their parents know, informing them (and the rest of us waiting room inmates) of their happy news of whether they will soon be welcoming little Brayden or little Brittany into the world. Meanwhile, all the rest of us are looking forward to is that oh-so-pleasant exploration of our uteruses. Am I jealous? A little. But in my defense, I just have a low cutsiness tolerance. I think it's in my medical records.

Emptying Your Water
I love the use of this phrase. At my gyno's office, once your name is finally called (at this point, I jump up like I'm the next contestant on The Price Is Right), the nurses point to the restroom and ask you to "empty your water." That's so much more delicate than "Here's the cup; now go pee." Now, at this point, you've really got to pee. In the waiting room, you've crossed your legs several times, but you can't go too early because then you may not have enough for the cup. But instead of plopping down on the toilet seat in relief, you are required to hold the cup and straddle it with your pants around your ankles or, if you're wearing a skirt, the fabric bunched around your midsection. After you've managed this maneuver, there's the little stainless steel door. (This is how it is at my gyno. Is it different at other places?) Let me explain. There are people on the other side of the door who, after you've placed your pee cup on the little ledge, open their little door on the other side, collect your urine, and run the test. This freaks me out. What if they open the door too soon? It's never happened to me, but never say never.

The Exam
Do I really need to say much? I'll never forget when my doctor was probing me to check on the condition of the ovarian cysts. He said, "Sorry, I know this is uncomfortable. Is it painful?"

"Well, it ain't exactly a walk in the park!" I quipped. What a dork to use such a cliche. I wish I'd thought of something funnier. But humor does not always occur in the midst of mortification.

Here's another comparison between dental visits and gynecological visits. The dentist tries to make conversation when it's impossible to coherently respond. The gyno also tries to make conversation, but what topic is really acceptable when someone's giving you a Pap smear? My favorite conversation with my gyno and his nurse was about the grocery store with the best produce for the price. How bizarre. He's checking out my ability to produce fruit while we're chatting about the quality of Gala apples!

I'm hoping that tomorrow's visit is devoid of any Pregnant Couples or screaming "big" brothers. I also hope I emit the proper amount of pee, that my ovaries are lookin' good, and my appointment doesn't get cancelled due to an emergency C-section. I'd rather just get it over with for the year.

Peppers, Anyone?

Last spring the hubby decided that he wanted a vegetable garden. We pursued this idea with gusto, picking out tomato plants, banana peppers, jalapenos, all compact with promise in their little plastic square pots. I also made some selections of lavender, oregano, parsley, and lemon thyme, dreaming of making herb-infused soaps as well as unforgettable pasta sauces from the bounty of my section of the newly-dug plot of dirt.

Our illusions of daintily tending our garden were soon dispelled. However, in the spring of this year, all we could recall was the taste of homegrown tomatoes and the aroma of tilapia baked with lemon thyme. So we find ourselves, two idealistic amateur farmers, still grappling with the trials of the novice gardener in the second annual "what-were-we-thinking?" vegetable/herb garden.

On the plus side, we have enjoyed dishes embellished with fresh herbs and some delicious tomato soups. We have shared our harvests with neighbors and family, like a feature photo in Southern Living magazine. However, it ain't always such a pretty picture.

Weeds are evil. At least I can say that weeding one's garden in the Texas July heat is ample exercise and results in enough calorie loss through perspiration to ignore any needling of the conscience to pop in my Denise Austin Pilates DVD. Watering the garden is another chore. Perhaps I should hook up the soaker hoses I heisted from my dad earlier in the year (you know, back when I was still living the dream). But alas, they're buried in the withered brush of the gigantic tomato plants that have fallen all over themselves, I'm assuming, in sheer exhaustion. (Note: tomatoes are vine-producing plants. They ought to be trellised.)

Despite our neglect of the garden, those suckers of still bearing fruit! I had no idea one could be inundated with produce. As I walked by our kitchen table recently, I noticed the three bell peppers that had been sitting there, unused, for at least two weeks. Ew. They looked back at me pathetically--three little, wrinkled old ladies, complete with age spots.

In response to our clashes with the realities of gardening, we have resolved that in the spring of 2006, we'll purchase one or two tomato plants and a couple of pepper plants. However, I have the sneaking suspicion that we may find ourselves in line once again, our cart carrying a host of our next high-quantity producers. If you see us, just point us in the direction of the nearest farmer's market. Maybe we can get some money out of our irrepressible illusions of gardening grandeur, rather than just blood, sweat, and calluses.

Trial by Vomit

I believe it was my grandmother who said that if you want a baby, you should get a dog. Conversely, she said, if you want a dog, consider what it takes to care for an infant. When my husband and I meet a new person, after the usual introductions, we arrange our faces into polite smiles for the expected questions that follow.

"How long have you been married?" (Three years.)

"Do you have children?" (No.)

Typically, the interviewer then responds with a disappointed "oh," and makes some comment about how there will be plenty of time for children later and that we should just enjoy our time together. (Uh, thanks. That's our philosophy. Eye rolling inserted here.)

In the last year or two, several of my friends and acquaintances have entered the wild world of parenthood. I have learned quite a few things, particularly facts I wish I didn't know as a childless woman. However, I do have a dog. Now please don't think that I believe that a dog is just like a baby. Please, dogs poop in the yard, babies poop...well, you know--it's a big difference! And no, I don't think my dog is my child, and no, we don't dress him up. (Okay, once we tried to paint stripes on his back for a Halloween costume as a football. Let me just say that dogs don't like their humans to put face paint on their backs.)

But I agree with my grandmother's sage advice. Let me explain why doggie parenthood can be a small dress rehearsal for baby parenthood. I'll just focus on one topic: vomit. We have woken up on several occasions, usually around 4 AM, to the sound of our miniature dachshund's heaving. (Yes, he sleeps in our bed.) We've become experts at scooping him up at just the last moment before the eruption and depositing him on the hardwood floor outside our bedroom door so the carpet in our bedroom is saved from the canine upchuck. Then there's the subsequent stroking of the pup, telling him he's okay, the offer of a Milkbone so his breath doesn't reek, the swabbing of the puke puddle. Recently, I held the weiner in my arms as we stood in the garage as my husband climbed into the car to go to work. Without warning, the dog threw up. Part of it landed on my flip-flop clad foot. Ick. However, I shrugged with a sigh, knowing that this incident was just a reminder that, in some small ways, I too am a mom. And if and/or when I'm a mother of a sick infant, I'll tackle that situation with the confidence that I've already completed vomit training.

Toothbrush Troubles

Do you have a favorite type of toothbrush? I can't say that I have one specific favorite, but I do have my preferences (soft bristles, thin handle). My husband also is particular about his tooth-cleaning apparatus. (However, he's more the medium bristles type.) I'm not a stickler for dental maintenance (I should be, though, after five years of braces), but I do like to follow the monthly replacement guideline.

Given these facts I've shared about myself, please help me answer this question: why is it that I can never find the same brand and style of toothbrush twice? I frequent the same two grocery stores. I look for a new toothbrush roughly once a month. Are toothbrushes like computers--in need of an updated version within 48 hours? Is it possible that the second you drive off the lot with your brand-spankin' new Reach brush that it decreases in its value and/or availability?

As I picked up my Aquafresh (light blue trim, soft bristles, flexible head) after another fruitless search for my husband's latest preferred brush, I wondered...are there antique toothbrush collectors in the world? If I actually watched Antiques Roadshow (I just can't get into it), would some middle-aged man appear with his father's circa 1949 toothbrush? My thoughts drifted back to my dilemma. Are there rare finds of toothbrushes for sale on eBay?

If anyone can tell me where I can get an Equaline, medium-bristled toothbrush in a July 2005 model, I'd appreciate it! Happy brushing!