My Last Post (Meaning “The End”) About My First Marriage

There are many things regarding marriage that can be seen as Big Red Flags. The Biggest Red Flag would be to spend your honeymoon night with your brand new mother-in-law, sister-in-law, and two brothers-in-law.

Yes, all six of us spent the night in a one bedroom apartment.

After that, things went down hill from there.

We argued a lot. I don’t remember what about, but I’m pretty sure it was everything. I might have been immature, but I have always been opinionated and I can sometimes be confrontational. That’s what happens when you grow up in a family of six kids. I can remember storming out of our apartment and walking for hours. I’m pretty sure the only reason why I came back was because I was too full of pride to go back to my parents and admit I had made a mistake.

The Ex took what little wedding money we had and bought a used 1973 Chevy Vega station wagon, even though he had a Fiat Spider and I had a perfectly good VW wagon, which he had me sell. This, even though he claimed previously to own three other cars in Connecticut. (I did sell my VW, to an ex-boyfriend.) The Vega was a serious bone of contention between us. I hated the car, my father (who was a really good mechanic) thought it was a hunk of junk, but the Ex bought it almost in spite. I and my new sister-in-law somehow drove it Connecticut, where we left it while I joined the Ex in Germany.

In Germany, things got way worse. The Ex decided to volunteer for extra duty and field assignments, leaving me alone most of the nine months I was there. I fell in with a bunch of his friends and we started doing crazy stuff. I would sneak into the barracks and we’d party on hash. If any officers came, they would stash me on the window ledge. (These were really old brick buildings, with window ledges you could almost park a Weber grill on.) Then we would get so high and hungry, we’d go to the commissary and steal food. One time we walked out with about $50 worth of steaks under our coats. This was too much for three or four people to eat, and the refrigerators in Europe are too small to handle the leftovers. I ended up wasting most of it.

Then, there was a really handsome Greek kid, friend of the Ex, with whom I had a short fling with. He was supposed to be teaching me Greek, but ended up doing a lot more.

When my Ex and I did get together, he did strange things with me, like take me on field trips to Auschwitz. We also toured the Czech border, then still Communist, and told me to be very still because the guards could probably shoot me if I wasn’t. We went to Berchesgarden and stayed where Hitler was holed up. (The only redeeming thing about that trip was getting to see Mozart’s birthplace in Salzburg.)

It was during my European tour where food was involved in our fighting. I was tired of him comparing my cooking to his mother’s. The fastest way to beat a path out of a woman’s heart is to say that his MOM makes it better. I don’t care if it’s just Jello or Campbell’s soup, if it’s true or just a pipe dream, a man should never say those dreaded words to the woman he loves. I threw pancakes at him, a pot roast, and don’t even get me started on the time I tried (and failed) to make spaghetti. I’m NOT Italian, damn it!

Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore, and decided to come home. First, I went to Connecticut, where the Girl Across the Street befriended me. Looking back, I can see where she was fishing me for information and I was willingly giving it. We were best pals, if only because she listened to me. Of course, I didn’t know she was going to stab me in the back later. I stayed at the Ex’s parents’ house for a few weeks, where I proceeded to make the Mama mad at me because I refused to eat (I’d gained 15 pounds in Germany), took the 1973 Vega and headed west.

Two weeks and three cases of motor oil later (the car had a cracked engine head, and I went to my mountain state via Kentucky, southern Texas and New Mexico), the Vega and I finally limped into my town. I found my best friend and slept on her couch, probably for about three days straight. I don’t think I saw my parents for another couple of weeks.

A few months later, I moved to a Tundra state to get away from my parents. My mother was on my case about leaving my Ex behind in Germany. I had to get away from her.

I filed for divorce in the new state, but couldn’t get him to sign the paperwork. He thought (wrongly) that I would be able to get alimony and half of his check. It had been many months since I got any money out of him, and that was the least of my concerns. I lived there for a few years, still technically married. The Girl Across the Street kept sending me letters. She was even going to visit me at one point. She had a plane ticket and the whole works.

Then one day, she wrote me a letter saying she wasn’t coming. She had shared all of my letters to her to the Ex, who was now back and out of the Army. At the end of the letter, she told me they were getting married, as soon as they could get an annulment, and would I sign the papers? They wanted to get married in the Catholic church.

As you might imagine, I was pretty pissed off. I never did sign the annulment papers, and let the Ex take care of the divorce proceedings.

I’m still friends with the Ex’s sister. She was sort of the black sheep of the family. She lives in Tucson. One day, just a few years ago, my Ex’s mother called to tell me they were selling the house and did I want my artwork back. I hadn’t spoken to her since 1975, and was totally surprised. So she FedExed my stuff back to me, and I sent her a thank you card.

As for the Ex and my Ex-friend, they are still married.

It was a mess, and I’m glad to say, that was the end of that marriage. I’m also just as happy to announce that this is the end of this story.

A Not-So-Short Post on My First Marriage Part Deux

WordPress ate my original post. I hope I can reconstruct it. I will give it the old college try.

When I left you at the altar in my last post, I neglected to mention a few key items. There was some dust and dirt in the brief time between October and February.

Before you think it was pregnancy, think again. Becoming pregnant (for me anyway) would prove to be a daunting task. It wasn’t that I dropped out of school. That wasn’t even an option.

No, it was something more serious than that.

I found that I wasn’t in the least bit attracted to my ex.

There was no sizzle, no spark, no hots, nothing. Sure he was nice to look at, but eye candy isn’t going to satisfy you in bed. If you had to grade our chemistry, I’m afraid we would score a D-. It wasn’t for lack of trying on my part. I was 17, started late, and had an overabundance of hormones and a fair amount of curiosity. It was HIM. I could parade around in front of him completely in the buff, and not get an eyebrow lift. There were other parts of his anatomy that wasn’t getting a lift too, if you catch my drift.

My ex was a weight lifter, and I think that addled his organ. He would have rather hung out with his weight lifting buddies than play around with me, which was rather a change. My previous boyfriends, of which there were many, were all about sex. But like most stupid 17 year olds, I thought I could change him, just by the force of sheer will, charm and talent. I found out later that there wasn’t enough will, charm or talent on the planet to change that guy.

The other thing that began to gnaw at the back of my mind was his over-active imagination, code word: LYING. I found out during our Christmas visit to Connecticut that many of the things he told me in the six weeks before were either gross exaggerations or outright lies. For one thing, he told me he won several weight lifting competitions. LIE. He also told me that 1. he attended UConn, 2. he had three fast cars (thus converting my dad to his side), and 3. I was his first girlfriend. LIE, LIE and BIG FAT LIE. In fact, Number 3 lived right across the street from him. We shared more than a boyfriend. She also had my first name. Later on in this tale of woe, she befriends me, rats me out to the ex, and ends up marrying him. So his second wife had the same name as the first. Talk about creepy.

Of course, there were other hurdles that seemed endearing at first, but were hard to overcome. One was the huge Italian family. My ex alluded to Mafia ties (another LIE) and made it sound like I would be sleeping with the fishes if I didn’t toe the line. They were cool in a way, loud and boisterous, and not as dysfunctional as my own family. It was the first time I ate meals with a real cloth napkin, and also the first time I ate dinner in courses, with soup, salad and entree. At my house, dinner was a scramble to get the best piece of chicken before the younger sib did.

Ex’s Mama ruled the roost, but not her husband. He was one guy with roving eyes and hands. In fact, the neighbor girl with my first name told me that during the time the family was out in my state watching me get married to their son, Ex’s Dad, who decided to stay in Connecticut, was over at her house feeling her up. Eww… That tantalizing tidbit came out much later.

It wasn’t just this. I got the distinct impression that I was being used. It was already clear that he thought only of himself. He thought (very wrongly) that because I was of a certain ethnic persuasion, I should be subservient, like being a doormat is a genetic quirk. (HAH! As you know, I’m the farthest thing from it.) Later on, I thought maybe he picked me to marry was because he might be gay.

During our “engagement,” I turned 18 and so thought I was now an adult. In retrospect, I inherited the adult mess.

So, there was a bit of reluctance and some cold feet when going into this marriage. Our nuptials were scheduled for the chapel on base, by a Catholic priest (obviously, we were both Catholic). Since we were technically still in wartime, the priest waived the usually mandated premarital classes. Had we gone to the classes, I might have avoided a marriage of inconvenience and a first husband. (That’s how I dumped one of my fiances of the future.) My ex was soon scheduled to be transferred to Germany. Okay, it wasn’t Viet Nam, but they made an exception in our case.

Walking down the aisle, my father leaned over and whispered, “If you want to back out, now would be a good time to run.” Being a know-it-all teenager, I didn’t listen to him.

Damn stupid of me.

More later. This is a long and exhausting story!

A (Hopefully) Short Post on My First Marriage Part I

(I failed. I’ll post Part II tomorrow.)

It was fall 1973. I was a senior in high school, scheduled to graduate the next year. I was a pretty good student, not valedictorian material, but made it to the top ten percent of my class, and that’s without even trying. (If you must know, I was extremely adept at goofing off. And partying in the mountains.) We had split sessions at my high school, so the juniors and seniors went to school from 7 a.m. to noon, and the freshmen and sophomores went from 12:30 p.m. to 5:30 p.m. Because of that gravy schedule, I had a job in the afternoon that could qualify as full time.

As a 17 year old, what do you think the one thing my parents could do to gross me out and make me want to leave forever?

(I should play the stupid email trick here and make you scroll down, but I won’t.)

If you hadn’t guessed it, here it is: My parents had the gall to get pregnant.

I know, I know! Ewww… I figured they were boinking when they tried to make all of us go to bed at 7:30. My little sisters and brother faithfully obeyed them, but I just laughed and stayed up all night reading Khalil Gibran and listening to the burn out DJ at KILO FM forget to take the Grateful Dead album off after side A was finished. (Get it? KILO? Gawd, I loved that station!) I couldn’t tell you how many times the station broadcast the dead sound of the record spinning around at the end, sometimes for fifteen minutes straight. Besides KILO, I listened to the bed springs giving way.

We received word of my impending little sister sometime in October. This news really put me in a pickle. There were already five kids in a three bedroom house, and we were jammed in there like sardines as it was. A sixth child was going to seriously upset the apple cart. The youngest was 8, so she was more or less self-sufficient. A baby meant only one thing: one of us was going to get stuck babysitting. I was determined that it wasn’t going to be me.

My job was at a military base, and it was the winding down period of the VietNam war. Many of my friends from school worked at the base. It was close by, and it was lucrative. In fact, it was the best paying job in the county. The base was full of men, as you might imagine. Since a lot of them were drafted, many of them leaned toward my liberal mindset. They were really hippies with buzz cuts. Some of the girls in my school wouldn’t date a soldier (we called them “doggies”), but I didn’t have that prejudice. I was an equal opportunity woman. Let’s just say, I was never without a date, although at the time, I referred to it as “hanging out” with different guys.

One day, as we were enjoying a break from my menial job, I spied an extremely handsome guy playing volleyball with some other soldiers. I don’t know what it was about him. He was pretty. Curly dark hair, roman nose, pale skin. I liked him immediately. I liked him so much, I fished him out and got someone to introduce us. In no time at all, we were taking long walks around the barracks. Somehow, I got him to ask me on a date.

By Christmas, I was engaged and spending the holiday with his parents in Connecticut.

My baby sister was born two months prematurely on February 12. She came home from the hospital on February 22.

On February 23, I was a married woman.

Competitive Lumberjacking and Family Tree Shaking

On some days when I have nothing better to do, I will use Google to shake up the family tree and see what falls out of it.

Yesterday, I happened upon some medical articles about my first cousin. Thirty-one years ago, she had stillborn conjoined twins. They were formed rather strangely (one head inside of another, with two bodies opposite each other) so at the time she delivered, the twins were whisked away and she didn’t even have a chance to say goodbye or bury them. They went right into the county morgue, where they were autopsied.

This cousin didn’t like me very much. We were born the same year, and she always felt my grandma liked me best. My grandma had scores of grandchildren, and I don’t think she thought better of any of them. Well, I should amend that. Maybe my one boy cousin, also my age. He looked like Jesus back in the 1970s. I don’t know what he looks like now. He pissed me off about 30 years ago and I haven’t spoken to him since.

Back to my female cousin and her twins: I vividly remember the entire episode and the hushed tones when we were all talking about her experience. My aunt thought of them as monsters, which is how they appeared. Reading about it online solidified this for me. I felt sorry for her then, and I still do. I was never very close to her, but am still very close to her younger sister.

The other leaves that fell out of my family tree were some other distant relations. I have third and fourth cousins who have always competed in logging competitions. If you lived as far north as they do, you’d know why. These days, everyone has a satellite dish, but back in those days, you had to entertain yourself somehow. Some people drank heavily, some had sex with anything that would lay down. These cousins competed in log rolling and tree cutting competitions. I suppose it kept them out of trouble. I don’t know. The last time we visited that far branch of the family tree was in 1975. My father, grandma and I drove two hundred miles from civilization to see them. The husband was my grandma’s brother. The wife was not amused. She didn’t give us anything to drink, and after our long trip, only offered us smoked whitefish to eat. Smoked whitefish makes a fine appetizer but a horrible dinner. They were so far into the wilderness, we had to drive back almost the entire two hundred miles before we could find a diner with food.

Needless to say, it was a long time before I could eat smoked fish. (I love it now, so I’ve obviously gotten over it.)

I also located some other cousins with MySpace accounts. I’m not sure I want to ask them to be my friends there. Remaining incognito is a splendid feeling. Spying from afar is just fine by me.

It’s nice to shake the tree from a distance and not have to rake up any of the leaves.

Typing Til Your Fingers Fall Off

That’s what I did yesterday. I worked on my book. Now my fingers are sore, and so is my back from sitting for six hours in my most excellent purple chair.

Yow-za…

Blah, Blah, Blah

Mr. Demonic and Ms. MiniD are away for the weekend. They are doing some final parent-child bonding in a resort condo up north before she heads off to college in August. Three years ago, when my son got ready to leave for California, my husband did the same thing for him. Of course, with guys, it’s all golf. With a teenage daughter, it’s a lot different.

I received an early report from Mr. D that Ms. MiniD and the friend she brought to tag along with have somehow caught the attention of some teenage boys staying at the same resort. (Like that had no chance of happening!) I wonder what the Boyfriend is thinking… He is still here. This condo is so far up north, my daughter has no cell phone coverage, so there’s no texting.

While my husband decided to retire early last night, the girls took the opportunity to hang out at the pool and charge up a steady stream of refreshments. They straggled in around 2 a.m. when the pool closed.

It’s nice to be in the house by myself. I can play the violin as loudly and as often as I like, with no comments from the peanut gallery. I can hog the cat, the bed, and the bathroom. (A squirrel update: all this recent talk about guns and they have been conspicuously absent. Well, maybe that monsoonal rain we’ve had the last three days had something to do with it, too.)

I am the ruler of the roost this weekend, my friends. I mowed the lawn between downpours. I cleaned the refrigerator, which needed it badly. I threw out so much mystery food, I should call the city and ask for an extra pick up and a game of Clue.

I enlisted the aid of an illegal alien to tear up some sod in my side yard. (Well, he IS illegal. I won’t give out his name because I don’t want him deported. He’s a nice guy.) The strawberries are spent, but I notice the raspberries coming in. There’s the promise of tomatoes, in about four weeks.

For dinner tonight, I thought I would go to the local YaYa chicken place. The chicken is seasoned Greek style and grilled, so it’s very healthy. When I got there, right about dinner time, they informed me that they were out of chicken. (!) This was a problem, since I’d spent the entire afternoon cleaning out my refrigerator, and now there was nothing (interesting) left to eat.

On my dejected way back home, I stopped at the market. Nothing looked good. I mean, nothing. The watermelons looked peaked and pale, with too much rind. The strawberries didn’t look as good as the fresh ones from the yard last week. The California peaches were way too hard. I wandered over to the deli section, which also includes hot food, and was totally unimpressed. I circled the entire store three times looking for salvation. The store manager probably thought I was casing the joint. A well-known local news anchor who recently committed suicide was caught shoplifting $300 worth of groceries from that very store, so I think he gives all middle aged women the evil eye.

In the end, I picked up a cantaloupe that definitely wasn’t ripe and a container of pineapple that looked yellow and yummy. Where I live, you just don’t know about fruits and vegetables until you get your produce home and eat it. What looks delicious in the store is often a piece of fruit with the consistency of a slice of redwood disguised in bright food coloring or shiny wax.

I’ll check it out later. For now… I’m just chillin’ - the queen of my castle.

A Squirrel’s Tail/Tale

One day this spring, I opened the front door to get my morning newspaper.

At either side of my front door are two enormous yew bushes. They are about three feet tall, six feet deep and fifteen feet across. They are positioned under each window. It was probably a landscaping coup back in the 1940s when they were planted, but now they are overgrown. In the spring, I can’t even see out of the windows until they are trimmed. Homeless people could live behind each bush, and I’d never know it. (I’ve seen homeless people living under smaller bushes than mine out in San Francisco, so I know it can be done.)

This space between the bush and house is large enough for a man, but other than that is useless.

This one frosty morning, I happened to glance to the left as I bent over to retrieve my paper. That’s when I saw it.

A squirrel’s tail.

A black squirrel’s tail. It was just laying there right under the window.

How it got there, I don’t know. I didn’t know what happened to the rest of the squirrel. I can only assume that it belongs to the black squirrel with the short stubby tail. The end of his tail is ringed with white hair.

I think this weekend, I will go to the store and gaze longingly at weapons of squirrel ass destruction.

Critters, Ducks and Other Water Fowl: Off-Topic From Squirrels

About fifteen years ago, the Demonic family lived in a far northern suburb. We were so far north, we were almost in the next county. Back in those days, it was desirable to move far away from the metropolitan center. When the Mr and I first married, we moved to a relatively close northern suburb. After four years and a most positive change in fortune, we found a beautiful French colonial atop a hilly lot, far, far away from everything, and that’s where we stayed for a long time. What snapped me out of genteel suburban living was having to drive back into town for school and work five days a week. Most days, we spent a good hour on the road, and that was just getting there. Add to the mix a major snowstorm, unexpected road construction or fatal car crash, and that road time all of a sudden expanded into three hours or more - one way.

Still, it was nice to be out so far, yet still enjoy the civility of manicured lawns and nearby neighbors with which to share barbecues and play dates. However, there was a downside, and that was the wildlife situation.

Up there, there are squirrels, but squirrels are in the minority. Those squirrels would have to fight with opossums, wood chucks, skunks and other creatures for their share of the pest pie. In fact, the biggest pest in that area would be skunks. We trapped fourteen of them in one summer, one right after another. Before you think I did this on my own, I should clarify. We hired a pest control company to rid us of the family of varmints that were nesting under our deck. At $40 a pop, we probably should have moved back to town several years earlier.

The other form of pestilence in the northern suburbs would be waterfowl. Ducks are present, but our neighborhood was scourged with a preponderance of Canadian geese. Ordinarily, I don’t have any beefs against Canadians, but I have to complain about their geese. Entire large flocks would congregate at the neighborhood lake, making the sand and boat ramp slick with birdie doo-doo. The lake was thick with floating goose byproducts, thus making swimming uncomfortable at the least and a health risk at the most. During the summer, when the temperature climbs to the high 90s with a 100% humidity reading, one likes to take a dip into the lake, especially when one is married to the Tightwad known as Mr. Demonic, a man who wouldn’t buy central air conditioning. (He has, of course, accepted it if it was already installed in the house.)

Our Canadian geese were fat and tired. They never migrated south, nor did they ever move back to Canada. The reason for this is painfully clear. We had neighbors who fed them daily. Why fly to Mexico in the winter when you can survive on Aunt Bessie’s bread crumbs today? Once a year, the neighborhood would pay to have the geese rounded up and taken elsewhere. This was done right at molting, when they couldn’t fly away. Of course, after the feathers came in, they flew back to the comfort of their old neighborhood, so it was a lose-lose system. Terribly flawed.

My backyard neighbors in that subdivision had a pool. Having a pool is a good thing if your lake is infested with geese. The mother, a gorgeous blond who had four children but still looked like a Hollywood starlet, or at least a retired cheerleader, stayed at home and cared for the pool, which was not fenced. They never invited us over to the pool, but that was cool. She kept Mr. Demonic entertained, as she laid out looking quite fetching in her bikinis.  We could see all of the action when watching TV in our family room.

One day, a friend of mine gave me a bird feeder as a present. Mr. Demonic had a great time putting it up in the back yard. As soon as we launched our feeder, we discovered the sneakiness of the squirrel population. Sure it is nice to watch birds as they take seed from your bird feeder, but those pesky squirrels (and other critters) were eating everything up.

Daily I would fill the feeder, and then attach all sorts of items to it to prevent squirrels. These included big round feeder umbrellas, coyote pee, nails, heck, I even greased the pole with Crisco. Every day, they found a new way to thwart my attempts at keeping them away.

There was a byproduct to this exercise in futility. As soon as the squirrels knocked all of the seed to the ground, the geese would head over to eat giant mouthfuls of seed.

One day, my gorgeous blond neighbor knocked at my patio door. She wasn’t happy. In fact, she was pretty tense. “Yes, could you please stop feeding the birds? The geese are flying into my pool and making a terrible mess.” She didn’t wait for me to respond, she just turned and left.

I was probably this close (like two millimeters) away from giving up bird feeding completely, but after that, I bought a 25 pound bag of bird seed and kept feeding the squirrels and everything else.

Of course, these days, I wouldn’t feed the birds if they came up to the back door with a tin cup.

Defining Moments in the War Against the Squirrels

I despise squirrels.

There. I’ve said it. For those of you who don’t know me well or think I am joking, well, step back. If you’re a card carrying member of PETA, look out.

I must admit, I do like most animals. I like my cat, Maxx Attaxx. He’s mental, spastic, and bites hard, but is endearing in many other ways. For example, he keeps my feet warm when I’m sleeping. He also catches bugs, and kills them with gusto.

I like dogs too. I especially like well-behaved dogs, ones that will actually do what you say. I love dogs who don’t poop in my yard. (I might like dogs, but this house is dog-less at the moment. If there’s dog poop in my yard, that means it doesn’t belong here, and some human was negligent about removing said feces.) I also like horses, birds and animals in zoos. I like cows, but I have no qualms about eating a hamburger or wearing leather shoes. Sure, they have huge, sad eyes, but that doesn’t bother me. I know they are dumber than a box of rocks, and someone has to eat them. *Raises hand*

However, squirrels are different. Squirrels are a scourge upon this land. Squirrels should be eliminated by all means possible. They are glorified rodents, dressed up in a “pretty” poofy squirrel tail. Get them wet, and they’re just a big rat.

There are easily several thousand squirrels within the one block area that contains my home. I kid you not. There are black ones, brown ones, and albino ones. I blame the overpopulation of these rodents on the complacency of some of the squirrel sympathizers in my community. Some people actually think that squirrels are cute. They feed them peanuts. There’s a retired doctor down the street who feeds them Krispy Kremes and giant bagels. I know this, because the squirrels bring their haul down to our yard and try to hide it. We’ve found pastries in my husband’s garden shoes (which he keeps outside), in the garage, and tucked under the trampoline cover. Squirrels are so stupid, they forget where they hide their stash of food. Thus, when I am weeding, I end up uncovering peanuts. (A hint: in my area of the Tundra, peanuts are not found naturally of among our flora.)

I would shoot the squirrels that come into my yard, but I can’t. I live in a rather crowded suburb of a rather large metropolitan area. If I were to start shooting at squirrels, I’d be arrested. I’d love to lay out a dish of radiator fluid, but I think that would get me jail time as well. I am, however, lobbying for squirrel birth control.

In my lifetime, I managed to fell two squirrels without even trying. One time, I netted up my strawberry patch and an unwitting (code word: stupid) squirrel got himself entangled in the net. He might have had a strawberry grin on his face, but he was dead. His limp body was a warning to the other squirrels hoping to feast on berries. “Stay away!” They did.

The other time, I was pulling into the office at work. I was driving maybe 20 miles per hour, slowing down to turn into the driveway. My daughter, Ms. MiniDemonic, was in the passenger seat. I believe she was about nine or ten at the time. The squirrel was teasing me in the middle of the road. I didn’t aim for it, but figured the rodent would scamper out of the way. I was surprised to learn that he didn’t. I flattened that thing like a pancake. He obviously thought I was going to swerve to avoid him. Where would he get that idea? From the thousands of other squirrel sympathizers? Dumb ass. Now when I drive in my neighborhood, I try to swerve into them, but they’ve all wised up. They move if they see me coming.

I just noticed that I’m going to have a bumper crop of pears this year, and am already fretting about what to do with my rodent problem. I’d kind of like to actually eat one of my pears this year.

I wonder if I can ring up General Powell on the phone for his advice. After all, he’s retired and might need something to do.

Good News From the Discount Dentist

Last week, I went to my old dentist. There was nothing wrong with my teeth. The only reason for my visit was because my bite guard broke in one spot. It didn’t hurt, it just had a hole in it. Plus, I knew it had been some time (two and a half years) since I’d been to see him.

The last time I saw him, two and a half years ago, he completed $3,000 worth of work. What happened that time was that I chipped my front tooth, again. The first time I chipped my front tooth, I was having a heated discussion (let’s just call it an “argument” because that is what it was) with my dear Mr. Demonic, and a bit of it chipped off as I was clenching my teeth. The very last time, I had been chewing on a bone (see this post) and another large bit of enamel came off with the pork chop.

When I saw him, he talked me into getting veneers, to cover up the raggedy edges. He sold them to me as a necessary item, not a cosmetic item. (Although, I must say, my teeth were in pretty sad shape. They needed some cosmetics.) Originally, he had wanted me to get eight teeth done. I noted the price and said no thanks, I’ll just get the top four. (Thus, $3,000. Otherwise, it would be double that.)

I have to say that I was pleased with the job done, but it hurt the pocketbook, nonetheless. My husband, the Tightwad known as Mr. D, does not provide us with dental insurance. Meaning, we pay cash. When he saw the bill for my veneers, he about had a cow right there in the living room. “THREE THOUSAND DOLLARS! IS YOUR MOUTH WORTH THAT?” Obviously, he can mightily argue against that theory.

Why do I tell you this story? Because this is the main reason why I didn’t go back to the dentist. Contrary to popular belief, I don’t have a washtub full of twenty dollar bills buried in the back yard. The other reason I didn’t go back is that I hate going to the dentist. Absolutely. I like(d) my dentist, but I’d rather pick up dog shit all day than go to the dentist. I’d rather roam naked in an ill-fitting hospital gown on Main Street than go to the dentist. I’d rather shave off what’s left of my hair than go to the dentist.

So last week, when I went to the dentist, he chided me for not coming in sooner. Then he said that I needed a Very Deep Cleaning, which meant two hours in the chair and antibiotics for the “gum” disease he thought I had. Then he said this: “$850.” When I recovered from that, I heard him say “Two new crowns.” Cha-ching. I heard the cash register ring up another $2,000.

As I related to my friends elsewhere, at this moment, I almost burst into tears. I know I was a bad girl, not going to get my teeth cleaned on a regular basis. I should be flogged. Chastised. But robbed?

Then I thought, oh no! Maybe I’ll die from my gum disease. I was depressed and petrified for the rest of the day.

After some discussion with Mr. Demonic (and others), and after I had calmed down, I decided to contact a couple of other dentists for a second opinion. And I asked around to see which dentists my acquaintances were using.

Yesterday, I went to a place called “Superteeth” which was recommended by one of my employees. It’s open 7 days a week, and she said very inexpensive. I got my teeth cleaned by a very nice and seemingly competent dentist. I related my prior week’s experience to the dentist. He didn’t want to know the name of the place, so I didn’t tell him.

Dr. B: You mean they didn’t give you a free cleaning? You’ve got a lot of work in this mouth. Very nice. I would have thrown in a free cleaning.

Me: Free cleaning!? They were going to charge me $850!

Dr. B [falling off stool]: For what? (Hygienist looks incredulous.) They didn’t clean this?

Me: They said I had gum disease. They couldn’t do the regular cleaning.

Dr. B: Well, you haven’t had your teeth cleaned in a while. There’s some plaque, but considering how long it’s been, it’s not bad.

Me: What about antibiotics? Do I need them?

Dr. B [almost laughing]: If your gums were bleeding, I might consider it. But they aren’t doing too bad.

Me: Wow! I’m telling all my peeps to come here!

Dr. B [shakes hand]: You’re welcome.

The bill?

It came to $99.

That drive home felt really good.

I don’t have to tell you that Mr. Demonic was pleased as punch.