Can you open wider?

cc licensed flickr photo shared by heather

Visiting the dentist is one of the things I most hate.

It doesn’t matter who the dentist is, how fancy his or her office is, how many free toothbrushes and floss I get, I simply hate it.

I hate the dental office smell, the creepy posters of huge teeth with eyes and mouths, and the waiting room filled with other terror-striken patients that jump every time a name is called.

On this fine morning, my terror increases as the bespectacled little man who controls the tiny drill that causes unbearable pain informs me, “I’m afraid this wisdom tooth has to come out today.”

Wisdom tooth? Coming out today? I didn’t even know I had one of those, much less that it was having a coming out party!

“So…? Are you ready to have it pulled?”

Have what pulled? Oh my God. Oh my freakin’ God.

“While we’re young, Bella.”

Young? How young am I going to look with missing teeth?

Will I still be able to chew my food? Will my face cave in? Will my teeth move backward and leave me with a large gap between my front teeth? And more importantly, how much is it going to hurt?

Palms sweating, mouth dry, pupils dilated, I see him loom closer, needle in hand.

“You’ll just feel a pinch,” he says.

A little pinch like the kind my sister gave me when we got in a fight, little?

Or a big pinch like the one my mother gave me when I misbehaved?”

Silently, I nod my head.

“Open wide,” he instructs.

The last man that said that was the gynecologist, and that felt like a really big pinch.

“No need to tense up. Try to relax, ” he insists, while holding what looks like a set of pliers to my face.

“God, why do you hate me?”

“If you don’t open wide, I’m going to have to use the metal clamp.”

Oh no! Not the metal clamp. The last time he used it, I almost swallowed my tongue.

I shake my head no.

“Alrighty then. Lets get this party started.”

Okay, he didn’t really say that, but I realize I’m going to need some humor to stop myself from passing out.

In go cotton wads that look like caterpillars and make me gag; quickly followed by the “pliers.”

“I’ve got it,” he announces, as if he had just caught a fish.

And then the tugging begins.

To the left, to the right, and again to the left, the torture device moves in my mouth.

The groggy part of my brain starts to think we’re dancing the “Cupid Shuffle.”

“Clara, can you give me a hand here?” he calls out to his assistant.

I thought he said this tooth was dead.

Why isn’t it out already?

Panic starts to set in. I can’t swallow. There’s a taste of blood in my mouth.

The tugging continues.

His assistant joins the fun and presses my shoulders into the seat.

In spite of the anesthetic, I feel like I’m having an out-of-body experience; witnessing the onslaught.

Panic increases and I begin to think that any moment, the dentist is going to climb on top of my chest to get more leverage.

And this isn’t a strange thought, given he appears to be having a “take no prisoners” day.

“It’s almost out.”

Suddenly, I start having flashbacks of when I was giving birth and realize that this pain is ten times worse.

“It’s coming!”

Finish it off already, for the love of Pete.

“Here it is!” he proudly exclaims as he shows me the tooth that until fifteen minutes ago, resided in my mouth.

I wipe the blood trickling from the corners of my mouth and realize I must look like one of the vampires from Twilight.

A tear makes its way down my cheek.

It’s been only a few minutes, and already it feels like a part of me is missing.

With a satisfied look on his face, the dentist says, “No complications. I was able to yank it out whole.”

(Like this is supposed to make me feel better.)

With drool making its way down my chin, I say, “Zee you in zis months.”

It appears the anesthesia has left me with a lisp.

“Unless I have to pull out the one from the opposite quadrant.”

Are you kidding me? I’d sooner light myself on fire.

As I weakly limp out of the office, I “key” every poster lining the hallway.

There, I feel better already.

How do you make it through your dental visits?

Who says having a big butt is a bad thing?

cc licensed flickr photo shared by Dawn Ashley

As the Significant Other and I sat in an outdoor terrace having lunch today, I noticed how this also provided us with the opportunity to people watch.

However, this pleasurable activity quickly turned into an anxiety producing venture as I realized that everywhere I looked, there were women with teeny weeny butts.

Yes, ladies, teeny weeny butts.

As I glanced down at my ginormous butt, insecurity started to rear its ugly head.

However, this time I was strong and managed to stuff critical Bella back in the box before my self-esteem went south.


Because I’m sick of making excuses for the size of my ass.

It’s genetics.

It’s the cheap underwear I’m wearing.

I’m bloated and yes, so is my ass.

It’s these damn jeans!

You name it, I’ve used it to justify the size of my ass.

But no more.

Ignoring the extensive amount of teeny weeny butts around us, I recalled that thankfully, a “curvy” revolution is taking place.

Everywhere we look, curvaceous women are being featured in magazines, ad campaigns, and even on the catwalk.

And it’s about time.

It’s time we stop feeling the need to constraint, minimize, imprison, and camouflage our asses when the likes of JLo, Beyonce and Vida Guerra proudly strut theirs.

And lets not forget that annoying Kardashian woman, who, when the good Lord was doling out helpings of booty, went up to get second AND third helpings.

Na uh. Enough already.

Personally, I’m done.


Because at the end of the day, the efforts to camouflage my ass are so tiring and subject me to so much stress, that for the past month I’ve had a recurring nightmare dream.

In my nightmare dream, it appears I’ve lost lost consciousness as a result of being encased in a pair of butt-compressing underpants, yet I’ve retained my hearing.

This is what I hear:

Paramedic 1: “Victim appears to have lost consciousness. Breathing is short, quick, and shallow. Heartbeat erratic. Muscles of the rib cage, diaphragm, neck and abdomen seem to be constricted. Proceeding to remove garments.”

Me (still unconscious): “God, no! I’m wearing you know what!”

Paramedic 1: “Having trouble here. In need of assistance.”

Paramedic 2: “Hell, Frank, she’s wearing you know what.”

Paramedic 1: “We don’t get paid enough for this.”

Paramedic 2 on the radio, for all the world to hear: “Requesting further assistance. And bring the hydraulic shears. She’s wearing Spanx.”

Me: Kill me, God. Kill me now.

Seriously, my sisters, I am not going down like that.

So today, even when surrounded by teeny weeny butts, I’m appealing to all big bottom women the world over to say, “This is the way we’re meant to be. We are strong. We are bold. We are invincible. And this may be due to the size of our asses.”

Yes, you heard right.

A group of UK researchers has found that having a large derriere and thighs can be healthy.

It appears people with big bums are less prone to develop Type 2 Diabetes and cardiovascular disease.

I kid you not.

So ladies, rock those jeans any way you like and flaunt the size of your ass.

Happy Easter!

Vintage Wednesday: Where’s the panic button?

cc licensed flickr photo shared by TranceMist

As I walked by a shop window today, I realized it’s that time again.

And by that time, I mean the time when I have to be strong and prepare for the moment.

And by moment, I mean when I finally realize there’s nothing I can do.

Because like the Terminator, it’s back.

The one I call my nemesis, my enemy, my foe; the one that taunts me, laughs at me, and wiggles a finger and says, “Oh no you didn’t!”

It’s here…the bathing suit. It’s here!

(screams of horror in the background)

I’m certain we’ve all made its acquaintance.

We all bear its scars.

I know I still wake up in the middle of the night screaming from our last encounter.

Nevertheless, the time has to come for me to face my fears.

It’s time I stand up to the bully and declare, “Someone’s going down today and it ain’t gonna be me!”

And so I walked into the shop and bravely grabbed the little monster from the rack.

I could hear it snickering….giggling…but I powered on, determined that this time around I would prevail.

Into the dressing room I went.

I quickly peeled off all my clothes before I lost whatever courage I had left.

I put my legs through and started to tug.

A minute later, screams of victory were heard as I succeeded getting it past my knees.

Like a slippery eel I wiggled and wiggled until I got the straps into place.

With eyes squeezed shut, I faced the mirror.

I tried to slow down my heart rate by doing the Lamaze breathing exercises I had learned for the Son’s birth twenty years ago.

I realized they weren’t working.

I started praying a Hail Mary.

I opened one eye half way.

I closed it again.

“Is everything alright in there?” asked the sales associate.

“Yes,” I nervously replied as I searched for a defibrillator in the tight confinement of the dressing room.

I should have known this was a bad idea.

What was I thinking?

I heard my mother’s voice in my head screaming, “Oh for heaven’s sake, it’s like ripping off a band-aid. What the hell are you waiting for?”

And that’s when I saw myself in the mirror.

Suddenly the dressing room started spinning, my knees buckled, my lower lip began to quiver, and I started to hyperventilate.

About to pass out from shock, I heard myself whisper, “Where’s the panic button?”

Dressing room attendant: “Is everything alright in there?”

Me: “Is there a doctor in the house?”

Dressing room attendant: “Yes, but he’s in the next dressing room with another lady. Can you hold on one more minute?”

Me: “Yes. I know Lamaze breathing.”

Dressing room attendant: “Great. Hang on. Help is on the way.”

And so ladies, here’s to raising awareness to a brand new situation.

This time I propose that the swim suit be fitted with the following label:

“Warning: Trying on this garment can be harmful to your physical and/or mental state and should only be tried on while in the company of someone who’s qualified to administer CPR and/or is able fit you into a straightjacket.”

Holler if you’re with me.