Sorry, Doc. Part Two
This is Part Two of my apology to doctors. I have harbored a grudge for too long that medical folk are in love with expensive procedures. Because of course, I secretly think their number one goal is money, not my health.
But I’ve been seriously wrong a couple of times.
The first – my sweet dentist, Dr. Robert Rafaniello, who postponed some dental work so that my parents wouldn’t have to foot the bill. (See: Sorry, Doc. Part One.)
My second example of an amazingly admirable and ethical doctor was a plastic surgeon I visited more than thirty years ago.
I’m sorry that I don’t remember his name. But I remember his words.
I had dated a bit in high school. Not very much, but I did go to the Junior Prom with a very nice boy. And although I may not have been completely devastated, I will admit to being very disappointed that no one asked me to the Senior Prom. I spent Prom night in my bedroom, feeling horrible. (I wish I could go back and tell that sad young girl that she was prettier and sweeter than she – and those boys – knew.)
An interesting thing happened in college. I developed a shyness I had not felt in high school. I was a serious student, and apart from one rather deranged boyfriend, I never dated at all.
And things only got worse in my twenties. I worked hard and got my graduate degree at night. I hardly spoke to anyone of the male persuasion. I got shyer.
I finished my MBA when I turned 30. And suddenly – I had time. I had never had free time. I hardly knew how to fill it. The first week I read seven novels. And on top of all that free time I acquired at thirty – Holy Cow, I was thirty. THIRTY. How the hell had that happened?
I decided I wanted a boyfriend. Maybe even a husband.
But I didn’t even know how to date. Never mind how to find a date.
But I was a very logical young woman. I shamelessly and deliberately made friends with a very social, very pretty woman in my office. We started to go out on Tuesday and Thursday nights. And I watched her. She was a very accomplished flirt. I was a very good study. I just copied what she did, and by the end of the year, I could flirt. A little.
I didn’t have as much luck in the boyfriend department as my beautiful friend, however. I knew I wasn’t particularly beautiful, but plenty of ordinary looking women found spouses. I wasn’t sure how they did it, but I was determined to better my odds.
One thing my pretty friend had that I did not was boobs (Okay, two things). She was well-endowed. Men very much appreciated her well-endowedness.
I was flat-chested. I remember when I was twelve, looking at women’s bosoms and thinking, “Pretty soon I will look like that.” I believed it. I never thought to take a look at my mother and my older sisters. Boobs did not exactly run in the family. I was no exception.
It hadn’t seemed to matter much. But now that I was in the market for a boyfriend/fiance/husband, I thought it might help.
I chose the plastic surgeon because I liked the building where he had his office. If he appreciated the aesthetics of good architecture, he could perhaps create attractive breasts.
The doctor took his time examining me. I was self-conscious but I figured he looked at tiny breasts a lot, and it was probably no big deal. (literally)
“Why do you want breast implants?” he asked.
“Well, I thought I would like to look a little better. My clothes would fit better, and maybe I’d feel a little prettier. Nicer breasts might give me a little more confidence.”
“Go ahead and get dressed and we’ll talk more in my office,”
And when I sat down in front of his big desk, the doctor had some bags of clear thick liquid in front of him.
“These are implants. They look nice and soft but they often get pretty hard as your body forms scar tissue around them. So they will make you look bigger, but they won’t feel like real breasts.” (Note: Maybe they do now; this was 1983.)
He had me hold one in my hand.
“That would make you about a B cup,” he said.
“It looks big,” I said.
“Here’s the thing,” the doctor continued. “Most women come here for breast augmentation because they’re miserable. They hate the way they look. Their self-esteem is so bad, they can hardly function. Their whole thought process is focused on how bad they think they look. But I don’t see that in you. I see a basically happy woman who would like to look a little better. And this is a pretty serious – and expensive – way to look a little better.”
I had to agree.
And the doctor said, “Why don’t you buy yourself a few really beautiful padded bras? And then come back in a year if you still want the surgery.”
That was half my lifetime ago.
I’m still flat-chested.
And it hasn’t matter one bit.
Thanks, Doc.
Sorry, Doc. Part One
I am confessing to a strong prejudice.
For a very long time I have held the opinion that doctors will always find something wrong with you, so they can treat you. That is how they make money after all.
A surgeon will of course think you need surgery. An ear specialist will think every kid needs tubes and every person over 40 needs a hearing aid.
And worst is the allergist.
My mother, who had a very long career as a nurse, always told me: “Never marry a doctor. They think they know everything. But if you MUST marry a doctor, marry an allergist.Their patients never die – but they also never get better.”
So I’ve always been more than skeptical at anything the doctor said. I remember once going to a dermatologist for a rash that my family doctor couldn’t seem to identify. My G.P. had sent along all the results from the tests he had already conducted. The dermatologist remarked, “That’s a lot of tests. I don’t exactly know why he did them.” And I replied, “To run up the bill?” The dermatologist did not laugh.
So there it is. I have a very bad attitude when it comes to doctors.
But I remembered two events – both happened quite a long time ago – that negate that bad attitude. And I don’t know why they didn’t influence me more.
But it’s never too late to say you’re sorry.
I’m sorry, all you doctors that have passed or will pass through my life. Some of you might be ethical after all.
Here’s the first incident:
When I was a kid, I had a horrible fear of the dentist. I had been badly frightened by a dentist who. let’s just say, was not great with children. My fear was so overwhelming, that for years, when my mother would take me, I would completely panic and refuse to open my mouth. Oh sure, you could pry it open with sheer brute force (which the bastard occasionally employed), but more often than not my mother would end up taking me home with both of us in tears and my teeth unattended.
But eventually I became a teenager, and I wanted nice teeth. And I wanted them to stop hurting. So one night while doing the dishes, I told my mother than I knew I needed to see the dentist but I was very afraid. My greatly feared dentist had a new younger associate, Dr. Robert Rafaniello, and Mom had heard he was very kind. So she called the office and made me an appointment, explaining that I was willing but terrified.
I went. By myself. My mother dropped me off, saying that I might be better off learning to handle it by myself.
While I was waiting in the chair, staring nervously out the window, I saw a guy in a dentist’s coat glide by – on a skateboard. How bad could he be?
Well, Dr. Rafaniello wasn’t bad. He was wonderful. Sweet and gentle and funny.
“Don’t salivate,” he told me once. “My spit-sink is broken.”
He was honest too. I needed extensive work – fillings and root canals. And when he knew it would hurt, he told me so. He said he would be as quick and gentle as possible, but he acknowledged my pain. And that made it bearable.
I had one tooth that was impacted. My jaw was small, and it seemed there had just been no room for that tooth to descend.
“We’re going to have to do something with that impacted tooth,” said Dr. Rafaniello.
And I think my teeth must have been as terrified of the dentist as I was, because that tooth came in the next month. I was sixteen and I had a new tooth. Only, there still wasn’t room for it, so it came down behind the other teeth. I had a brand new tooth on the roof of my mouth.
The next time I visited Rafaniello, he examined the tooth. “Son of a gun,” he said.
“Does it bother you to have that tooth there?” he asked.
“It did at first,” I confessed. “But to tell you the truth, I’ve already gotten kind of used to it.”
And Dr. Rafaniello said something that amazed me then, and still does now:
“That tooth will eventually give you trouble. It is so crooked, and the placement won’t allow for a good blood supply either. I don’t think that it will stay healthy. But you know, your parents have spent a lot of money on your teeth already, and their dental plan isn’t all that good, and now they’re probably saving to send you to college. Why don’t we just wait? It will probably be years before that tooth bothers you, and maybe by that time, you’ll have a job and your own insurance, and you can pay for it. Let’s give your parents a break.”
Eventually, I had to have that tooth extracted. I was thirty-one. My insurance paid for it.
Years later, when I was well into my fifties and Dr. Rafaniello was approaching eighty, I had him fix a tooth that my current dentist said was unfixable. Ten years later, his fix is still holding.
He knew I was a writer and he told me a little of his life story. He went to college on a basketball scholarship, but was injured and couldn’t play. He lost his scholarship. He thought he would have to quit school, but his adviser got him a job at the university’s dental clinic to earn his tuition. That’s when he decided to become a dentist. His parents didn’t have to pay for it.
And my parents didn’t have to pay for my impacted-then-crooked tooth.
Not Quite Right, Dr. Freud
In honor of reconnecting with my very best friend from childhood, here’s a post from 2012 about Doris and one of our favorite games. I hope she will forgive me for my deep, horrible secret:
NOT QUITE RIGHT, DR. FREUD
I was reminded the other day of Freud’s theory that by age six or so, a young girl is devastated by the realization that she doesn’t have a penis. She experiences this as a great loss that affects her for the rest of her life.
I think I read about Freud’s claims when I was about fifteen. I laughed my ass off.
ALL the girls I grew up with thought boys were stupid, and penises were especially stupid. As far as envy goes, I didn’t even think peeing in the snow was worthwhile.
If anything, I felt a little sorry for boys. I figured they must be very jealous of our nice hair and pretty clothes. And what boring toys. Lincoln Logs? Really? When you could have a gorgeous Revlon doll with curly hair and real eyelashes?
As a kid, my favorite past-time was acting out scenes from movies and TV. My friend Doris and I would recreate movies in her backyard. Our biggest problem was that most stories were about boys. Yuck.
We’d stage Shirley Temple movies–Big Three Theatre (Hartford’s Channel 3 at 4:30) had a Shirley Temple movie at least once a week – “Heidi”, “The Little Princess”, “Captain January”. And of course we played Annette and Darlene from the Mickey Mouse Club. Then around 1959, there was “Tammy and the Bachelor” and “Gidget”. I’d sit through two showings at the Cameo Theater, and I was good to go, with near-perfect recall for all the best scenes and lines. Doris never dared to challenge my recollection.
When I was nine we hit the drama jackpot: “Pollyanna.”
For me, “Pollyanna” was the perfect movie. Hayley Mills was so adorable. She had a great accent, and clothes that were supposed to be ugly but were really fabulous. She had long blond hair. She lived in a big gorgeous house but she was an orphan too. And best of all – she had TRAGEDY.
We used Doris’ swing set as the tree that Pollyanna fell out of. We learned to jump off the crossbar of the swing and land in the most delicately terrible (but harmless) way. I must have jumped off that bar two hundred times that summer.
The tricky part about “Pollyanna” was sharing the role with Doris. Pollyanna was really the only girl in the movie. Pollyanna’s sidekick was a BOY. Jimmy Bean was played by Kevin Corcoran, and he was a cute little kid, but I never ever wanted to be the boy. So we took turns. Grudgingly.
But I had a secret. When it was my turn to be Jimmy, I changed it around in my head. I was actually Jenny, who was just pretending to be a boy because the evil orphanage police were looking for me. I was a runaway. I had cut off my hair as part of my disguise. This explained quite well the fact that in actuality I had hardly any hair. This little subplot became for me just as sweet as playing Pollyanna. I think it was the beginning of my fiction career.
I never shared my private storyline with Doris. When I was Pollyanna, she was Jimmy. Period.
Me, as Pollyanna. I tied a yellow sweater around my head to simulate long blond hair. And yes, my arms and legs were that skinny.
Midnight Conversations
12:00 AM
Stewart the Cat: “Meow. Ha ha ha. You’re doomed. Meow.”
John Doe the Mouse: “Eek. No no no. Eek eek.”
Me: “Honey, wake up.”
Him: “Unhn. ”
Me: “Honey, wake up.”
Him: “Okay.”
12:02 AM
Stewart: “Meow. You can’t escape. Meow.”
John Doe: “Eek. Eek. I will run under the bed. Eek.”
Me: “Honey, wake up.”
Him: “Okay.”
Me: You have to wake up.”
Him: “Okay.”
Me: “Stewart has a mouse.”
Him: “Okay.”
Me: “Go get the mouse from Stewart.”
Him: “Okay.”
12:04 AM
Stewart: “Meow. I’ve got you now, Meow”
John Doe: “Eek eek. Ow Ow. Eek.”
Me: Honey, Wake up! Stewart has a mouse.”
Him: “Okay.”
Me: “Get up!”
Him: “What I am supposed to do?”
Me: “Get the mouse from Stewart.”
Him: “Okay.”
12:05 AM
Stewart: “Meow. Shit.”
John Doe: “Ohhhhh….”
Flush.
Me: “Thanks, honey.”
Him: “I got out of bed. I think I had a dream.”
Me: “You went to the bathroom.”
Him: “Okay.”
Puppy Lessons
Twenty-five days ago, Theo joined our family.
Theo Roman – The Official Portrait
We had been a cat family. We’ve had as many as five at a time. We currently have three.
We’re good at cats.
We have a lot to learn about dogs.
I had a dog many, many years ago (like 45). But although I did a lot of the puppy training, I had loads of help from my parents and my brother and sisters. And to be honest, Sarge was an extremely sweet dog, but not exactly the best-behaved. (“Wanna Go For A Ride?”) So I can’t claim to be an expert.
My husband had a dog – very briefly – more than sixty years ago. So he’s not much help.
But we’re learning.
Here’s what we’ve learned about dogs in the last 25 days:
- There is no such thing as sleeping in. Five AM is now late. Late on weekdays. Late on weekends. I jump out of bed and throw on my sweats and my waterproof shoes and run to Theo’s little pen in the kitchen. I pray to reach him before it’s too late. I’m getting better at it. Thankfully, he is also getting better at it.
* - Likewise, there is no such thing as turning in early. No early bedtime after a long day. Theo is a night owl, and he has to pee at 11:00 PM in order to make it through the night. Eleven is late for me. I’m a 10:00 PM baby all the way. (My husband is more like 9:00 PM.) I am learning that there are actually TV shows after ten. I never realized.
* - My pockets now contain food. Dog treats. All my pockets. My coat pockets. My jean pockets. Food-filled. I have learned that it is a very good idea to check all my pockets before throwing my clothes in the wash.
* - Speaking of the wash – the amount of laundry has tripled. And the little guy doesn’t even wear clothes. However, we use a lot of my husband’s stack of shop towels. Wiping muddy paws, wiping muddy floors, wiping up “accidents”. And of course, I wear clothes. I am a very clean person. I can wear my jeans several times before they need to be washed. Until three weeks ago, that is. Now after one wearing, my jeans look and smell like wet dog, muddy paws, and sometimes pee-pee paws, and sometimes worse. I do lots of laundry. And I check the pockets.
* - We’ve lived in our house for eleven years. I thought I knew it well. Including our big yard. But now I know it intimately. I know where the long grass is – and the dip in the lawn that can sprain an ankle. I know where it stays wet all day. I know how many acorns we have. Thousands. I know how to take thousands of acorns out of a puppy’s mouth.
* - I am also no longer grossed out by taking a worm out of puppy’s mouth. At least twice a day. Once he is bigger and has a stronger constitution, I intend to let him eat the worms. Handling dog-saliva’d worms is a job with a time limit.
* - Fourteen pounds is huge when it is all squirmy. Fourteen pounds can make your wrists ache. And your back. And 14 pounds will soon be thirty-four pounds.
* - Cats don’t care if there is nothing to do. In fact, cats prefer it. But dogs need something to do. And they will find something to do. Like chew shoes. I thought my house was quite neat. It is amazing what is lying around. A dog will find a bobby pin, an umbrella, a rather important piece of mail. Lesson: Put your things away.
*
Oops
*
- Cats are quieter (Yea!), but dogs are happier to see you. Cats sometimes notice you have come home. Dogs go berserk.
* - On the other hand, there is ‘happy to see you’ and ‘TOO happy to see you’. See #4 re: pee-pee paws.
* - Dogs do not have brake-lights. They can be running ahead of you, and you are both having a grand old time, and then…FULL STOP. See #7 re: wrenching your back.
*
*
*12. I see everyday tasks in a whole new way. I appreciate a new set of accomplishments. I have a tendency now as I leave the bathroom to say to myself, “GOOD GIRL!”
Not The Hero Type
This summer at the beach, I was standing at the water’s edge as a women was making her way in through the foaming waves breaking at the shore. I watched her struggle to get past the undertow. She lost her footing, regained it, only to lose it again, falling forward. She struggled to right herself just as another wave hit, pushing her backwards this time. She finally managed to plant her feet, and she saw me watching her, and she laughed.
“Please don’t make me have to save you,” I said.
I admire heroes. It must be wonderful to be in the exact right place to make a difference in an emergency – to change someone’s life – maybe save someone’s life.
I can respond adequately in a pressure situation. And I think I would do the right thing if confronted with a true crisis.
But the truth is, I really would rather not.
I’m not the hero type.
It must be a glorious feeling, but if possible, I will pass on the following experiences:
- Donating an organ. If I could help another person get healthy without losing any of my body parts, I think that would be better.
*
- Shaving my head in support of a friend with cancer. I have a friend who went through chemotherapy. One night over dinner, I confessed that I was shallow enough to think that losing my hair is as terrifying as cancer itself. And my friend agreed. She called it the final insult to her sick body.
*
- Testifying at a trial. I once sat on a malpractice jury. I hated making a decision that was bound to hurt one person or the other. I saw the “losing” party in the parking lot after the trial. I wanted to give him all the money in my wallet.
*
- Picking up relatives at the airport in a snowstorm. This is no biggie, right? But please – if the weather is horrible, just stay at the airport hotel until it clears up, okay?
*
- Taking in strangers after a natural disaster. Hurricanes and tornadoes and blizzards can destroy someone’s home. The people who are lucky enough to be spared should share their homes with the tragically unlucky. And I have shared mine – with my mother.
*
- Saying a few words at a funeral. I care. I hurt. Most times though, I can’t share it. I could probably write a wonderful eulogy. Maybe someone else could deliver it.
*
- Retrieving a severed finger and packing it in ice to take to the hospital. We have a friend whose eleven-year-old daughter had to do that when her Dad cut off his thumb with his jigsaw. I can picture my husband cutting off his thumb. I can’t picture myself picking it up.
*
- Passing messages to political prisoners. I’ve marched against two wars. But that was as a part of a large group. I don’t believe I can be brave alone. I would drop the message in front of a guard with a gun. For sure.
*
- Delivering a baby… I don’t even like the responsibility of doing someones’ taxes. I can’t even express how much I don’t want the responsibility for a human being coming out of you.
*
- Talking someone off a ledge. Muhammad Ali did that in 1981. Wow. Can you imagine? How do you know what to say? I could get it all wrong and the person could think “Now I REALLY don’t want to live.” That suicidal person may have had the worst possible life. I do not wish to be the final straw.
*
Starting From The Bottom
It’s time to think about downsizing.
My husband and I live in a very big house. It’s just gorgeous, but it is becoming too much – too much maintenance, too much cleaning, and too much taxes. As I join my husband in retirement, we can see that it is time to simplify our lives.
As we contemplate moving someplace smaller, I can see that having a big house has allowed us to be very impractical. My husband has bought lots of lots of car and tool toys, and I have bought lots and lots of clothes – and neither of us really had to get rid of any old stuff when we bought new stuff. We had enough room to just put the new stuff near the old stuff.
Plus – turning the corner into a new lifestyle makes me WANT to simplify. For the first time in my life, I am actually looking forward to stop acquiring shit and start getting rid of shit.
I had occasion today to get started.
I thought I would start at the bottom.
My shoes.
I have a ton of shoes, but it’s not really a shoe fetish. I have weird, hard-to-fit feet. So I buy a lot of shoes – always hoping to find a pair that are cute and maybe – just maybe – a little comfortable. It almost never happens. So I just buy more. And hope. I’m a hopeful person. So I have a lot of shoes.
A few days ago, our cat Stewart spent all day in our walk-in closet. Mostly just staring at my shoes. This means only one thing. Stewart was mouse-hunting. We always know when there is a mouse in the house because Stewart’s focus becomes very unwavering.
And then he stopped. He left the closet and went on with his life.
This also only means one thing.
He got the mouse.
And he didn’t bring us the body.
And the next day – maybe it was my imagination – the closet didn’t exactly smell fresh.
So today was my day off, and I knew what I had to do. Find the mouse body.
I took all my shoes out one by one and tossed them aside. And eventually – there was the mouse carcass.
Stewart killed the mouse. I found the mouse. We did our jobs. Getting rid of the body – That’s my husband’s job. (One of those times when I am so glad I finally got married.)
Corpse carried off, I was left with this:
The perfect time to start simplifying.
My goal was to throw away a dozen pairs. That really shouldn’t be so hard since hardly any of my shoes fit me anyway.
The first pair I tossed were beautiful beaded but stiff and uncomfortable sandals. It was an easy decision because the left shoe had contained a mouse body for two days.
Then went ugly thick-soled pumps, platform monstrosities, flip-flops where the toe-thingy was about an inch thick whereas my toe space is about one-eighth of an inch wide, heeled sandals that match nothing, black sandals with ankle straps that made my ankles look enormous (my ankles ARE enormous, but that’s beside the point), shoes that used to be comfortable and quite cute, but I remember wearing them on a vacation to Bermuda, which was in 1988.
All in all, I had thirteen pair of shoes in throw-away pile.
Well, that seemed unlucky, so I took out one pair of old black ballet flats. I have three pair of black ballet flats, and so I was throwing out the two worst-worn ones. But it’s nice to have a backup. So I saved the better of the two pair – and they are quilted leather, so that’s different from the first keeper-pair.
So there were twelve.
Exactly my goal.
Except.
As I was putting these shoes in the bag, I gave a pair of embroidered mules a second look. I hardly ever wore these shoes, and they were slightly misshapen and very very dusty. But I reconsidered. I cleaned them up. And put them on.
They were adorable!
And comfortable!
How can you not love these shoes? How can you not give them a second chance?
So I drove directly to the Goodwill box, and tossed in a bag with eleven pairs of shoes.
Not too bad.
And I gave my embroidered mules the center spot in my closet.
Defining Joy
Yesterday a friend remarked to me that he wished he had more joy in his life.
I felt bad for him.
My own day was filled with joy.
- When I woke up I felt the warmth of my cat who had nestled himself behind the crook of my knee.
- I showered with my favorite fragrant soap, with one of those net scrubbies that makes a ton of lather.
- I hugged my husband when he was fresh from his shower. He smelled of my soap mixed with shampoo and shaving cream.
- My husband made coffee, as he does every morning. We used the mugs decorated with maps of Paris.
- The toast came out a perfect light-brown, and I was able to grab it while it was still hot – so my peanut butter melted to a creamy liquid.
- When I turned the key in the ignition, the car started.
- With a car that starts and runs, I can go anywhere I want to go, but I chose to go to work. I will make some money today.
- I said hello to my best friend at work. She looked very nice, and I told her so.
- I finished a task that I especially disliked. I crossed it off my list.
- I reapplied my lipstick after lunch, and when I went into the ladies’ room, I thought I looked pretty good. I told myself so. Out loud, since there was no one else in there.
- I got to go home after making some money. I swung my arms as I walked to my car.
- My dog greeted me with his happy dance. We ran around the yard until we were both panting.
- I had chicken for supper. With peppers from the garden – a mix of sweet and hot, sauteed with just a bit of olive oil. I bit into one pepper so spicy my mouth stung, and my husband put a spoonful of cottage cheese on my plate to put out the fire.
- I took off my shoes.
- I watched people sing on TV. Most of them sang very well, and the ones that were not as good were encouraged to keep singing anyway.
- While watching TV, I washed the sheets. I put them back on the bed directly from the dryer, and crawled in while they were still warm.
- I kissed my husband goodnight.
- The cat settled in and began to purr.
My life is overflowing with joy.
It just depends on how you define joy.
Fair Fare
I don’t recall attending any country fairs when I was a little kid.
Fairs are big in Connecticut. From August through October you can go to Terryville, Goshen, Hebron, Bethlehem, Harwinton, Berlin, Durham, Woodstock – and about a dozen more. Or you can travel up to Springfield, Massachusetts to The “Big E” – the Eastern States Exposition – a regional fair for all of New England.
I guess my parents weren’t crazy about fairs – I didn’t attend the Big E or the neighborhood Terryville Fair until I was in my twenties. I suppose (actually, I know) it was a waste of money for a family with lots of kids – junk food and then carnival games that you can’t win and more junk food, and then rides to assist you in getting rid of the junk food.
I suffer from motion sickness. My husband can’t even back up the length of our driveway without warning me, “Close your eyes for a second.”
So carnival/amusement park rides and I are enemies. Mortal enemies. In my home town, we have an amusement park – Lake Compounce – that is rather famous for being the oldest continuously-operated amusement park in the U.S. My sister still goes there regularly, first with her children and now with her grandchildren, and reminisces: “See that ride? Your Aunt Nancy threw up on the ride. See this ride? Your Aunt Nancy threw up on this ride.”
So I’ve never had a great love of amusement parks or carnivals. But I did attend a church fair every year – Saint Anthony’s Parish in Bristol had a big fair – I think in June of each year. And I discovered – through a dare – one ride that didn’t make me puke.
The Ferris Wheel!
I may not be able to go around and around on a carousel. But I found I could go around and around vertically.
How I loved it. I loved stopping at the top and swinging the seat just a little bit. I was so brave!
I’d save my money for months so that I could ride the ferris wheel several times over the weekend. My best friend and I would go early and watch the rides being set up. I couldn’t wait.
The only thing besides the Ferris Wheel that I spent money on at the St. Anthony’s Fair was the most exotic food I had ever eaten.
Cotton Candy.
Oh my God! The smell, the texture, the pretty pink (only pink, thank you) color. They way it dissolved on my tongue. And there was no other place to have cotton candy the whole year except St. Anthony’s Fair.
Now it is everywhere, and no longer has the power to enchant me. What a shame.
But I have found that country fairs offer so much more than puke-inducing rides. There are cows and chickens and ax-throwing and skillet tosses. And now even pig races and demolition derbies.
And though I don’t eat cotton candy anymore, I really love a greasy steak-and-onion sandwich. This year in Goshen, I had a steak-and-onion sandwich so greasy that when I picked it up, a river of steak-and-onion grease ran down my arms and shirt and all the way to my jeans. You can’t get much better than that.
But I demonstrated remarkable restraint.
Because I didn’t have:
Apple Fritters
Apple Pie
Apple Crisp a la mode
Shaved Ice
Ice Cream
Ice Cream Sundaes
Root Beer Floats
Beer
Milk Shakes
Lemonade
Slushies and Flurries
Hamburgers
Cheeseburgers
Sausageburgers
Pizza
Kielbasa Dogs
Hot Dogs
Chili Dogs
Corn Dogs
Corn on the Cob
Popcorn
Kettle Corn
Maple Popcorn
Maple Candy
Candied Apples
Lollipops
Fudge
Roasted Peanuts
Candied Pecans
Pulled Pork
BBQ Pork
Nachos
Fajitas
Steak On A Stick
Chicken On A Stick
Bourbon Chicken
Turkey Drumsticks
Stuffed Baked Potatoes
French Fries
Curly Fries
Cheesy Fries
Clam Fritters
Clam Chowder
Lobster Rolls
Onion Rings
Blooming Onions
Deep Fried Dough
Funnel Cakes
Cider Donuts
Muffins
Cinnamon Buns
Deep Fried Oreos
Deep Fried Twinkies
Deep Fried Pickles
Frozen Bananas
Deep Fried Snickers
But I could have.
I also could have had a Fresh Garden Salad.
But that’s just crazy.
Distracted – In The Best Way!
Why I was too distracted this week to write something new:
I’m a new Mom!
His name is Theo, and he’s eleven weeks old.
Theo is a Lagotto Romagnolo – an ancient Italian breed who is the ancestor to the Standard Poodle. Lagottos are medium sized dogs – about 30 pounds full-grown – who are renowned as truffle hunters. At the current rate of $400 per pound for truffles, I may soon be rich. (Or at least he might eventually pay for himself. If I knew anything about truffles. Like whether they exist in Connecticut.)
He was conceived in Italy and his pregnant mom came over in order to have an anchor baby. Yes, he is a birthright citizen.
As of this afternoon, he weighed in at 9 pounds exactly, but that will probably be 15 pounds by tomorrow. He is eating his adorable little head off.
I am crazy in love.
So I am busy taking online Italian lessons.
I need to be able to understand him when he starts to talk.
He may tell me where the truffles are.
notquiteold 