When I had Braces in College.

In the summer of my sophomore year, after suffering from horrible headaches and jaw-locking episodes on a fairly regular basis, my orthodontist—whose name is Bucky Schmelzer—told me I had two options to correct the problem. The first option was to have my jaw broken and wired up for several months while everything healed and corrected. The second option was to wear a sort of retainer that had giant plastic blocks that literally pulled my jaw forward and allowed my teeth to shift and grow together. Then I would need braces and the process would take approximately two years. Neither option had me jumping up and down, but I went with plan B simply because I'm not very big on liquid diets or the inability to talk. I was still under my parents' insurance, I was ready for the pain to stop, I wasn't dating anyone, and I had always wanted straight teeth, so what did I have to lose?
When I received my first retainers, which my friends called “the chompers” and “tainers,” I thought Dr. Schmelzer must be kidding. They were HUGE and barely fit in my mouth, and I couldn't talk without mass quantities of drool and spit shooting out. The worst part was that I had to eat with them fastened in my mouth. Evidently my TMJ would only be corrected if I kept my chompers in at all times, including during meals and while sleeping. I looked around at my supportive friends, tried hard not to eat sticky foods, and hoped the next few years would go by quickly.
Since I couldn't talk in my chompers without slushing my “S's” and slurping the extra spit from my mouth, I avoided speaking up in class for a while. And because my retainers were in my 98 degree mouth 24-7, they quickly became disgusting and required much brushing and cleaning. I began wondering if I'd had braces back when I was 14—like everyone else in my class, if all this spitty humiliation could have been avoided. I finally adopted a “better late than never” attitude, although somewhere along the way I became more excited about the prospect of my teeth being perfectly straight. I forgot that I was putting physical appearance on the back burner for a few years to fix my jaw; it wasn't supposed to be a cosmetic overhaul .
Whenever I went home on breaks from class I visited Dr. Schmelzer; he poked and twisted and shaped my jaw like a piece of bony, gummy, slobbery clay. I would sit in the waiting room with the pre-teen girls and boys and skim through the “Bop” magazines featuring pictures of Leonardo DiCaprio from Titanic. The girls would smile at me with a look of sympathy, and I would smile back showing them what the Guinness Book of World Records retainers looked like.
After a series of changes and adjustments to my horrible retainers, almost one year after my re-construction began, I was fitted with semi-normal looking braces, and only had to wear the chompers at night to keep my jaw in place. I was 22, in my senior year of college, and I had a mouth full of metal complete with numerous rubber bands, but I was excited about having a lovely jaw and picket fence teeth, and Bucky promised we would get the braces off by my college graduation.
Dr. Shmelzer pulled through and my braces were scheduled to come off just in time for me to receive my diploma. Surely I had become the beautiful butterfly that had been hiding inside my slobbery dental cocoon for the past two years. Surely the modeling agencies would be asking, who is this girl, and where has she been hiding? Surely Dr. Schmelzer was going to get hundreds of recommendations from many other female college students.
But when I looked in the mirror, expecting the perfectly straight teeth to match my perfect new jaw, I saw the same teeth that had been there before, only there were noticeable gaps all around each of them. When he asked, “What do you think?” in an excited voice, I could only say, “Thank you for fixing my TMJ.”
Then he handed me my new, very normal looking retainers and told me I needed to wear them at all times for the next 6-12 months, and eventually only at night. He went on to explain that my teeth were still moving, and the retainers were going to bring them all together, back to the picket fences I had envisioned. I was relieved to know that we weren't through yet, even though it meant another year of waiting. I decided that dental beauty was painful, and required a lot of patience.
My teeth did come back together, and although I don't know if they were ever award-winning, they were straight and I was smiling more. Unfortunately, one night while I was folding laundry I discovered my priceless retainers, the retainers that were supposed to last forever, half-melted in a ball of plastic in the pocket of my robe. There was nothing I could do so I threw them away and made an appointment with a local orthodontist the next day. I was soon fitted with new retainers and was smiling again.
Shortly after I received my new retainers I got married, and in 2005 my son was born. I had been consistently wearing my retainers at night for almost 5 years by that time, and my teeth had not moved at all. Then I did something really stupid. My son had colic and I was on the verge of insanity anyway when all of a sudden we both had infections, so I began sanitizing everything in sight. I was caught up in a boiling sanitation frenzy and threw my retainers into the pot with everything else. Although I almost immediately pulled them back out, my retainers had instantly been twisted beyond recognition.
As a stay-at-home mom with minimal dental insurance, I decided it was time to end my quest for picket fence teeth and a jaw that doesn't pop like there is a bottle rocket in my mouth. In less than a decade my teeth and I have come full circle, and although many celebrities (e.i. Tom Cruise and Gwen Stefani) have paved the way to make adult braces more glamorous, I think for now I'm going to stick with what I have and hope for the best. And as soon as it becomes more cost effective to get dentures, then I'm giving Bucky Schmelzer a call.

When you run poopy pants through the washing machine, none of the clothes get clean.

So, if you opened this hoping to find a political metaphor or a symbolic story, then you might want to stop reading now. Unfortunately, the title of this blog is a very literal statement about what just happened to a small load of laundry that is currently enjoying a 3rd soak and rinse in extremely hot water.
As a stay at home mom to two active toddlers, my life is rarely dull. Just when things start slipping into some sort of routine, I like to shake in a dash of something or other to keep us from getting bored. When Christmas ended and we rang in the New Year, I thought it would be the best time to introduce my 22 month old to a lovely diaper-free world. A world of cotton, toilets, rewards and being a “big girl.” It was all very exciting.
I started out using many of the same methods that had worked with my son when he was about her age, and everything was progressing beautifully. New Princess underwear? Yippee! A Pez in my Sleeping Beauty Pez dispenser whenever I go on the Potty? Hooray! Flushing the big potty all by myself? Oh, the joy. With only a few minor setbacks in the first 4 days, I began feeling confident. I could hear the extra cash already coming in from the money we would save from diapers. We would be able to pay for college. We could cut back to only eating 2 meals a week off the dollar menu instead of 3. I might be able to afford a drink from Starbucks. I was free of the bondage of changing tables and diaper rash, and my daughter was walking around with a new diaper-free swagger.
Just when I thought I would be receiving my award for “Best Potty-Trainer 2009,” we began to hit a series of set-backs that involved wet pants, mysterious spots on the floor and couch, and little things that fall on the floor that nobody wants to touch with their bare hands. I did a lot of laundry and used some SPOT SHOT--which I should really advertise for, because that stuff is amazing—and we were learning from our mistakes.
After several great days in a row, we were on track and moving forward again. Then yesterday she had a tough little accident; we were both disappointed as I dumped the mess in the big potty and threw the dirty underwear in the laundry. Since I had just done two loads earlier in the day, I left them in there, waiting until there was a full load; I have two toddlers and typically need a Sherpa and supplemental oxygen to reach the top of my clean laundry pile.
Now my story gets ugly and confusing. When I passed through the laundry room on my way out with the kids this morning, I noticed the laundry room smelled rather raunchy, but I knew there was messy stuff in there and hoped the Spray-N-Wash was working. When I returned this afternoon, I decided it was time to run the wash, whether or not the load was full, so I put in a few random dirty things and turned it on.
I finally got the kids down for a nap and heard the washing machine beep that it was done, so I went out and opened the lid. Let's just say the lovely “Tide” aroma that I was expecting was not there, and I couldn't believe what was scattered all over the bottom of my washing machine and mixed in with my “clean” laundry. As I quickly grabbed an old bag and some wipes and did my best to get rid of everything that wasn't an article of clothing from the wet wash, I realized that I had not only kissed my “Best Potty-Trainer” award goodbye, but I must be a horrible housewife and mother. Who runs a load of laundry with poopy pants???
So, as I sit here reflecting on all that has happened this afternoon, wondering how many times I will have to wash the clothes before they are truly clean, if they are in fact ever clean, I can assure you I will be checking multiple times before casually throwing anything into washing machine from now on, and laughing at myself for thinking that something like Potty-training could ever be simple and clean.

Why I Hate Running So Much.

Sometimes when I'm at Target, or the mall, or driving next to a sidewalk, I see a shirt that says, “I love Running” with a big red heart, and I fight an overwhelming desire to scream... “LIAR!” I'm sure many of you, especially those who own some type of “love-running” paraphernalia or those of you lanky folks with lungs of steal and disproportionately long legs, are mentally defending yourselves at this very moment, but let's be honest; except for a small minority of genetically mutated people and maybe cheetahs, the act of running should simply not be categorized as fun.
I would appreciate it if runners would wear a more honest T-shirt, such as I love Endorphins, or I love to be outside so I put up with the torture of running, or I want to look good in jeans, have more energy and overcome fatigue and depression, so I endure everything awful that goes along with the act of running. That one might need small print on the front and back of the shirt, but at least it would be more sincere, in my humble opinion.
I admire the dedication and commitment to a “sport” that is being “enjoyed” by millions of people of all ages. I actually spent a few minutes reading comments, stories, and advice on runnersworld.com the other day. It was very entertaining. My favorite section contained a discussion on how to run in freezing and icy conditions. The runners were telling each other about special metal spiked pins to put in their running shoes to keep from slipping on the ice, along with ways to overcome the burning sensation that accompanies running in sub-zero temperatures. I resisted the urge to comment on the discussion, but so many thoughts were running through my head. Do these people truly "love" running enough to drive spikes into their Saucony's and/or "work through" the burning and freezing pain in their lungs? Or, more appropriately, is it those pesky addictive Endorphins and the guilt and motivation of going 3 days without a run?
These thoughts are not coming from someone who dislikes all physical activity. I played sports competitively from the time I was in grade school through my 4th year of college. I put in as many hours playing basketball to maintain my college scholarship as most people who had part-time jobs. I loved scrimmaging and some of the competitive drills and anything that had to do with shooting, but during the first few weeks of conditioning every season I had to create a happy place. My teammates and I fought for positions by racing around the outdoor track and running from baseline to baseline on the court until we were physically sick. Everyone hated conditioning—running until we couldn't breathe, spraining our ankles and tearing our ACL's among other things.
I did not play basketball because I loved running and sprinting and jumping rope for two or more hours, only to scramble across campus to shovel large amounts of food in my starving body before the cafeteria closed. I played because I knew that in October we would have our first scrimmages and games and we would all be in good enough shape that we would only need to maintain everything that we had worked so hard to accomplish. And more than that I played because it was fun. It was fun to play a competitive team sport with close friends who played hard and made each other better players, and better people; I still consider many of those teammates some of my closest friends today.
After graduation, when I moved South and was officially done with competitive sports forever, I thought I would take up running as a way to stay in shape and be healthy. It was a lot easier and quicker than the other athletic alternatives, and everyone I knew seemed to be training for a Triathlon or at the very least a Half-Marathon. I had always hated running, but this was going to be a new beginning—a new alliance between us.
I bought some new running shoes and found a few running friends. It was August in South Carolina and the first night I thought the humidity was going to drown me and my new shoes in a thick, spongy cloud of H2O. I scampered to keep up and make conversation while all I could hear was the pounding of my lead feet on the blacktop. I kept running on a fairly consistent basis outside for a few years although I never adjusted to the humidity, and I don't think I ever will.
Eight years and a few arthritic knees and ankles later, I accepted the fact that a buoyant, forgiving treadmill is probably the best way to go for me, which is the first sign that I am not a true runner at all. I bought the treadmill over a year ago and have been running on a fairly regular basis ever since. However, the treadmill takes away one of the only enjoyable things about running from me: fresh air. So why do I do it?
I believe that I am running for the same reason as everyone else out there, unless I have it completely wrong. I need some type of physical activity, and 12-15 minutes on the treadmill is about all I can afford right now. I don't want to look completely gross. I appreciate the way my blood flows after running, and yes those Endorphins are great. But from the moment I lace my shoes and turn the key until the moment I can finally hit the bright red STOP button, all I can hear is the pounding of my shoes and the screaming of my heart in my eardrums. There is nothing pleasant about quickly slamming my feet down in front of each other while the belt is rolling underneath me, and all I can do is look at the timer and count down the seconds until it will all be over. And that is why I hate running so much.

You Say You Want a Resolution...?

Webster defines resolution as a formal expression of opinion, will, or intent: the act of answering or solving. A New Year's Resolution, according to Wikipedia, is the “reforming of a habit, often a lifestyle change that is generally interpreted as advantageous. The name comes from the fact that these commitments normally go into effect on New Year's Day and remain until fulfilled or abandoned.”

To the best of my knowledge, I have never made a New Year's Resolution, and according to most sources, the odds are against me. More than likely, anything I resolve to do will go unfulfilled or abandoned in the upcoming months, but for some reason this year, I'm putting it in writing. Maybe it is because I turned thirty and the grim reaper is suddenly saying “howdy” in the form of crinkles around my eyes and mouth. I prefer “crinkles” to “wrinkles” because “wrinkle” sounds so permanent, like something that can only be removed with a boiling hot iron and steam.
Maybe it is because the kids are currently very preoccupied with playing together and I am finding a wonderful few moments of precious time on my hands, even though it is time I could be scrubbing my baseboards or removing greasy fingerprints from shiny places. Maybe it is because I am slightly bored with TV and current events, and I sometimes question why I spent so much time in school, only to be under appreciated by toddlers who don't care much about iambic pentameter or the perfect contrasting balance of chiaroscuro or sfumato.
I recently finished editing and illustrating a project for my grandmother, which provided a lovely creative break from my normal daily routine. We were able to print the stories from her 1940's childhood; stories that only someone who went through a great depression in a coal-mining town without a father can tell. Even though I've heard the stories a hundred times, I can't help being impressed all over again by the optimistic strength of their spirit, and a faith in the God of a future where food is already on tables and shoes are already on feet.
I also walk away slightly discouraged with my own poor memory. How can my grandma remember her first day of kindergarten at age 78? If it weren't for pictures, I doubt I would remember the color of my first bedroom. (It was Pepto-Bismol pink with a Holly Hobby border in case you were wondering). I envy the ability to store mental pictures and words down to the smallest detail. I am convinced that one of the most important characteristics of a great non-fiction writer is the ability to remember—not just the things we do, but the way the air smelled and the song that was playing in the background. The tiny details.
Flannery O'Connor said that anyone who survived childhood has enough material to write for the rest of his or her life. I believe this is true; especially if Paris Hilton was able to fill 192 pages with words and semi-complete sentences. Certainly I should be able to write a few pages in a blog at least every other week, even without the help of an assistant or 20 editors. So, along with other resolutions in this new year, including cutting back on coffee and ice cream, etc., I am vowing to read and write more.
When I was 21, I googled Annie Dillard, my favorite writer and arguably the best creative non-fiction author of our time, and sent an email to what turned out to be a legitimate address. She not only took the time to send me a page-long personal response, but her general advice on life, specifically writing, impacted the way I think about creativity tremendously. Annie, I can call her that because we are friends now, stressed the importance of not only writing daily, but reading any and all books, no matter what the genre. She talked about the intertwining of the many worlds of art, saying that most writers are artists—whether or not they ever put paint on a canvas, and vice versa. I lost the soft copy of her email or I would paste it here, but in the meantime I will suggest reading at least one Annie Dillard book this year. Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, the 1975 Pulitzer Prize winner, or if you really want to be blown away by her power of recollection, try An American Childhood. (http://www.amazon.com/American-Childhood-Annie-Dillard/dp/0060915188)
According to Annie, “A schedule defends from chaos and whim. It is a net for catching days. It is a scaffolding on which a worker can stand and labor with both hands at sections of time.” I love the illustration and I know that it's true, but I also have trouble with this creative paradox; in order to become a writer I must schedule time in the day to consistently do it, whether or not I am feeling particularly inspired or imaginative. Most if not all great writers have talked about the importance of writing, writing in a way that treats it like work, until it becomes natural, and in spite of the fact that it will never be effortless.
If it is true that the “best time for planning a book is while you're doing the dishes,” then I should have written at least 1000 essays by now. And as another great writer (Anne Lamott) says, “Start with your childhood. Plug your nose and jump in, and write down all your memories as truthfully as you can.” So here we go, one week into the New Year and I'm already behind. I'm hoping that this tangible goal will somehow keep me accountable in the other abstract areas of my life, and who knows, perhaps 2009 might even be the year of calorie-free-good-for-me ice cream, doctor prescribed coffee, and miracle “crinkle-reducing” face cream. Here's to plugging my nose and jumping into something.

Ring out the old, ring in the new,
Ring, happy bells, across the snow:
The year is going, let him go;
Ring out the false, ring in the true.
~Alfred, Lord Tennyson, 1850