Dental TLC

Going to the dentist is never fun. I happen to hate going to the dentist. First they take a metal toothpick and jab it into your gums and then they purposefully floss so aggressively that you bleed just so that they can then yell at you for poor dental hygiene. Not fun. AnytimeI hear someone bragging that their dentist isn’t “that bad” I am totally skeptical. So when Brad’s sister, Missy, started telling us that she had found the Holy Grail of Dental Offices I naturally sent Brad to be the Guiney Pig before making any plans to go myself.

Brad came home from his first visit RAVING about his experience. He said that there are flat screen TV’s in every exam room and they are not only on the wall but they are ALSO in the ceiling so that you can watch TV while you’re being worked on. Also, he said the dentist is a total hippie and that there are Morrison posters hanging all over the office and good music pumping through-out. They also have massaging chairs so that while you are watching TV, listening to cool music and getting worked on, you ALSO get a soothing massage. Pretty cool? But the best part is that they are a “gentle dentistry” office meaning that they voluntarily give you laughing gas to calm you down for every single visit. No wonder he was raving; he was totally high!

Of course I was ready to make the switch for my next visit. One thing you don’t know is that my husband is a TOTAL FREAK about teeth. He goes to the dentist like I go to the dermatologist: practically once a month. His one requirement for our prenup was that if I loose my teeth he gets to walk, no strings attached. And since I no longer had the argument that it was self-inflicted torture, he made me go see the new dentist that same week.

Being the good wife that I am, I went for my quarterly dental visit without an argument. Honestly, I was kinda curious about the new place. Everything that he said was true. As soon as I walked in I was greeted with Crazy Love playing in the background and a host of unexpected amenities. Like there are two computers set up in the lobby for waiting patrons to use. There are also hundreds of trashy magazines and a flat screen pre-set to a dirty soap opera. I had a very short wait and then was escorted back to my exam room. As I laid down on the massage chair the nurse asked me what show I would like to watch and would I like the laughing gas while I wait? Yes please!

I have never had laughing gas before but had a pretty good idea what the effect would be. I kinda wasn’t paying attention to how long I waited, what with all the back massaging and drugs pumping through my system, but when the dentist came he apologized for the long wait. They kept the gas on the entire time during my visit and when they were finished took the mask off and escorted me to check out.

Now, I was never one of the kids who experimented with drugs growing up so I *might* be a bit of a lightweight when it comes to this sort of thing. But, ya’ll, I was TRIPPING MY ASS OFF when I got out of that chair. It hit me all at once and I was hysterically laughing and could not stop. The nurse gave me a funny look and asked if this was my first time with the gas? When I burst out laughing at the question she winked at me and said that they probably left it on a little too long but that it should wear off pretty quickly.

I got into the car and headed to work and called Brad to tell him how great the dentist was. I had to drive down Roswell Road to get to my office and passed by a bar that used to be called American Pie that had recently changed names to Cocktail Cove. They had the new sign proudly displayed on the side of the bar.

Brad had just picked up the phone when I passed the sign. I was so totally high that I thought it was hysterical that a shrimp formed the “C” on the Cocktail Cove sign. I couldn’t breathe; this was the funniest thing that I had ever seen in my whole life. I kept saying “The-e-e shrimp….it’s, it’s a “C”!!!....ohmygod… but the “C” is, is a SHRIMP!...Isn’t that hi-hi-hi-larious?” I was laughing so hard that I was snorting and crying and could barely drive the car in a strait line.

Brad was silent for a few seconds and then said “Hilarious, Rebekah. Pull over. I’m coming to pick you up.” It was 10:30 in the morning and I was drunk off my ass. So, now I have to have a designated driver to escort me to my dental appointments, but I never miss a one!


Dork Fish

There are a lot of couples out there that have cutesy little names for each other. Some people call their spouse Cupcake, Love Muffin or Butternut Boo. Not in the Nuss house. Oh no, we are WAY to sarcastic and "funny" for that. Instead of something sweet, my husband calls me a Dorkfish.

How endearing.

You might think it's because he loves to fish and everything in his life relates to fishing in some way, but that's actually not it. He got this "sweet saying" from a comedian we love: Bill Engvall. Bill describes what a Dorkfish is here:

That is just too funny until I starting thinking about what this means my husband must think about me. I, like all wives, like to think that Brad sees me as an exotic Victoria's Secret model. In my mind, when he looks at me, he is seeing this:

Once he gave me the nickname Dorkfish I started to question how he saw me. Maybe, when he looked at me, instead of seeing a VS model he sees something a little less "exotic". I asked him about the nickname and he said that sometimes when I am telling a story I make a face that looks like what Bill describes in his stand-up act. I am very expressive and tend to make really silly faces when I talk. Apparently this is the face he was talking about:

People, I am a total Dorkfish. But the sweet part is, Brad loves me anyway. My nickname for him: Douchbag.


Just Kidding, you know I love you Sugar Britches!!


Melanoma or Melodramatic?

Ok. So, I recently almost died-ish for the second time. As you know I am totally afraid of getting skin cancer because of my family history of being German and the fact that I have see-through skin. Because of this I have my dermatologist on speed dial and go in to see her at least twice a year even though they only recommend me to come in every other year. I’m crazy thorough, I know.

So the other day I was talking to Jenn and she told me that she has a friend that had this spot on his arm that he was concerned about. He said that it looked like a mosquito bite that just wouldn’t go away and so he went to the dermatologist, thinking it was a wart, to have it removed. They ended up telling him that the spot was no bug bite, in fact, it was very serious – stage three melanoma and that he had a very grim outlook for recovery. He is our age and was facing chemotherapy and radiation: so scary.

Now, I have been to the dermatologist a million times and always make sure to have them tell me exactly what to look for. They always say to look for odd coloration, undefined edges or something that looks different from the rest of the moles and freckles that I already have. Not once have they told me to look for a flesh colored bug bite, so this was very concerning. The next morning I was shaving my legs and noticed a spot on my right leg that had been there for a while. It was flesh colored and small. Naturally, I had a very sane reaction…I called my dermatologist in hysterics.

Receptionist: Good Morning! Olansky Dermatology, how can I help?

Me: I need to come in as soon as possible…

Receptionist: Ok, is everything ok?

Me: (sobbing) No! Not at all…

Receptionist: What’s the matter?

Me: I'm technically not a dermatologist, but I am pretty sure that I have stage three melanoma and I need to come in today.

Receptionist: Well, we have some time we can squeeze you in this afternoon, how about…

Me: I don’t think I have that long, I’m on my way right now!

I ran to the car and the whole way there I am crying hysterically and I just know that this is the end for me. I am toast. I have already picked out the flowers for my funeral. I run into the office and I have mascara running down my face and am all red-eyed and look like a basket case. I know this is totally out of the norm for a dermatology office that usually has a lobby full of pizza-faced kids and Cougars awaiting Botox injections, so I think my presence probably freaked a few people out.

They quickly ushered me back to an exam room to keep me from scaring more patients see me right away. I told the whole story to the first nurse and then again to the physicians assistant and I had worked myself into such hysterics that they almost had to sedate me. When the dermatologist finally came in to see me I could barely relate the story through my sobbing. She patiently listened to me and once I was finished telling her why I was totally convinced that this was my last day on earth she said, very somberly, “Well, let’s take a look”.

So, I showed her the spot on my calf and she took a very thorough look. She ran her fingers over it and then pressed the sides and took out a magnification thing and really examined my leg. After about two minutes of studying the spot from all possible angles, she sat back in her chair and looked right at me. Bracing for the bad news, I grabbed a notepad and pen to right down my treatment options. She then told me that the spot on my leg… was… an ingrown hair.

WHAAAAAAAA???? Seriously? Are you sure?

She told me that, yes, it's an ingrown hair. That is was not cancer, nor would it ever be cancer and that it posed no threat to my health and never would. She said that I had probably just scratched at it and so it formed a little scar tissue and it would just be a permanent tiny spot on my leg but that there would be no reason to ever come into her office, and scare the shit out the rest of her patients, again.

Ok, so you’re saying I’m going to live??!?! Hallelujah!

I called Brad and told him the good news that I was going to live, and he was all “you were going to die? When did that happen?”

As I was checking out I told the lady at the billing counter about my miraculous day. As she was processing my paperwork I noticed that they had a drawing you can enter for a free microdermabrasion treatment so I started filling out the entry form when the lady said to me “Haven’t you tested your luck enough for one day?”

I guess she was probably right.


Closing Time

You know how women talk a lot? Well, I guess I am just a typical woman in that respect. When I get together with my girlfriends we talk and talk but never seem to run out of things to say. This is the case, especially, with my best friend Jenn. We have known each other for going on eight years and speak to each other pretty much every single day and yet we still can get together at any time and talk for hours. We have fallen in to a pattern over the last few years. We will decide to meet for dinner, after work, during the week to catch up. We usually end up at a Mexican restaurant because:

a. Her husband doesn’t like Mexican food so she never gets to go (ironically they got married in Mexico.)

b. My husband can’t eat spicy food so I never get to go

c. Our mutual love of cheese-dip is one of the main reasons that we are friends (even more ironic: there is no cheese-dip in Mexico. Apparently that's an American thing. Whatever.)

We will usually get to the restaurant around 6ish and start chatting and drink a cerveza or twenty. And then all of a sudden we will look up and it will be 10:30. How did that happen? At that point we will usually just keep talking and order another round even though we are the very last ones left and we know the place closes at 11. For the next thirty minutes the bus boys, waiters and bartenders start to circle our table and give us the get-the-hell-out-of-here look. We completely ignore this. And eventually the restaurant closes, they sweep and mop the floors, have the chairs turned upside down on all the tables but ours and they still have to ASK us to leave. You got it. We can talk so long that we routinely close down Atlanta area restaurants on week nights. Ridiculous. One time this even happened in a mall California Pizza Kitchen. The entire mall had closed down when they kicked us out!

So, I have decided to start a little list of the places we get kicked out of on week nights which I will keep on the right side of this blog. I’m going to call it “Closing Time.”

Partners in Crime

UPDATE: Yesterday I came home from work totally exhausted. I went right upstairs, changed into my PJ's and parked myself on the couch ready for a night of Tivo. I told Brad that I was just too tired to go to his softball game and just as he was about to leave my phone rang. It was Jennifer and Brad knew exactly what that meant... CHEESE DIP! He said that it was funny how I had enough energy to go out with Jenn but not enough to go to his game. He kissed me on the forehead and told me not to stay out too late. Ha Ha, Lord that man is funny. So I threw on some jeans and met Jenn at Monterrey's. I *swore* I was only going to stay an hour.




I will have you know that not only did we TOTALLY close the place down... I mean they had to physically escort us out of the restaurant... we also set a new record. For cheese dip consumption. We had three orders of cheese dip. THREE. That's tres, trois, TRIFECTA! It's also way too freggin much for two people to consume in one sitting. And, truth be told, I totally could have gone for a forth. Is that bad? Ok, don't answer that one.

Congratulations Monterrey's: you make the list!


Pygmies, Sambo and one Hell of a Hangover

**This was several years ago and I have not been allowed out of the house since.**

At this point it’s becoming painfully obvious that I should never be allowed to leave the house unsupervised, and here’s why…

The other night I went to watch the Auburn vs. South Carolina game at the Bucket Shop. I went with Brad, Jenn Foster (J-FO) Chad, his wife LeeAnne and this other girl, Jennifer. We all had a great time and loved to see South Carolina embarrass themselves on the Plains… War Eagle!

After the game ended, the boys went home and the girls decided to go to another bar, Peachtree Tavern, and watch the Velcro Pygmies (an 80’s band) play. So we all hopped into Jennifer’s car and drove there, leaving mine and J-FO’s cars at the Bucket Shop. So we watched the band and had an awesome time. And there was drinking. Lot’s of drinking compliments of a bartender who apparently had a moral objection to mixing anything with the alcohol she was serving. So my 7&7 was just 7. And a very strong 7 at that.

By the end of the show J-FO and I were ready to leave, but LeeAnne happens to worship the Pygmies (and by worship I mean she has driven to see them play at a distance of 5 hours from where she lives on more than one occasion) and she and the other Jennifer wanted to stay a little longer. So J-FO and I “cab it” back to the parking lot where our cars are. She dropped me off at my car and continued home. As I turned to get into my car I suddenly realize, oh shit, my purse that holds my car keys, money and phone is still in Jennifer’s car at the Peachtree Tavern. I can’t get into my car; I have no phone and no money. Oh, and by the way, it’s now 2:30 in the morning. And of course by the time I realize this J-FO is long gone.

I walked into the Bucket Shop hoping that someone was still there closing down the bar and sure enough there was. Praise the Lord! So I asked to use the phone and called my loving boyfriend ( the man who promised to always take care of me and be there for me) to ask him to come and get me, but the butt-head didn’t answer his phone. So, I called again. And again. And then I called our house phone, and then again, and then his cell… and on and on for about 10 minutes. I was starting to realize that Brad was not going to answer the phone and since I am a child of the 21st century I haven’t memorized anyone else’s phone number thanks to the miracle of modern technology! So, now I am really screwed: don’t’ know anyone else I can call to come get me, don’t have any money for a cab and have no way to get into my car and drive home.

Enter hysteria.

The manager could tell there was something wrong with me, what with all the crying and gnashing of teeth that was going on. So he tried to help me out and was looking for someway to get me home. At that point one of the waitress’, a petite blond girl, said that her boyfriend was sitting in the bar waiting for her to get off work and that it would be at least another hour before she was finished and would I like for him to take me home in the mean time? Ok, there should have been a red flag here, but I weighed my options: ride home with strange man or sleep in the parking lot. So I agreed, sight unseen, to the boyfriend driving me home.

As I said before, this was a tiny, white, college-aged girl named Tiffany so I was imaging that her boyfriend was a college-aged, frat-guy-type, with cut off khaki’s and a polo. Harmless, right? When her boyfriend came over to introduce himself, he turned out to be a little different than what I was expecting. He was actually a 35 year old black man named Sambo. I am not even kidding. Meet Sambo:

I know what you’re thinking…“Tell me that you did not get in the car with Sambo!” Oh, but I did. Since I had already accepted the offer, I felt like it would be really RUDE to say, “Well, Sambo, I am sure you’re a very nice thug young man, but I just can’t possibly get the in the car with you.” Plus I was still a little drunk and so I hopped into his 1986 Cadillac and we headed to Vinings. The entire way there I am thinking to myself that this has got to be the dumbest thing I have ever done and my mother is going to kill me when I tell her about this. Instead of trying to make meaningless chit-chat I just curled up in the fetal position and sucked my thumb the whole way there.

Somehow we made it to my neighborhood without me being attacked or killed and we didn’t even have to make any stops for drug deals. PLUS TEN POINTS FOR SAMBO! When we arrived at the gate to my neighborhood, of course, I didn’t have the gate opener. So I had to get out of Sambo’s car, in the pouring down rain, and crawl under my front gate on my hands and knees and then walk about a quarter mile to my house. I wish I was making this up. I can’t even imagine what my neighbors must have thought.

It’s now 3:30 in the morning and I am soaking wet, bawling my eyes out and banging on my front door to no avail. My buzz was officially gone and this was no longer funny. Finally, after about 30 minutes of constant banging, Brad came to the door, still half asleep, and more than a little confused at what he saw. I looked like a drowned rat, eyes red from crying for the last 3 hours, knee’s all scraped up from having to shimmy UNDER the gate to our neighborhood and all he says is “Babe, what the hell happened? Are you ok?”

“Uhhh, NO. No, I am not ok. I am far from ok and I would like to request that a babysitter accompany me on all future outings.” He said he couldn't agree more.