Headlock Dentistry

Found here

These two refined gentlemen are demonstrating a headlock. There is no way for the man with the bulging veins in his temples and the cauliflower nose to get away from the bemuscled, bearded man holding him captive in a sterroid haze. It is testosterone at its best.

This image that flashed through my mind the other day when I walked in to the dentist's office to get a crown. I have a tooth that cracked around a filling and after putting it off for about four years, it was time. I felt sick with worry and had a lapse in judgment that allowed me to comment to the hygienist about it.
"I have really dreaded this!" I remarked as I sat down on the surprisingly comfortable dentist chair.
"Wow," she said sarcastically. "I've never heard that one before, in eleven years!"

Okay, then. I brought my remarks to a rapid close.

Arranging myself in the chair under the light with the side handles on it, I remembered sitting under one of these in Minnesota. It was when the headlock occurred. Instantly, I found myself having a hard time distinguishing between the events in Minnesota and these taking place in California.
There I had sat, in the chair in Minnesota, my Middle-Eastern dental resident at the U of MN dental clinic, looking grimly down at me.

"Please deaden the tooth well because I'm really sensitive and also really nervous."


"I will give you two shots and that will be enough." Not even a flicker of kindness or sympathy could be seen on her face.

Of course, it wasn't enough. I found this out when she began tapping my tooth with the end of this long metal instrument. It was all I could do not to fly through the ceiling.

"Grmwph!" I moaned.

"Now stop it," she barked. "Just let me get this tooth done. You have nothing to worry about."

"It is very painful, still," I said plaintively.

"Relax!" she said to me in a scolding voice. "If you don't relax, I'll have to take a long needle and shoot the medicine straight down into the head of your tooth. Do you want me to do that?" It was a tone of voice that one might take with a naughty child.

At that point, I didn't care what she had to do to numb the tooth. Just stop tapping on it with that instrument.

"Please give me more deadening medicine before you continue," I choked out.

That's when the headlock happened. As quickly as I could say it, she had me in a headlock and was drilling down into that tooth. The nerve sang out and I pressed my head back into the chair headrest, as if that would help me get away from her. But I couldn't. It was awful. I couldn't scream--I had a mouthful of dental dam and one of those extensor things that held my mouth open. No, I couldn't do anything about any of it except to hang on to the sides of the seat while she drilled into my very sensitive tooth. There was no dental assistant to recruit as an ally. Just me and the heartless dentist.

At the end of the session, I jumped to my feet, went out to the front desk and reported this woman to the receptionist. She looked alarmed and now that I think about it, it could have been either because of my story, or how I looked. I was crying, talking excitedly, and must have had a wild glare in my eyes. I was thoroughly traumatized by this experience.
The dental intern was reported and it was said that she had received dire consequences for her behavior. I hoped so, because I have also experienced dire consequences for her actions, specifically, my irrational tears and panic whenever I sit waiting for my dentist.

My dentist could not have been nicer. He didn't seem to mind that I was crying and trying to look brave. I never felt even one of the many injections he gave me. As my face became numb and my goofy muscle-less grin made me feel like I had only half a head, he smiled and told me stories in a most reassuring way. I drooled out my headlock story and he explained how many ways he could numb up my tooth and whole head if needed. So I sank back into the chair, shut my eyes, and waited for the job to be done. I never felt a thing. What a miracle of modern dentistry and kindness.
I'm going back to have the permanent crown placed this afternoon. There are no headlock jitters. Praise be!

Stages of Love--Stage III

The third stage of love has a double-barreled name: Acceptance and Commitment. It comes to members of a couple slowly, one at a time. The realization and acceptance of one's imperfections, propensities, and limitations seems to help couples turn the corner from the Anger and Resentment phase to this stage. It is not an overnight epiphany that leads people to lean a bit closer together, but something might happen that helps a recalcitrant marriage partner to realize that their spouse has excellent qualities that are either hard to come by elsewhere, or that far outweigh the negative features that have been in such sharp focus in previous months or years.

So, he picks his teeth at the table. By now, he knows that you don't like it and will probably comment on it. But he also knows that you're on his side and are not trying to be mean spirited when you tell him that it turns your stomach to see him do that.
She realizes that when her husband launches into a list of instructions and solutions in response to her expression of a feeling, that this is his way to express protectiveness and care for her.

During this phase, couples seem to settle into a more predictable way of relating. Some couples become more companionate within this higher level of commitment. They don't automatically think of revenge or divorce when they are annoyed at their partner. They accept that relationships and people are not perfect, but that by focusing on the good qualities and negotiating more difficult elements of behavior, there is a good and comfortable fit. For some, it is a fantastic fit and the relief of coming to this conclusion is almost visible. Since they are not putting forth so much energy to contend with one another any more, they can relax and enjoy each other for qualities that may have been previously obscured because of their criticisms of one another.

There is another type of commitment and acceptance that is less satisfying but probably more common. Individuals who find it difficult to be emotionally engaged at a deep level with another person will often use bickering and irritability to maintain a degree of emotional distance from their partner so they do not feel threatened or vulnerable. Such individuals are often married to a partner who can't tolerate high degrees of emotional intimacy either, even though they complain about their partner's beligerant or distant behavior. Both spouses have predictable ways of avoiding physical and/or emotional intimacy with one another: abuse, rescuing, affairs, apathy, and polyamory, to name a few common patterns. Other couples' ways of relating may be quite cerebral, foregoing physical affection or tenderness. The begging and pleading of a partner who wants more demonstrates a reciprocal response to the withholding partner. Even this distancer-persuer dynamic, as unsatisfying as it is, can be accepted as the way life will be, and can mark the behavior of couples over the course of their marriage.

Couples come to marriage with explicit and implicit expectations. These are tested and strengthened over the first few years of life together. By the Acceptance and Commitment stage, the emotional marital contract has been worked out or accepted as "as good as it gets."
Explicit expectations may be agreements about who will work, who will raise children if there are any, and who is going to be responsible for what household responsibilities. These may cause disagreement, but are generally open to discussion one way or the other. It is the implicit expectations that contribute to the uproar in the Anger and Resentment stage, and that finally are somehow managed satisfactorily by the time the couple reaches the Acceptance and Commitment stage.

Implicit expectations involve things such as what Paul Rosenblatt of the University of Minnesota calls shadow realities. These are issues that if openly addressed, could undermine the functionality of the relationship. An example is the unspoken expectation that one partner will behave in a dependent and helpless way so as not to show up the other partner. Or that one partner will be a caretaker for the other and will not place any demand for his or her needs to be met by the care receiver. There is considerable positioning and one-upsmanship that occurs as couples go through the process of working out these implicit marital contracts without discussing them overtly. Those couples, in which one partner has succumbed to the pressure of the other spouse to conform to some expectation or behavioral pattern, have arrived at the Acceptance and Commitment stage.

Still others recognize that their marriage might not be a case of immortal lovers, but it is a good-enough marriage that meets the majority of their needs. They will often settle into the predictability of a devitalized marriage without the interest or willingness to improve it. Such marriages can be quite stable for years.
nb: marital stability does not equal marital satisfaction.

So the love relationship continues to move on through time. Research reveals that about every seven years or so, the relationship is renegotiated on some level or in some area, in order to accommodate the growth and experience of each partner. Growing pains would be a good way to describe these little upheavals. For some, personal growth and variation can be like a mudslide, catapaulting the relationship into the sea.But for those whose marriages are satisfying, and who are able to be flexible and accommodating, the marriage sails on to newer levels of understanding and shared intimacy.

Christmas Celebration

It has been a good Christmas season. I took Mother and her good friend, Evelyn, to a Christmas concert that was great. They are so cute walking together: holding hands and leaning against one another as they walk down the street. Best friends--that's them.

One of my students from Kenya came over to help me make Christmas goodies. She is a star student and a wonderful person. She made coconut macaroons for our celebration.

These two little livewires hailing from Jamaica and Haiti added quite a bit of zip to the evening. They gave us unending entertainment in the way of impromptu performances of their [sometimes incomprehensible and partially shouted] songs. Here you see them clowning around with my kayak hats which provided no end of amusement for them.

Of course, what would the evening be without involving Sam in the wild goings on? These boys and Sam kept up an almost continual taunting and goofing off. I was relieved to finally have silence after these little characters lurched off out the front door into the cold darkness that night. Sam collapsed into the chair. Mother began laughing and said, "You know how, when you're a young person you can't understand why old people don't like kids?" She paused and threw her head back against the couch. "Well, I never understood that. But tonight I did and I now I realize that I'm old!" and she howled with laughter.

We had laughed, eaten goodies, talked heart-to-heart, played, run, and sung together. I had even had a running obligato accompaniament when I played for us to sing. It was a nice evening when we welcomed Christmas to our home.

Stages of Love--Part II

Found here

Resentment is the next stage of marriage. Oh no, it doesn't come out of left field or shock partners when it does hit. There have been little indicators that they have differences and really don't care for some behaviors or comments of the other. But in the Dopamine-induced (pleasure hormone) haze of positive feelings that occurs in the Limerence phase and beyond, these objectionable things have been brushed aside, rationalized, idealized. But at some point, the glassy eyes of love give away to glares of resentment and shock.

You hear references to this in those quiet whispers that a woman makes to her best friend--often tearfully or angrily: "I can't believe that he never learned manners growing up. It drives me nuts." Or, "I've got to figure out how to get him to--(any of these:) lighten up, be more romantic, brush his teeth more often, stop embarassing me with his critical comments in public..." ad infinitum. Friends listen sympathetically, suggest that the couple go to counseling, and the humiliated complainer brings her comments to a rapid close. "We're not that bad!" But he's driving her crazy because suddenly, all she can see are his faults. And there are plenty.

Why on earth did I marry this guy? she will ask herself. What was I thinking? How will I live the rest of my adult life tied to someone with these faults? And she begins grieving the rest of her life that she will live out encumbered by this man whose parents didn't raise him right, who has more character flaws than she knew existed, and whose imperfections are a continual, rankling source of embarassment and frustration.

Maybe if I try to change him I won't be so miserable. Out come all the self-help books and magazine articles. How about a Marriage Encounter weekend (if she can trick him into going)? So women typically, are the ones who are working very hard to try to turn their husbands into someone that they thinks they will be happy with, and there are all sorts of ways to go about this. But the bottom line is that he doesn't change. Interestingly enough, she doesn't change, either. She keeps hammering away at him trying to get him to be more of this and less of that, and in the end, there is either escalating conflict, overt power plays on the side of one or the other, or an emotional standoff. This marriage is just not what I thought it would be.

Meanwhile, he is frustrated with her. Why can't she be sweet like my mother was? Why does she have to gain so much weight? Why doesn't she want sex more often like she used to? Why does she have to get on my back about everything? I just want to enjoy my life: keep the yard looking good, come home after work and watch the game. After all, he tells himself, I don't go out and carouse. Or maybe he has started to, since being at home is irritating--kids crying, upset wife. He begins to withdraw and take less of an interest in her. He tries to remain calm, but he finds himself being put off by some of the things she says and does. It becomes easy to start ordering her around, or saying snide things about her weight, or making fun of how she looks. Of course, this does not engender a more intimate relationship, either.

These are more extreme accounts of what can happen, culled from a clinical population at my job. But I have to say that just about every marriage experiences some of these symptoms. It just depends on how well they are able to communicate, how much they are invested in the relationship, and how much they love one another. It can also depend on their religious commitment to remaining in the marriage. A series of interesting studies done by David Olson at the University of Minnesota, indicate that couples who do not consider divorce an option because of their religious beliefs, have less satisfying relationships overall. This is not surprising. They answer to God, but not to each other. They may be close to God but not necessarily to each other.

The frenetic efforts to change one's partner starts in about year two and hit its zenith around year seven. You've heard of the rule of sevens in marriage (every seven years a marriage is at risk to break down). It's true, and this is the first hurdle.

It is hard work to negotiate the relationship at this point, and to do it in a way that isn't shaming, guilt-producing, or forceful. It is equally hard to look at oneself and realize that while your partner has flaws you didn't know about when you married them and you certainly don't like now, it's even harder to realize that your own flaws make you a real piece of work, too. By year seven, your partner has seen you at your emotional and physical worst: you've been caught redhanded in your worst behavior, you've been very sick and vomited in front of your partner, and shown him some of your unsavory disposition when you're upset.

There are a couple outcomes of the Resentment Phase. One is simply that one partner acquiesces to the other and their poor behavior, thinking that they are impossible to influence or change. John Gottman, a famous researcher on couples, points out that in marriages at this point and in which the man will not speak with his wife about her needs, or who will not listen to her feedback about his behavior, are headed for grave trouble. If they hold together as a couple, the wife will eventually become quite depressed and unmotivated in the marriage. Or they both retreat emotionally and begin to live in parallel worlds, no longer willingly admitting their partner. In other words, the door closes.

Other couples start an approach-avoidance dance meant to keep the other somewhat nearby, but not too close. The goal is to diminish emotional investment but maintain familiarity and the benefits that can be gained in the marriage. These are the couples that you see in restaurants who sit at the table and say nothing but "Pass the salt."

Some partners put their spouse in the doghouse, so to speak, and there is nothing that the spouse can do to get out.

The final outcome is typically divorce or a seriously devitalized marriage.

Yes, they continue to live together and there are times when they struggle doing so.

But we're still together, they say.

Let heaven and nature sing...

The positive outcome of the Resentment Stage occurs when both partners take stock of themselves and begin taking responsibility for the behaviors and traits that are problematic. And happy couples ride out the waves, committed to each other, but not blindly ignoring the challenges that they face. They are able to negotiate how to relate to each other. They remain committed to honesty, while embracing the humanity of each other. Both are committed to the happiness of the other and both recognize their own contributions to the resentment of the other. About half of couples come through the Resentment Phase without getting a divorce. But a much smaller percentage actually move beyond the behaviors and manage to actually enjoy each other. Just look at the married people sitting in restaurants together.

Those who do make it through are very happy to get to the next phase.

The Stages of Love, Part I

Found here

This is a picture of William and Claudia Ritchie, who were the oldest married couple in the world as of 2002. William was 104 and Claudia was 97. What sweet people--still holding hands and inclined toward one another. I would love to know what their secret for a happy marriage is for the 83 years they have been together.

Coming across their picture made me think about all of the steps and stages that a married couple goes through over the course of life. Many people don't realize that these stages are recursive: like a loop. I certainly didn't know this, as a young person growing up. When my friend, Connie, told me once that being married was like a "boring roller coaster," I was appalled and even prayed for her marriage. But in fact, she was probably more accurate than I realized. Being married isn't boring. However, a boring roller coaster is one that undulates but doesn't give you a huge adrenaline rush. It's somewhat predictable with just enough ups and downs to give variety to the ride. Yup. I think there is some truth to that. Connie told me that there were times when she was "gah-gah" about John, and other times that she almost felt indifferent about him for a few weeks. But she said that if she just stayed steady, she would get that in-love feeling once again. I thought it was very strange. But I think there was some degree of generalizability to her remarks.

Limerence is the first stage of love. It is the time when you first meet and for 6 to 18 months, there are head over heels feelings of being in love. When you meet that special person, it is hard to think of anyone or anything else. There is a rush of involuntary euphoria as the limerent individual obsesses and recalls every move, glance, touch of the object of affection. The pleasure centers in the brain are overactive and cause people to behave like they have a mental problem: hormones gunning and a desperate desire to be in the presence of the beloved at every opportunity. Very little gives reason for pause, because the object of affection is so wonderful, so delightful, so talented, so beautiful... You get the idea. It's hard to get someone to think objectively when they are in this state, which is why counselors find it very challenging to work with couples who are hellbent on getting married when every clinical indicator reveals that they will never last. If there are developmental processes at play--the feelings that teenagers have that they must create their own identity apart from that of their parents--being in love with someone who might not be the best for them becomes a statement of emerging personhood. Any attempt to talk them out of it only increases their resolve to be who they (think they) are in this heightened state of self.

Almost all of the depictions of love on television and in movies depicts limerance. The passion, romance and thrill is typical of limerence. It is held up before us as the great standard of perfect love: all is happiness and light. Most of the depictions of "old" married couples involve crotchety, miserable people who snipe at each other or who have become so sensitized to each other that they have a) no romance, b) no physical attraction for one another, or c) nothing interesting but their kids.

Most popular songs about love are written with this stage of love in mind: romance, emotional and physical attraction abounds. Consider this song by Celine Dion:

And in your eyes I see ribbons of color

I see us inside of each other

I feel my unconscious merge with yours

And I hear a voice say,

"What's his is hers"

I'm falling into you

This dream could come true

And it feels so good falling into you

I was afraid to let you in here

Now I have learned love can't be made in fear

The walls begin to tumble down

And I can't even see the ground I'm falling into you

This dream could come true

And it feels so good falling into you

Falling like a leaf, falling like a star

Finding a belief, falling where you are

Catch me, don't let me drop!

Love me, don't ever stop!

So close your eyes and let me kiss you

And while you sleep I will miss you

I'm falling into you

This dream could come true

And it feels so good falling into you

Falling like a leaf, falling like a star

Finding a belief, falling where you are

Falling into you

Falling into you

Falling into you

It is all about getting closer. So close in fact, that there seems to be no more you or me--we're all one blur. For those in limerance, the feelings and prospects of a future with this marvelous person are so good that they wonder if it can all be real. In fact, the feelings are real, and the whole thing is wonderful beyond words. But this degree of emotional and physiological arousal can’t be sustained forever in the same form over time or else people would sizzle into vapor. We just can't take this for a long time, even though it is lovely. Which is why, you probably wouldn't find a person who was married for 30 years singing this with meaning. They've been there and done that, but the kind of love they have now, is about so much more than this.

Walk in the Park

Mother has been after me to go for an early morning walk with her over to the V.A. Hospital, adjacent to her retirement center. So on Sunday morning, I was there bright and early for our walk. These are pictures of her with her little feathered friends who seem to recognize her and run for her as soon as they see her blue jacket.

Here they are gathered, little beggars all. Mother is watcher "her" egret, who has just taken bread from her and is slurping it in the pond so he can eat it. See the dark duck to the right of her? It is part Muskovy and part Peking duck. She hates it--it pokes at the adolescent ducks and tries to take the bread away from them. Mother becomes filled with righteous indignation, pushing it away from the others with her foot. Ever the protector of babies...

This picture tickles my funnybone because of the way these ducklings are looking up at Mother, waiting to be given bread goodies. You see, Mother still thinks of herself as a "city slicker" and has always been fearful of barnyard animals. For years, she used to fuss about our chickens and ducks, who scared her if they made unpredictable sounds or movements. Of course, to her, almost everything they did made her nervous, and more than once she'd come flying in from hanging clothes in the backyard. In a panic she'd shout out to whomever might hear, "Get these birds out of the yard so I can hang the clothes!" She was just intimidated by the rooster or ducks, and didn't know how to defend herself from them. We'd go shoo them away and Mother would be just fine. Now she's downright maternal to this brood. I love the chemistry between MOther and these little guys.

Mother has a walking partner named Ken. He is stopping here to respond to these screeching, incensed geese. For some reason, they scream at him every morning. He could walk over on the other sidewalk that runs parallel to this one. They don't bother anyone on that sidewalk. But he seems to like to say hello to them. I think they recognize him, and the air becomes blue with goose epithets.

Ken grew up on a farm and has no difficulty puting a headlock on the goose as he reaches for Ken's ankle. Don't worry--he's not wringing the goose's neck. He's just restraining him. As soon as the goose stopped flapping his wings and trying to bite Ken, he let him loose and walked on his way. The geese fluttered after him, like teenage boys who were whooped in a fight but don't want to appear defeated. Ken continued on his way without so much as a glance over his shoulder.

So Mother and I meandered through the V.A. hospital's grounds for a little longer so she could show me the goose and duck couple, the scenic fountain, and the wood duck gang. We ran the Canada goose gauntlet--goose swearing on all sides--and made our way back to the Villa. It was a delightful early morning walk. I understand now, why Mother loves to go walking every day there with Ken.

Yearly Visit

My friend, Doris, came into town last week from Cove, Oregon. I have known her since 1982, when we attended the same church. She adopted me right away since she never had children of her own, and considers me "one of my girls." She wanted to visit us, see our home, and enjoy my cooking. So she spent last Friday afternoon with us and stayed the night. It was such a pleasure to take her grocery shopping with me for our weekend meals. As we were wandering down the juice aisle, she pulled me next to her and whispered in my ear, "I've never shopped with you before. This is fun!"

We sat up late and chatted about people we'd known over the years, our families, and our own personal challenges. Talking with Doris is like talking with the most attentive Mother there ever was.

Doris' husband, Oscar (not his real name) used to be the local postman. His cousin, a heart surgeon, was known to tell people that he felt sorry for Oscar because his life was so predictable and uninspiring. Little did he know that Oscar had worked for the CIA during the Cold War and then was sent by the U.S. government to rout out drug lords in South America. He had been brainwashed twice by two governments, had been the holder of classified information for years, been captured by the Russians and served time in a rat-infested, guard kicking prison there before being returned to the U.S. He also flew numerous missions into another country, 50 feet above the ocean in the dead of night, without any lights. He didn't know the names of those with whom he flew. There was a great deal of adrenaline in his life. So much in fact, that he had nightmares all of his adult life, almost every night. That was why I'd heard him screaming at night the times I visited them in their retirement home. It scared me half to death. No telling how awful it must have been for him.

The last time I saw Oscar, he sat me down in the livingroom and told me that even though he'd been sworn to secrecy, it was time to start talking about his life experiences. He could sleep better that way. Doris was relieved, particularly as this happened during the last months of Oscar's life.

It was great to have Doris with me again. We laughed, ate, talked, and lazed around. I am so fortunate to have as many mothers as I have. Thank God for all those who have adopted me. I am blessed.

Sacramento

These photos are from my recent trip for a conference up in Sacramento. The conference was at a hotel directly across from the convention center. When I walked out the front door, my attention was arrested by this interesting sculpture. I wasn't sure what it was, but it took up the entire median of the street.

Here it is from behind. Any ideas of what or who it is? It looked Asian, like a depiction of ancient Chinese mythological characters.

There are benches around the square that are spacious and have an interesting message across the back. Click on the picture to read the writing on the bench.

This looked like an interesting family type of piece: The parents holding the roof up over the heads of the children. Or, it could be a version of "Hot Potato," since the object at the top looks like a potato. Or, the parents can be withholding something from the children. Or, the two adults can be teachers who have something special in the package they are holding up above their heads. Or...

I love this statue. It is of an African American woman, full-bodied and self-composed. She is looking up toward the stars. Perhaps, the North Star, that guided so many through the Underground Railroad. I spent quite a bit of time sitting near her, looking at her from many angles, trying to get a sense of the artist who created her.

It was a most enjoyable and beautiful setting. Sacramento is a wonderful city: lots to do, good eats, a small-town feeling, and majestic buildings. Now you have also seen some of the art there. It is worth a trip.

Blender tales

When I was about 10 years old, our family made its annual pilgrimage to the New York State Fair. We went there with our family friends every year, spending most of our time in the animal barns. There were always cows and ewes giving birth, amidst eyes agog of the incredulous crowd. Of course, the State Fair was the one place where we could get cotton candy: sticky, hairy stuff that seems to be magic to children.

There was also the long building where all of the gadgets and doodads were sold. People hawked every conceivable type of antique, appliance, and foodstuff there. We used to get Peppermint Patties that were little but pungent. I loved them. It was easy to get lost in that cavernous building, and I did several times, much to my chagrin.

What stands out for me was the year we watched the blender salesman. He was a shortish, balding man with a loud, high tenor speaking voice. He brandished this wonder machine over his head at the crowd, invoking the lifegiving properties of liquified foods would provide for those who bought the blender. But what probably sold most listeners on his machine was watching him make pancakes in it. He poured in some milk and oil, and added some flour. The white mass inside became quite thick. Then he dropped in three eggs, shells and all. I remember that, because the eggs had brown shells and they whizzed up into nothing almost immediately. At least, we couldn't see the bits of shell through the glass of the blender.

"Think of the minerals and vitamins that you can give your children with this machine!" he shouted. "But before you buy this blender on account of the vitamins, taste these pancakes made with the eggshells right in the batter!." There was an excited murmur from the crowd.
"Think of how much you can boost your calcum levels in your cooking!"
They pressed forward to the plate of dollar-sized pancakes his wife passed around. A loud "Wow!" came from my father. He was getting hooked in by this. I think he just liked machines, and he was determined to get one. He looked over at Mother, who was harrumphing and starting to walk away. Long story short, we left the fair with one of these sleep, super whizzing blenders with the glass container and gleaming white base.

Daddy could hardly wait to use it on Sunday morning--the day the house typically filled with the smell of the burning griddle, and the day we all pretended to like his pancakes that were always overcooked and more like browned crepes than pancakes. This time we got a real surprise. They weren't blackened. We were so excited to run downstairs and eat our calcium rich breakfasts that we rushed to the table that morning. Daddy had indeed made the pancakes by throwing the eggs into the blender, shells and all. We couldn't see anything unusual about them and we imagined that they smelled more delicious and exotic than ever before. Even Mother had one on her plate.

What a shock then, to bite into the first one and get a mouthful of grit. "Raiford!" mother postulated, "These are horrid!" They were awful things that we crunched through--even worse than the burnt ones we usually had. Daddy was crestfallen and Mother, triumphant. From then on, daddy used the blender to make pancake batter, but sans eggshells.
Soon the gritty pancakes were a funny family anecdote and nothing more.

Fast forward to this year. Sam and I bought a HealthMaster. We make the most wonderful fruit smoothies every morning for ourselves. Last week Sam bought the fruit at the produce stand down on the boulevard. He brought home three huge clusters of globe grapes. Grapes with seeds in them.
"Go ahead and put them into the blender whole," Sam advised. "This machine will liquify the seeds and we won't even know that they're in there."
"You know," I added, "Grapeseed oil is full of important vitamins and minerals. I think it will only enrich our smoothies." I was delighted at this added benefit.
The first morning, I made a smoothie out of five fresh-squeezed oranges, a kiwi, a cup of blueberries, three peaches, and a cluster of globe grapes. Up to level eight, I whizzed the daylights out of it for several minutes. It produced a frothy off-color admixture that was very sweet.
"I don't even taste the seeds," Sam commented happily.

The next two days, I made smoothies out of the rest of the grapes. They were very sweet and I certainly felt vitamin fortified.

Then on Thursday, I started cramping up. My belly felt terrible, like I'd swallowed a handful of grapeshot. They weren't gas pains or bladder spasms. My colon felt terrible. But it passed (forgive the pun!) and seemed to last only an afternoon.

Sam, on the other hand, left work early on Thursday. He felt nauseated and like something was stuck in his bowel. Strange. He was able to eat, but felt full. The next day he came home early again feeling sick. His bowel felt twisted and crampy. Hmmm. Grape seeds. Quite a few of them. Both of our fathers have struggled with diverticulitis. Why should we be any different?

You would think that I had learned from the pancakes, but I hadn't. From now on, no more seeds or eggshells. No blender is good enough for them, even the HealthMaster. Our bowels will thank us!

Smells

I was lying in bed the other night, watching TV. Sam had just come home from playing volleyball and was rinsing off in the shower. All of a sudden, I smelled something very strong and very odd; something I knew, but couldn't bring to mind immediately. It was a pungent, "thick," herbal-woodsy kind of scent. It seemed to be floating in the window from the street below. Where else would it be coming from?
Sam was just drying off.
"Honey," I whispered loudly, "Something awful is outside the window. What is it?"
He strode triumphant out of the shower over to the window and peered through the slats of the blinds. "I don't see anything."

That is when I realized that in fact, the odor had followed him from the bathroom.
"Honey, are you wearing a new kind of cologne?"
He was.
He smiled at me proudly, with a heady smell emanating from his person.

"Oh Honey," I crinkled up my nose. "You smell like a pipe."

Sam turned to me, an expression of dismay across his face. "How can you mean that?...this was really expensive. Are you telling me that I smell like tobacco?"
I nodded.
"Now I feel really terrible." He eyed the bottle on the counter. "I'll take it back tomorrow."
"Stores don't take returned fragrances, Sweetie. You'll just have to decide what to do with it, but it's yours for keeps now."

I felt awful, but I also remembered hearing something similar from him six years earlier when the shoe was on the other foot.

I have always loved wearing White Linen. It is a light floral scent that doesn't offer a full on olfactory assault as do other musky or rancid fruit decoctions. I was wearing it when I met Sam for the first time; I wore it the first time we kissed; when he proposed; when we got married. I loved it. But soon after we got married my bottle of White Linen was empty and we headed to the mall for a replacement. At least, that's what I was looking for.

Sam was looking for an alternative. As I was browsing around the perfume counter waiting for the clerk to bring me my White Linen, Sam proffered one fragrance after another. Generally, he has very good taste in fragrances, so I was eager to see what he chose. Most of them though, were icky musky type of smells and I grew tired of his selections rather quickly. When the clerk came with my boxed fragrance, Sam turned to me.
"Honey," his voice dropped and took on a tone of entreaty. "I really wish you wouldn't buy that." He eyed my White Linen sadly.
"Why?" It wasn't that expensive. I looked at Sam's face.
He looked a bit uneasy and seemed to be trying to choose his words carefully. "It's just that...I don't really think it's a good fragrance...for you."
"What?" This was the first I was hearing this sad news.
He smiled warmly at me and pulled me up next to him. "You smell like an old lady in that."
"What!?" All this time I thought it made me more alluring and he was just tolerating it. Go figure. He must love me a lot to have never said anything about it.
"I just didn't know how to tell you, but I don't like it."

I left that store with a fragrance called Light Blue: a faint floral fragrance with a touch of citrus. I liked it and I have worn it ever since. But I nostalgically sniff White Linen every time I see it on fragrance counters.

Now I have a husband whose scent smells like a smoking pipe. My first thought was, Lower the guns, the fight is on! But I've always had a hard time being mean to Sam. Maybe it's his big brown eyes, or his desire for my approval, but I restrained my inner musings about sleeping next to someone whose fragrance makes my eyes run.
"It's okay, Honey," I told him the next morning. "Maybe you can just put on less of it. I think it might actually be nice in a haunting kind of way--reminds me of a man smoking a pipe by a cozy fireplace, if it is fainter."
"Great," he muttered. "Now you're telling me that I smell like an old man."
"Not really, I countered. "It's not my choice, but it isn't bad if you're not soaked with it."
He agreed.

Sam actually smells pretty nice now, or maybe I'm just getting used to it. It is small peanuts, this fragrance business, as long as my eyes don't water from the acrid smell of it when it's full strength. I imagine Sam is happy to have a new scent that he likes. Perhaps he will so enjoy it that he won't notice the new White Linen bottle in my medicine cabinet.