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Thursday, May 21, 2015

Fwd: Aunt Bee's Got Big Boobs

                                         Aunt Bee's Got Big Boobs

"Boy her boobs are big!"
Every guy in the world has thought this or perhaps even said this statement. Perhaps!           Every guy, to another guy, will always say that statement if a women with large healthy attributes walks in a room. Or past a window or even if she's remembered from years past, long long ago. If she had them it would be how we remembered her. And it's like we're always out hunting for such a find. And the guy that sees it (them) and is the first to verbally appoints them as such,...well he then becomes a great hunter hero. This then opens up a discussion as to what constitutes big, and conversation about the aforementioned will continue for some time. This then draws other men into the conversation and away from the always hot topic of Superman and Batman in a fight to the death and who would win. For they too want to voice their opinion on big boobs and name names of girls who have them. It seems to make them more manly the more women they can mention. This topic of conversation is found at any and all male and or mixed gatherings anywhere in the world every second of the day.
Us men are a simple lot.
But this time it wasn't a 'guy' that said it. It was my five year old sweet innocent little granddaughter! She had been sitting on the couch with grandma and I watching the most family friendly, sit down all together, no hot topics here, TV show of Andy of Mayberry.
Aunt Bee walks into the dinning room from the kitchen carrying the Sunday chicken, places it between the mash potatoes and the peas and carrots, makes a comment about the pastor coming for lunch on such short notice and then mentions how big her boobs were! No! She didn't say it, my granddaughter said it. "Boy her boobs are big!"
It was here for the first time in my life I had to try and class up this topic of conversation. Did the kids ever come to a conclusion like this when they were young? What did I say then? I think I was at work all that time when they were young. What's the medical term for boobs? All this rushing through my mind trying to respond in an adult mature fashion.
In my defense I didn't see it coming! After all it's Andy of Mayberry. Not your go-to TV show when looking for big boobs. If Baywatch or Wonder Woman were on,.. sure.  
 Never did I come to grade school and question your buds if they caught Aunt Bee on the weekend after she placed the chicken on the table.  'Forget Ginger and Mary-Ann! Aunt Bee is where it's at boys.' I think if I had used good ole Aunt Bee in grade school as the desire of a boyhood fantasy and voiced it publicly,....well I'd of eaten a lot of lunches on my own at school.
So it was with much unpreparedness and some surprise that I said "Yes Charlotte her breasts are of Biblical proportions." That's all the class I could muster up on such short notice?
Then my wife, who is use to dealing with children and the female anatomy, and who is far classier than me pipes in "So do you think grandma's got big boobs?"
Really?... Have I neglected you so much that you're fishing for compliments on your anatomy from your five year old grandkid? Cause you're not going to beat Aunt Bee! Because after Charlotte mentioned it I started noticing Aunt Bee shapely attributes.
"Ya grandma you got big boobs too!"  Charlotte smiled and leaned into grandma.
Will this conversation never end! It seems so lengthy when it's not bro on bro. Throw the grandkid and the wife in the mix and it seems uncomfortably long. The same conversation guys have every time they're together,...the whole time together is now such a sticky burden.
"None of my friends in kindergarten have boobs yet grandma."
"Breasts. They don't have breasts yet. They are called breasts." I, in my best medical tone interject with some authority of knowledge on the subject. At five I didn't want her so comfortable on anatomy that she's already using slang to describe her future results from puberty. What would be next, titty's, knockers, honkers, jugs? I could go on and on with such slang about that part on the female anatomy. And you know I could, I'm a guy.
Grandma was a little deflated that her comparison group was all Charlottes friends (boy and girl) in her kindergarten class. But took some comfort that the kindergarten teacher was never mentioned, as in 'You should see my teachers boobs if you think yours are big grandma.' Cause if she had said that ole grandpa would have to be a little more active in his granddaughters education. Cause Grandma's got big boobs! But not as big as Aunt Bee's!

Bob Niles

Thursday, May 14, 2015

Fwd: I Love my Part-Time Neighbours


 Many of us here in Vancouver are faced with an unusual situation. The situation being that the old house next door was demolished, then a new one was built and sold, but nobody moved in. And now we all of a sudden live in a fancy neighbourhood with no neighbours! Or, part time neighbours that just live next door once in awhile. Neighbours that are gone months at a time and leave their large investment in The City of Vancouver's real estate in your care.
 "Fools!" my wife calls them. "Who would dare leave there beautiful house, worth almost 3 million dollars, in the care of an nincompoop like you? Fools!"
 No argument here. But I'm not a complete nincompoop, I've developed my limited level of nincompoop-ary through years of paternal training. My Dad was the best at messing up any and all jobs Mom gave him. His motto was 'Get it wrong the first time and she'll phone someone the second time to have it done right.' Besides they didn't ask me to redo their house plumbing.
 My wife's also mad cause they gave me a key to their house to....? I forget. But now it's become my second home. I hauled my TV over and bought an extra 100 ft. of coaxial cable. Now I get all my TV stations in HDPnQ.  High Definition Peace-n-Quiet.
 And the longer they're away the more it's like home to me. After the second month of their absence the wife and I barely see each other as I have taken up full residence in their home. A situation that the wife is jealous of because I live in a nicer home than her. And a situation that almost got me arrested.
 I'm in their house (because I now live there)  having a long hot shower, when some idiot comes in their driveway and lays on the horn. You run from the shower ( soaking wet because you forgot to bring a towel with you) and wrap yourself in the curtains to find out what nincompoop making all the hullabaloo. And it's them! My part-time neighbours.
Their horn is blaring because your brother-in-laws broken down motor home is blocking the driveway.
You quickly paste your clothes on ( it looks like that when you dress wet) and run out the back door, in an effort to hide your somewhat illegal entry. And in doing so forgetting to remove the nice neighbour lady's shower cap. "Welcome home!" you suggest as you suddenly remember, and remove the ill-gotten shower cap. And it's at this very moment you realize the gravity of the situation.
The motor home's in the driveway because it's transmission is in their carport. An electrical cord is running from their house to your teenagers room to power some very bright lights (some sort of science project he says). Their 16 piece patio furniture set is still at your mother-in-laws. Your filling your in ground pool from their hose. There's still a load of laundry in their washer, one on top of their dryer and one in the dryer. You still haven't cleaned up from the party you had in their back-yard two weeks ago. The toilets plugged to overflowing. The grass you said you'd cut and water is so far just an empty promise. And then all of a sudden you remember why they gave you their key. Something about making a commitment to feed and water their cat Mitsy.
 All this plus you've rented their basement out to a non-English speaking, perhaps Eastern European, perhaps drug underworld, perhaps violent and somewhat shady character till the end of the week.
Lucky for you your neighbors  don't speak English. Which for a time (or maybe longer) is going to save your butt. Oh they'll look at you funny for a long time, and never leave anything in you care again (something the wife already knew 'Fools'). And sometime in the far distant future they'll get over Mitsy. A long haired cream coloured Persian cat last seen in and around 38th and Carnarvon St. With the possibility of a reward, or will take care of your house for an extended period while absent. Anyone?

Bob Niles.       

Wednesday, May 13, 2015

Fwd: Oh How Sweet my Sundays Were

                             Oh How Sweet my Sundays Were

 My Dad looks over at his four boys now sitting quietly in the church pew. Their earlier hyper activity had stuck their shirts to their backs and plastered their hair flat to their heads soaked in sweat. His little army for the Lord are all doodling notes on a sermon of eternal hell fire and damnation to the unsaved soul. Now content that his brood was finally well behaved he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a gun.

Three hours earlier:

 "Boys! Gordon! Supper!"  
 It was 5:30 on any Sunday Night, and my Mom was calling her family for a quick dinner before church. We were a Sunday go-to-two-meetings kinda Christians.
 Church, and traveling to and from church were our Sundays. With a half hour commute to church either way, and going to two services each Sunday, it took more than two hours in travel time alone. Combine this with a fiery preacher, who needed more than one day a week to expound on his teachings, and was terrible at telling time, it  became a day that was not one of rest. All this combined with at least a half hour of pre-service prayer found our little family taxed for any free time. And so it was our Sunday lunches were a hurried affair, followed with a brief rest and a quick easy dinner.  And what's easier and quicker for dinner, that would be a treat for her long Sunday suffering boys and tired husband?
 Solution? Ice-cream and cookies!
 What a great idea! Let's load four pre-teen boys up on sugar and then make them sit.....sorry, try and sit still in church for a couple of hours. And then let's do it every week because her boys just loved ice-cream and cookies.
In my Moms defense it was the sixties and the effects of sugar on four hyper boys had never been tested,.......unless you count us.
I loved being a Christian! Ice-cream and cookies every Sunday. Us boys figured all the preacher had to do to win souls was just to let all them sinners in on my Moms recipe for a pre-service Sunday meal.
Hell-fire and damnation! No! Ice-cream and cookies! And you get to go to heaven, filled with enough milk and honey to make ice-cream for all eternity.
The only bad thing about our Sunday meal was that it was Mom's one chance to pray for the food during the week. She seemed blind to the fact that ice-cream will melt if you pray long enough. This being her one kick at the can for the week she made sure she thanked God for all he had done since last Sunday.    Then she thanked Him for everything she hoped for till next Sunday. For everyone and everything!  All the missionaries in far off countries, all her family, all my Dads family, the neighbors that needed salvation, her friend at work with the dry patchy skin and even the lady two doors down that had lost her cat! On and on she went thanking God for her beautiful garden, her roses and petuinias and  the lady in the lost and found at church (Helen Hunt) who located her umbrella.  And all the while my ice-crane lies thereevaporating in front of me. It's shrinking! My precious Sunday meal, the reason I'm a Christian, is shrinking! Doesn't my Mom, a true friend of God, pray during the week? Why did she go on and on and on?
Then I hear it, the word that ends all prayers, my four favorite letters. 'Amen'. It's Christian for let's eat!
My once cherished rock hard mountain of ice-cream now renders to my spoon like mash potatoes. No chance of a brain freeze here! If only Mom could trade for Tuesdays she could pray all the way to 8:30 if she wanted. Cold meatloaf is as good as hot meatloaf.
Dinner now done, and we're in the car off again to church.
Our arrival at church was at about the same time the sugar in our blood stream was pulling into crazy town.  We couldn't wait to jump out of the car. We were like hound dogs on the trail of a late night possum. My three brothers and I would run all the way into church, howling as we ran. Dad always parked a few blocks  from church, it gave time for Mom and him to take a nice leisurely walk to while his boys feverishly chased the trail of some imaginary game.
Into the church burst four boys as if chased by the devil himself. Crisp white shirts stuck to our backs with sweat. If we had run all the way in the rain we wouldn't have looked any different. Only difference, we would have been steaming. Zoom! Off to the prayer room for a half hour of pre-service prayer. Now our church encouraged lively prayer, and that's just what they got from us four boys. I think the church elders were quite impressed with the high level of energy my brothers and I brought to pre-service prayer. Stand-up, kneel-down, hands raised, swaying back and forth, jumping up and down and all the while loud hallelujahs ringing off the rafters was what we gave them. But to most people looking on I'm sure it looked more like four crazed hounds howling at the moon.
The Sunday evening service would usually start with lively songs of praise, which were easy to enter into by us boys. We would clap our hands, tap our toes and sway to the music in a rhythm slightly faster than four-four time. Our cheeks and ears were a brighter red than Christmas candy. Sweat covered our foreheads and trickled down our backs. We gave off more BTUs than the old boiler in the church basement.
 Lots of movement with our arms and legs, singing and clapping was what we needed to release our build up of energy. Slow songs and equally slow sermons were our downfall.
 On a slow worship song we were louder, several words ahead (and usually not the right ones) and out of tune. We had to sit on our hands to stop from out of tempo clapping through 'Amazing Grace'. Our Dad had a whole bag full of stern, don't you dare embarrass me, looks that would shut us down and keep us in line.
Now what we needed was a new way to burn off a sugar buzz.
Pain was found to be a great reliever of hypertension. Pinching your brother beside you and refusing to squirm was a great detractor to a sugar high. It was always the first one to move or cry Moses was the one that lost. Standing in quiet prayer squishing your brothers thumb on the pew in front of you, till you were sure it was going to pop was an all to frequent past-time. Or, putting your full weight on his little toe was also a great way to turn sugar energy into parent pleasing calm, that if done correctly could do permanent damage to the little piggy that went 'wee wee wee al the way home.'
But the hardest time to get through was the sermon. Here clapping was frowned upon. Totally! You could shout out the occasional 'Amen', to release energy but here you would have to pay attention to the placement of your personal approval. Here, more often than not you became an embarrassment to your parents.
The Sunday evening sermon was a cold-turkey moment. We were required, expected to and to strongly refrain any and all signs of our sugar buzz. Which was about as likely as pigs singing in the choir.
We were four boys sitting shoulder to shoulder to shoulder to shoulder in reverence, trying to give their full attention to the preachers sermon.      Thankfully the sugar buzz was now slowly starting to ease it's grip on the possession of our souls. Yet, still demanding enough energy that when we four sat in a row we could get the pew to vibrate. To vibrate with enough force to make the washers on the bolts, that held the pew to the floor, to loosen and sound like coins dropping in a offering plate. Not an all to unhappy sound we figured  given it's surroundings.
It's here Dad would flip us a look that would confirm death was eminent when we got home if silence was not obtained immediately. Mom fearing for our lives would separate us and spread us apart while questioning under her breath that she was sure she had no idea what was wrong with her boys.
Three scoops of chocolate swirl and four double fudge cookies........I'm thinking.
About half way through the sermon sugar had all but released the hold it had on our bodies. Our shoulders now dropped, muscles in our legs, back and arms had relaxed, and our bodies had become tired and sleep would try to overtake us. But! my Mom wouldn't allow this. Nodding off would look like the preacher had bored us. The thought of a message of eternal salvation, delivered by a man of God, a leader in the community would somehow bore her children was not an option my Mom would accept. She solved this by giving us paper and pencils so we could draw. She was convinced, that to the preacher it would look like we were so interested in the sermon that we were taking notes.
My Dad now looks over at his four boys sitting quietly in the pew, shirts stuck to their backs, hair plastered to their heads soaked in sweat. His little army for the Lord all taking notes on the sermon of which he himself had no idea  what it was about. Content that we were finally well behaved he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a gun.
Oh not a gun of steel and gunpowder, but yet a gun of equal destruction, one of sugar......Candy! One by one he offers that gun to each child in turn, and each child in eager acceptance not knowing that soon an all to common chain of events were about to unfold. Events that would cause husband and wife to question the legitimacy of their own children. Events that would embarrass my parents enough to maybe look for a different church next week. Events that would make a father grab his son by the shoulders and on bended knee look him straight in the eye and plead more than ask "What in the wide world of sports has gotten into you?"     

Bob Niles       

Saturday, May 9, 2015

Fwd: Mother's Day is Father's Day as well

                                  Mother's Day is Father's Day as well.

 We say it with flowers, cards, balloons, banners and chocolates that our moms are the best in the whole world. Nobody anywhere this side of the moon has done more for you, has helped you through crisis after crisis and kept smiling but your mom. From diapers to  diapers to diapers starting with you, then your kids and then their kids, mom has changed them all. She's been there for every boo-boo and mishap. Through every cold and sickness she's sacrificed her own health to care for you. There is none better than mom.
And how do we thank this woman of such valor? We get her all gussied up and have her stand in line with many other gussied up mothers at your favorite restaurant. After that we may, (weather permitting) take her for a lovely walk to let her know, and to prove to her, you still remember how she taught you to walk.
And where's dad through all this? He's on the couch leisurely creating an outline of himself in potato chips while watching TV. Dads right where he wants to be. Left alone, just him and his stinky dog watching about 89 different TV channels. But yet watching nothing at all. Every time a commercial hits he changes channels, then forgets where he was in his two dimensional life. He starts something else, then it too has a commercial and he gets lost again. But old dads having a ball!
Mom meanwhile has gotten her patten pink pumps plastered in shi., poo from walking across a soft spring lawn in Minoru Park. I try with some success to clean off her patten pink shoe while she stands like a stork using my shoulder for support.
"We should of stayed on the artificial playing field to avoid this mess" I huffed as I her gallant knight placed the slipper on her foot.
"Yes" she noted in hindsight, "But with my luck the artificial field would of probably caught me up with an artificial plastic poop" she joked.
 We continued on to more supportive paved paths that wound through flowered gardens. She's marveled, laughed and shivered in the cool air as she delighted in in the May flora and the company of her offspring.
"Much better than spending the day with your father" she states as she squeezes my hand in affirmation.
The day got longer and longer for mom as it went from splendor to feeling like a queen to my face hurts from smiling to I wish I was home so I can use my own washroom.
'Meanwhile back at the ranch' dad has had his best day of the year once again. The one day of the year that it wasn't up to him to make sure it was 'happy wife happy life'. This day for him was all about what he loved. Alone at home! A clothing optional, no need to close the bathroom door, don't have to say excuse me, crank up the music, slip back to the 80s and move to the grove. No ones watching, cause no ones there! Even the neighbors are spared his Fruit of the Loom dance tribute to the man formally known, and now again known as Prince. He's committed the unwritten no-no of pulling the curtains shut while the sun is shining. But he don't care, cause no ones there.
At this point even the dog's feeling uncomfortable seeing his master and best friend slip so far from the every day norm. Having to dance with him as they both howl at....? Who knows? But it's fun to howl! And howl they do.
At some point during 'Little Red Corvette' dad's dance move directs him at the kitchen. The very room his wife mentioned to clean up after himself in. The very room in which he has very much polluted  with his 9 pot and pan lunch masterpiece. A creation of leftovers, cold cuts, blue formage, canned meat and a three item lunch special from Wing Kees Canton Palace. These items of meats, veggies, cheeses, sauces, and secret oriental spices all combined for a sandwich of Biblical proportions. A sandwich you should close the bathroom door for, but because of the current amount of beings at the abode, don't. And instead relish the breeze.
Having seen and remembered that he should clean up after himself he dances himself and  the dog over to the kitchen. It's here the dog bows out as the slippery tile presents new challenges that even the opportunity to howl won't overcome. Dad is now solo, still only wearing knee high black socks and tighty white-ies as he begins the  insurmountable task of correcting this wrong he created in his wife's kitchen. However, he's not slowed by menial labour as he continues creating dance moves that only he and Buddy (dog) could appreciate.
That is until he hears "Hey Fred Astaire! You need more soap!"
The wife! She's home! She's, the bathroom. She sticks her head in the kitchen, makes an observation, continues on to the bathroom.
"I had the best day ever!" the bathroom door says. "We went for lunch at this place the kids like. Very expensive! Then we walked around the park till it got too cool then went for a drive past the old house on Camsell. Everything's changed there. New houses everywhere. How was your day? Did you get up to much? I'll clean up that mess in the kitchen after I change." the bathroom door continues as dad turns off the music.
He didn't hear much of what she said but understood everything. Mom's happy. She had the best day with the kids. But, he interjects to himself, not as good as mine.

Bob Niles

Wednesday, May 6, 2015

Fwd: I Hate Glasses!

                                             I Hate Glasses

"Honey where are my glasses!?" I accuse and ask the wife simultaneously. Knowing she'd moved them or hoping she'd seen them as I blindly search in vain for my visual aids to an ever increasing touch screen world.
"Use mine they're on the kitchen counter!"
 I hate that,... using other peoples glasses. It's that whole washing behind your ears and eyebrows and hair and stuff. Or perhaps they chewed on the ends of them like some slobbery sexy librarian? Other people have no problem borrowing your glasses, talking on your cell phone that  you've spit all over, and writing with your pencil that you've hungrily ate the eraser and the top two inches off. Not me! No thank you!
"Oh here they are" I lie, to cover my phobia that she doesn't think I shouldn't have because it draws her kisses into question.
I now hunt for my glasses covertly and in silence. I start down the stairs...forget what I'm doing or looking for until my phone jingle buzzes to let me know I have a text. I reach for the phone and then remember what I was doing as I look at the screen. "I need my glasses!"
"You said you found them" shouts the house from somewhere.
 Dang too loud, gotta remember she can still hear.
 Never in the course of history has humankind been so needy of quality visual aids. Because everything you do now has some sort of screen that requires you to have vision equal to that of a young eagle. And my vision started to fail just as everything started requiring video screens. And what's bad about it all is I don't need glasses for most things. So rather than wear them all the time, I leave them all over the house so I can curse and fume for them later.
I only need glasses to read, or if I'm curious about something. I drive the car without glasses! And, as they say, if you don't like the way I drive stay out of the kitchen.
I have an HD TV and without my glasses on it's just like the TV I had as a kid with rabbit ears. My dad had heard that rabbit ears improved TV reception. But no matter how many rabbits he killed the TV still had a fuzzy screen. And top!
 I don't need my glasses to watch Walter Cronkite (I think its Walter) every night on the news to keep up with current events. I watch a retro channel for entertainment, as I remember what all the stars looked like in the 60 and 70s. And now with my memory, as good as it is,  they've started writing new shows again.
It's just the new things in my life that trouble me. Everything digital! And everything's digital! I can't make popcorn in the microwave or coffee in the 12 cup drip without hunting the house first. It's hunting,...then stopping trying to remember what I'm doing,..remember,...then hunting some more for the glasses before you forget again!
And it's not just at home that you need your glasses. The whole world has now replaced humans for touch screens in everything we do.
This morning I went to the bank to withdraw $100 bucks. The teller line up was so long (because there was only 2 tellers) I used the cash machine. Forget my glasses, and had to ask the nice skinhead (or he was wearing a nylon stocking?) man to punch in my password and withdraw $100 dollars for me. But he only gave me $60, saying the machine said that's all I could get before lunch.
 After that I went to buy a bag of groceries. It came to $78.54, and now have to use my bank card as my $60 won't cover it. I then realize the nice man back at the bank forgot to give me back my Debit card so I have to use my Visa Card. I hand,....(can't read her name tag) a girl, (I think) my card, and she points at a box with a keypad. I have no idea what the little grey box, that I'm suppose to put my card in, wants of me. Why can't I just sign a big blank line like I use to!? (I do a lot of !? !? !? As I get older) Thank goodness the check out girl remembered my number from last time I was there.
On the way home I stop for gas but my card won't work in the pumps! And I don't know why! The machine knows why! It's printed me a lot of information on its video screen to,... I guess explain why. But, I have no glasses!
I try blocking the sun from the video screen with my head and hand trying to ascertain why I can't get gas. I'm moving from side to side, up and down saluting the gas pump as I verbally abuse it.
"Here borrow mine" says the guy on the pump beside me as he hands me his glasses.
Awkward........are people this quick lending their toothbrushes? "Oh silly me! These special sunglasses I have on have a button I just need to push." I lie as I remove my James Bond glasses  and pretend to push some magical button. "Ah there we go. Oops says its rejected. Guess I'm poor. Well gotta go!" So off I drive on gas fumes wearing my James Bond shades with no idea why my card was rejected.
Hey isn't that the nice skinhead from the bank coming out of the liquor store? Can't be. He couldn't afford a whole shopping cart full of booze.
I drive to the next corner while thinking I should of asked him about my Debit card. It's there I cross four lanes of traffic and a big bump which I guess was the median to another gas station. I forgot I had $60 bucks!
"Home honey I'm high!" I joke as close the back door. I place car keys and hat on expecting hooks that through experience have been real timesavers.
"I'm not sure if he purchased a trip for two to Bora Bora. Let me ask him, he just came through the door." my wife says then places her right hand over the receiver.
I mouth the word 'NO' as I turn my head in a negative fashion as my glasses fall from atop my noggin.
"Yes go ahead and cancel the card blah blah blah blah no I'm sure it wasn't stolen, he's not beat up. But he soon will be!" she assures the phone as she makes a slashing motion across her throat and then points at me.
Well, found my glasses. They were under my hat the whole time. Yet another story about getting old you plan to keep to yourself. More and more these crazy stories fill your life with all the old people things we do.
"Let me get my glasses and a pen to write that down" she says into the phone as she reaches in the mug with the broken handle for a pen then gives me the universal sign to hand over my glasses. Then again.....and again. Fingers opening and closing.
I hand her my glasses as a child would hand over candy he was caught with. Hesitant and crying.
" What's your problem? They're mine anyway! Yours are in the bathroom." she's says. "You took mine off the kitchen counter by mistake trying to read a text on your phone! And I had to use yours to.....just you never mind what I had to use yours for."
My mind runs wild with the things my glasses might of been used for or had seen in the bathroom. Now I've got to boil them without her seeing! She thinks I don't love her when I boil my things after she uses them.
Interrupted, my pants vibrate and do a ring buzz as I search for which pocket the phones in. Dang, it's a text! Where did she say she put my glasses? Here we go again! I hate glasses!

Bob Niles

Wednesday, April 22, 2015

Fwd: Doctor Philip McCavity

                                            Doctor Philip McCavity

Have you ever noticed there are, and have been many TV shows on medical doctors but  never any TV shows on dental doctors? Dr. Kildare, Marcus Welby, St. Elsewhere, Chicago Hope, ER, Mash, Frasier, Nip/Tuck, General Hospital, the list goes on and on. In Canada and America (Wikipedia) there have been 96 TV medical shows and 0 shows showcasing dentistry. Jerry Robinson from one of the Bob Newhart Shows was about as close as dentistry got to headlining on TV.
What's wrong with showcasing a dentist as an interesting or complicated, funny, filthy rich, playboy, type character? Well nothing. It just that we don't like them!
And I'll tell you why. They don't put us to sleep when they hurt us. TV would be flooded with new medical shows all about the ins and outs of the sexy world of dentistry. Dentists would be household names like doctors Ben Casey and Marcus Welby were to old people. They'd have their own marketable action figures, lunch boxes and pajamas if they would just put us to sleep while they drill into our heads!
Both medical and dental experiences start out the same way. You sit in a waiting room reading old magazines or play on your phone for half an hour. It's then when you leave the waiting room that dentistry gets its bad rap. In medical office the doctor talks with you and listens to you. In dentistry a dentist talks with you while he distorts your answers with his fingers in your mouth.
"So had any problems since our last visit six months ago?" He asks.
"Whaa eye Kaaan bye hon maaa ref sye oh ma mow" I clearly enunciate.
"Well ya got a cracked tooth Hawaii and we should replace some old fillings and since you have insurance golf clubs we should do a bunch of bonding on your choppers."
"We we? Ef oooo sa show."
And then he starts drilling! He pinches and pulls on your lips, pokes your gums with a nail and then starts drilling. A doctor of medicine,...will asks questions, says uh huh, yes uh huh, then he sends you to a specialist. My dentist never sends me to another dentist! He just goes at it with drill and pick and when he makes a mistake he says rinse and spit. I have to help my dentist in his procedure of my operation. I never have to irrigate incisions for my doctor!
And it's not like you can  spit like the professional you really are. I mean you've mastered the science of the spit in grade four with all your buddies. But this expulsion of  oral phlegm is handled with the finesse of a three year old spitting corn syrup into a headwind. You're wearing it! The handle on the chair is wearing it!  And is the side of the little whirlpool sink. All three points are connected with,....???? Some sort of shiny string. Then he tips you back in the chair till your heads almost touching the floor and the string follows!
He's talking to you but you can't hear over the high, vibrating, teeth shattering, (you can feel them smash against the inside of your cheeks) deafening scream of his favorite drill. It's the same one he had at his home before he got caught working from his basement.
I don't think my medical doctor talks to me while he's operating. He's concentrating! Concentrate will ya!? If nothing else concentrate on using that Dixie straw on the end of that pathetic suction hose before I drown! That suction straw is never where it's suppose to be. Most of its time it's hanging in your mouth away from where it needs to be giving your tongue a hickey
Why am I forced to be awake through this? Why am I not asleep? Is my being conscious all just to rinse and spit!?  
And now he's literally taking every nickel I have by inverting me upside down in his dental throne of pain. All my change and car keys are bouncing and clanging on and across his floor as I watch them roll away in my inverted position.
My doctor of medicine gives me a cool nightie and puts me to sleep with a room full of his friends to watch over me. Nice guy eh?
I wish I had on a cool nightie now! I'm sweating so bad now, like my change I'm sliding out of my pants.
And it's just him and I in the room. He can do what he wants and it will be his word against mine. Him with the two diplomas on the wall (even if one is just from Magi-Cuts) and me upside down light headed with an airplane landing light shining in my face. "Well your honor I saw,....?? A bright light!"
And you don't know what the heck he's doing. Even he can't see what's happening! He's using little mirrors on the end of sticks stuffed in your mouth competing for space with a Dixie straw and ten fingers. Medical doctors have magnifying glasses and microscopes with HD cameras. Pencil thin snake like microscopic cameras that are expertly fed along internal natural pathways of the body while you dream the procedure away.
Meanwhile upside down sweating like Mike Duffy at trial your subjected to head rattling high pitched drills that are blasting away fillings and tooth enamel to create gaping chasms of dental wasteland. Down to bedrock and a firm foundation is what's needed to now build  back which once was.
 Will I look more handsome be able to talk quicker? No? Will I be able to climb stairs without pain or now play the piano like a doctor of medicine might achieve in an operation? No? To be fair I couldn't climb the stairs before.
Drilling now complete he starts rebuilding. No permits no inspections no one to say 'Yup that should do,' he is unto himself.  He starts with some sort of roofing putty at the bottom of the pit he just drilled in your face. Using such physical force with his metal sticks and trowels that he's pushing you back in your pants. And with great pressure bit by bit and with magical lights he somehow sets the roof putty to tooth enamel hardness.
"Bite. Grind. Bite again." He requests. At which point you mumble that the only the side of your face he just worked on is biting. Which he understood as 'Can you use that big drill on my face again?'
What the hey! Why did you put too much roofing putty in my face?! And why didn't you drill it out before you made it hard?!
"Okay rinse." he says as he starts to right the throne of pain and I'm right side up for the first time in over an hour. Light headed I flash him a look that this ain't going to be pretty. But I rinse and spit like a three year old so that the pretty receptionist will find me repulsive. And by her judging that the oral phlegm design on my shirt and chin is repulsive she will have saved her and my marriage.
Then he says those five words. The five words that find you leaping to your feet like a darted and drugged yearling moose. Bumping, spinning and tripping into chairs and walls, knocking over instrument trays and lights. Because your dizzy! Dizzy and light headed from being upside down for so long. But your freedom is now assured, operation complete. 'SEE YOU IN SIX MONTHS' he says. Five beautiful words.
 With your dentist there's no bed with a caring nurse to monitor your progress as you awake from your dream. No wheel chair to the front door and someone to drive you home. No, not with the dentist. Your running out of his office head spinning, bumping into things trying to hide your phlegm art as you spin past the receptionist. New tooth brush and Smurf sized tooth paste in hand you run out the door and almost get hit by a car. But you don't care! You just want the experience over. You want away! You want to go home and flick on the TV and relive it all again. NOT!
And that's why boys and girls you'll never have a dentist on your lunch box, jammy's or television. Besides they have no time to do a TV show, they're all in Hawaii on the golf course telling funny 'Rinse and Spit' stories.

Bob Niles

Friday, April 17, 2015

Fwd: Men are from Mars, Women from Venus and Grandkids are from the Planet Zoltar and Beyond!

  Men are from Mars, Women from Venus and Grandkids are from the Planet Zoltar
                                                     and Beyond!

Our first grandchild was a bundle of sweetness and joy. She hardly ever cried. She slept a lot and I think never even messed a diaper. She was always being held and cuddled because she thrived on love and kisses that we're eagerly supplied by grandma.
So when the news was announced our other child was expecting, we were over the moon with anticipation. "This one will be better than the first!"
HA! We're we wrong.
The second one cried and fussed all night and day. Never a moments peace. She wanted everything her way and at the very early age of 6 months began telling us so.
Then two years later our son who had the first child, the best baby on earth, announced they were expecting again. We were hesitant but optimistic for another dream child from him and his wife.
Wrong again! Twin boys. And with twin boys even if you wanted, or could snuggle with one, the other was off getting into trouble with the dog.
Twins aren't a gift from God, they're a test! They test everything you thought you knew, and for sure you were an expert on, about raising children. And after the first year of having twins you are convinced that the only reason you were able to raise your own kids was from sheer luck. All your tried and true methods in child rearing are out the window.
Travel now ahead in time to the oldest eighth birthday party. She is still that sweet quiet little girl that tricked us into believing all grandkids are a breeze to help raise. She comes over to grandpas and grandmas and sits down and starts drawing and coloring. And would stay there all day if left to her own demises.
Number two granddaughter is now five and has brushed death on several occasions. Including, and not limiting to riding her bike off the sea wall, crossing a bear, sailing on a boat almost hitting a freighter and falling off a dock in Greece. She has tempted life more than James Bond in any of his moves. Her volume is constantly set at eleven and is always in  overdrive. She is always making deals when asked to do anything. 'Okay I'll do it but you have to...' And is continually asking why it has to be that way? Always to her, life is unfair.
Then there's the twins,......OMG! They're Dad was just telling me how one of them pooped on the floor and the other one picked it up and started to smear it in his brothers hair!?????! At play school one of them has become a kleptomaniac by stealing things from the teacher. We're not sure which one because they both fit the description of the thief. And at home dad has learned how to remove and replace everyone of the three toilets as they have all been plugged with toys. And this all plays out while their sister sits downstairs and colors and their cousin is off tempting death on her bike and chucking rocks at a bear!
Little boys and girls aren't from Mars or Venus as the author of a famous book would suggest that men and women are from. But they are from somewhere much further out in the seemingly endless universe. Like Planet Zoltar and beyond!
Little people that live this way can't be from this solar system. Their thinking, actions and respect for life is so far from what we deem as normal. Why have we not placed them all into protective custody! They are scary!
They come over to grandpas and grandmas for a sleep over and are all sweet, respectful and kind for about five minutes. It's about then their hearing automatically stops. Their name means nothing to them. It's like renaming your dog for a day after having it for five years. You get no response. You need candy, chocolate, money or something bright and shiny to get a response. And even then it can, and probably will have to be repeated three times before its full content can be understood and a correct response or action is attained.
You need to tell them what you would like them to do, when you would like it done, where you want it done and how it should be done.
You just can't say have a bath and get ready for bed. Because your idea of having a bath and getting ready for bed is so far from how they do it on the Planet Zoltar and beyond. I've seen kids in the tub with and without water, in their clothes having baths. And if you don't mention to dry off after exiting the tub it becomes your fault why the floor and comforter on the bed is wet. And the brushing of teeth is not done on other planets apparently. And an alien from Zoltar and beyond has to sleep with everything she owns. But, after some deal making we got it down to 6 fuzzy stuffed toys. But now  I have to take her and her 6 fuzzy friends to McDonalds tomorrow for breakfast.
It was getting late I caved in.

Five minutes later.
"Grandpa?" a little voice calls from upstairs. "I think Charlotte wants you." I mention to the wife over the TV volume. She shoots up the stairs reminiscent of her high school track and field days. But then all too quickly a deflated wife returns with an "It's you she wants."
"Nuts!" I climb the stairs reminiscent of yesterday. It still hurts. "Grandpa,.. Dixie needs a drink." she says. "She was flying so fast that she got thirsty and needed to go to the bathroom with a stomach ache that mommy always let's her watch TV when that happens." She then blinks twice because that's probably how they hypnotize you on Zoltar and beyond.
Who is Dixie? Would be a proper response to her last statement but at this point I didn't care. It was probably the fuzzy winged horse but considering the source of the tall tail it was probably the almost fuzzy turtle or the umbrella stand. (what the.....? Don't care)
"Okay let's go to the bathroom and we'll get you a drink while there." I puff in exasperation. "What about the chocolate cookies and TV you promised to Dixie?" Again blinking twice. I stammer, and for a brief moment show weakness and confusion. She knows she has me.
It's now 10:30 and she and grandma are wrapped up on the couch with a blanket and the umbrella stand.
It was the umbrella stand!
Crumbs are all that's left of two chocolate chip cookies that share a tray with a now half empty glass of milk. It's here that the oldest grandchild suddenly appears as if by magic and scares the bejeebers out of me. Forgot she was even here! "Grandpa, guess what?" she crackles in a sleepy voice. "One of the boys wet the bed,...from the top of the dresser. How come Charlotte had cookies?" she reports and asks followed with a double blink.
Caught again with the Zoltar and beyond double blink! Now all four grandkids are on the couch snuggling with grandma eating cookies and watching,....??? Well it ain't hockey! Doggone little aliens from the Planet Zoltar and beyond!

Bob Niles