QUESTION PERIOD

1.  What is just as lousy as chewing gum to get in your hair?

    Toothpaste.

2.  How does a 50+ yr.old woman get toothpaste in her hair?
    
    Surprisingly easy.

3.  Would 4 out of 5 dentists approve toothpaste as a hair product?

      No.  But 100% of CEO's at Crest and Colgate think it warrants further study.

4.  If a toothpaste cap rolls off the counter, will someone voluntarily pick it up?
     Without swearing after they have stepped on it with barefeet at 3 am?

      I think we all know the answer to that one.

5.  Shouldn't it be called teethpaste?

     Only if meece were to use it.

...Reason 1078 Why I'll Never Make Top 100 Best Dressed Women in Coquitlam (or anywhere)

Arrived home from dinner out with friends to realize I had NOT removed the giant tag from my new pants. 

Upside - at least I now have an answer as to what was scratching my backside all night.

353rd REASON TO NOT WANT TO VISIT THE DENTIST

Like most people I rate going to the dentist somewhere between .... let's see ... oh getting whacked in the head with a Frisbee,  and having the channel stuck on golf when the remote is nowhere in sight and leaving the couch is out-of-the-question. I have long held a deep fear and loathing of visits to the dentist. As a kid, when the hygienist would lower the chair I would often comment, "The coffin is being lowered." I should stress that I was not being ironic, cryptic, darkly poetic, or even attempting humour. I was terrified. Scared out-of-my-mind. 
No shiny trinket from the treasure chest at the end of the visit could ever assuage my fear. 

As I grew older, I considered asking my doctor for sedatives but decided it may be advantageous to remain alert when the drill accidentally bored through my jaw, or I choked on the xrays and needed all my reflexes to maintain vital breathing. In time I learnt to try to relax which helped minimally but focusing on the reward of alcohol and reality tv waiting at home proved a more effective calming method. 

So it was with mild apprehension (but more meaningful anticipation of the  copious amounts of alcohol waiting at home) when I recently  arrived at the dentist. It was for minor work: a filling had fallen out and needed to be replaced. I could handle that, and made a concerted attempt to relax as they lowered the chair. My dentist began to administer the freezing. Interestingly enough, needles have never bothered me and this was no different. Except it seemed to go on FOREVER. AND EVER. He was injecting enough aesthetic to make my mouth a friggin' skating rink. I tried to relax and imagine myself on a warm beach with a margarita when I started to feel rather strange and knew it didn't have anything to do with sunburn, sand between my toes, or an empty margarita glass. Further relaxing didn't help and soon I was feeling very very weird. I was concerned I was going to lose consciousness, my heart was racing, I felt dizzy, and possibly worse of all I wasn't  wearing my best underwear in case they needed to rush me to Emergency. I motioned wildly to the dentist and his assistant that I was not okay. They immediately retrieved all the instruments from my mouth and I was able to gasp, "Something's not right. Something's wrong." 
Yes I realise my second statement was redundant but I had gone from sunning on a Greek beach to being beached on an ER gurney in ratty panties. I wasn't thinking my best.

They immediately assured me that my reaction was completely normal and very common and the feeling of going into cardiac arrest would soon past. Something about aesthetic and adrenaline and the heart, blah blah blah. I had been planning my final words to family so I missed some of the details. Apparently it IS quite common and people actually DO pass out (although that is usually in the waiting room after receiving the bill). 

They assured me that they would not continue until I was 'perfectly normal.' That would be like . . . never. Especially when they informed me that they still had additional freezing to inject. 
Before installing the rubber dam.  
Good times. 

After my heart rate quietened, my breathing slowed, and my final arrangements for my fantasy funeral had been settled, they resumed their work without incident.
Leaving the office I made a quick stop at the grocery store for a few items. 

Once at home, I relaxed for a few minutes (okay a good hour) before starting to put the groceries away. Bruno arrived home from work and was surprised that I would have gone anywhere with my face half frozen which affected my ability to speak clearly. What can I say. I'm either a trooper or just like food too much too let the ability to effectively communicate stand in the way of procuring that night's dinner.
Putting away the groceries I quickly realized that one bag was missing. Grabbing my car keys, I headed down to the garage to see if it was still in the trunk. 
Not there.
Somewhere in the garage?
Nope. 
Somewhere between the garage and the kitchen?
Nowhere. 
This was getting serious since it was the bag that held the Lindt Dark Chocolate Orange Bar. 
Once back in the kitchen I realized that not only had I NOT found the bag but now I had lost my car keys that moments earlier had been in my hand.
Bruno  offered to go back to the store and get the items and thus prevent me from navigating a 1670 kilogram steel machine through busy streets in my pathetic fragile state.

He returned with the items and informed me that I had left the car in drive.

The next day I found my jacket hanging it the closet. 
Inside out.

Going to the gynaecologist should be a breeze.