9/22

Woo hooo! It's Friday. Ahhh, yeah....doin' the happy dance. Shake it baby. Just like that.

In a couple of hours I'm actually leaving the office to go for my first of several trips to the dentist. I'm praying that they take my "Care-a-Little-More Credit" card. It's the most ridiculous thing that I can imagine. I accidentally applied for it (and was approved! ha!!) when I was getting an eye exam to see if I qualify for lasik. The idea behind the "Care-a-Little-More" card (not it's real name) is that people need a little "extra" credit to take care of cosmetic, dental, and veterinarian procedures: like teeth whitening, lasik, liposuction, full body recontoring, and getting Fido's balls chopped off. I'm not really sure why a regular V*isa or M*astercard wouldn't suffice in those instances, I just know that two weeks later I opened a letter and found a card inside with an incredibly high credit limit that urged me to "finally take care of all those procedures that you've been meaning to".

I suppose that an unfinished, neglected root canal falls into that category. It isn't really what I had in mind when I imagine cosmetic surgery (or forced sterilization of a beloved pet).

I had a lot of time to think about this yesterday in between naps at my apartment. At 10:30am, I got a call from my favorite chain daycare center saying that, "Zachary is VERY irritable today". That ranks up there with the time they called me to tell me that Zac wouldn't lay down and take a nap. The same, "What do you want me to do about it?" thought came into my mind. It turns out, they wanted me to take Zac home.

It's well known that teething kids will have loose bowel movements and Zac had two of them that morning and a pretty bitchin' diaper rash. Add sharp pain from razor-like teeth pushing through his gums into that mess and you can see why he was irritable. I would have been pretty cranky if both my ass and my mouth hurt at the same time. Cranky enough to send me home from work, though?? Well, that's pushing it. As you might remember though, I have difficulties negotiating with the Shoe Nazis and I generally do whatever they tell me to do, unless I can find a way to get out of it. You'll be happy to know, though, that when they called me and told me that they couldn't get Zac to take a nap, I cheerily asked them if they had tried taking off his shoes and putting him back in his crib.

Kids don't like to sleep in shoes, you know, no matter how "happy" they seem.