De Ce Monde Secret de l’ Amelie Americaine

This September 1st will be one year exactly since I quit smoking after many failed attempts. One of the promises I made to myself when I finally suceeded to quit was that I would spend whatever it took to fix my teeth and remove the brown stains that marred my smile. I had for sometime smiled with my lips shut to avoid showing my teeth. If I laughed, I did so with my head down or my hand slightly covering my mouth.

Even my ex-boyfriend had made a comment about one stain that was particularly obvious. My bad teeth were also part of my genes. My mom had horrendous stains and cavities that were never taken care of. For someone with such a young face, she really looked unhealthy with teeth that were so damaged that they probably need to be pulled. On some level every girl fears that she will turn into her mother. I was no different.

So began my quest for a “whiter smile”. I just didn’t want my teeth to be whiter than they were…I wanted them to be glow in the dark, David Hasselhoff white. I wanted to see that ex-boyfriend and give him the ultimate payback, “a big white smile.” that said, “ha hah, look at how beautiful I am…without you.” Childish but necesssary for me to move on with my life.

For the better part of the last six months I’ve had many many many appointments with my very capable dentist, Dr. Linn. She has systematically transformed my smile from better, to healthy, to pleasantly surprising,
to “You look very different…really good. What have you done to yourself?”

She understood my oral fixation and balanced it out with her professional and reasonable expectations so that my teeth wouldn’t be damaged by over whitening….David Hasselhoff white was turned into a quest for “natural white.” or as she pointed to on her model of color graded shades of teeth, “A1″ the lightest shade on her scale.

However, after having the “Zoom” light beaching procedure done two months ago, I was certain that my teeth were yellowing again. I was in the chair after she had fixed yet another cavity, showing her in the mirror what I believed was yellow creeping back in.

She listened patiently, while I told her about the whitening products I regularly used. She diplomatically cautioned me against going overboard, and reassured me that my teeth, “Still looked white.”

I thought she might be shining me on. She told me that I could try the Zoom again…in 2008.
“That’s two years away,” I stuttered. She nodded her head.

I asked her about the bleaching trays. She sighed and said that I could “touch up” with a product like Crest White Strips, if I had to. “Maybe,” I thought to myself, “She just doesn’t want to admit that the Zoom didn’t work.” I didn’t blame her, no one more than me knew how ridiciously hard it had been to transform my teeth.

“They’re still white.” She reassurred. “Stop using the listerine so much. It’s causing the skin inside your mouth to slough off. I think you’re allergic to it.” I made a face like I had just been scolded like a five year old. It was kind of disgusting.

She took off my bib, put the chair back up and left the room with her assistant. I took my bag off the back of the door and took one last glance of my teeth in the mirror. I discreetly grabbed the model of colored teeth and put it up next to my mouth. Finally I’d have concrete evidence that I wasn’t neurotic. But alas, there it was, proof my teeth matched shade…”A1″??? I put the model down and walked to reception to make my next appoinment for a cleaning.

“Thank you Dr. Linn.” I sheepishly and gratefully said as I walked out of the office.

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One of my favorite bloggers was recently “dooced” or fired when her boss discovered her online blog. Although she never used her real name or that of her employer’s, her boss claimed that she had brought her firm into “disrepute”. As one of my favorite sites, I want to express my support for Petite and encourage readers of my blog to visit her site and consider donating via paypal to Petite’s cause. Her story has caught worldwide attention from the media. Below are a couple of links from CNN and British online news sources.
CNN Link

BBC link

Daily Telegraph Link

In Petite’s Own Words

Petite Anglaise’s Blog

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It was the end of a week long business trip in San Francisco. I had worked, shopped and dined to my heart’s content. Today was the day I made the arduous journey back to New York City. A plane ride from one end of the US to the other is the equiviant of flying across the Atlantic to another country. It’s going to take you all day and night, so just embrace and prepare for the inevitiable long hours and hassle.

Today would be no different.I made it to the airport very early. This was NOT my own doing. I had the good fortune of being put in a cab by the hotel’s bellhop. The cabby was very nice, although slightly smelly, even by NY standards. His impatience with traffic and other drivers reminded me of home and the hurried pace that I had left a week earlier. I was going to see my animals and see if what damage, if any they had inflicted on my apartment in my absence.

The cabby sped on the ramp of the 101 south and started to tailgate a motorcyclist in the far left lane. I watched the speedometer spike, as he wized in and out of traffic. I told him nicely, “I have plenty of time to make my flight.” His reply,”Oh this is the legal speed ma’am. I’m only going sixty-five.”

What he didn’t realize was that I could see the speedometer from the backseat and he was going eighty. I said a little prayer and reassured myself when I saw an electronic traffic sign that claimed the airport was only 11 minutes away with current traffic conditions.

Sure enough, I was at the terminal five minutes later. He graciously unloaded my suitcase when I tipped him five bucks. I was two and half hours early for my flight. If this was NY, then that would be just about right, with current security measures. But San Francisco International Airport, although small and somewhat crowded, doesn’t suffer in the same way.

I checked in and paced up and down terminal looking for any distraction. I hate flying. So I bought a smoothie, took my anti-anxiety meds and resigned myself to the inevitable crowding, noise, and chaos that was waiting to unfold.

2pm

I was grateful to be seated at the front of the plane. There is nothing worse that being in an economy class seat next to the back, near the engine or the lavatories. However some cruel trick of karma always places me directly behind the passenger who not only reclines his or her seat, but thrusts their entire weight into it, causing the seat to bend back much farther than the four inches it is suppose to go. Although I’m a petite to average sized women, it is always inches from my face. It is annoying to say the least when that person seems oblivious to this fact.

Sure enough I was seated behind a father and his son. He reclined his seat to it’s breaking point and then wedged his arm between their seats so that his forearm was now in the face of the passenger next to me. This was going to be a long long flight.

The air stewardesses began the beverage service. A half hour into our flight, and evil intentions were already creeping into my brain. What could I do to change this situation and send a clear message that this was intrusive and inconsiderate behavior? I have in the past asked fellow passengers to please pull it forward a little, with very little success. Usually if someone is this intent on their own comfort over everyone elses, they don’t want to hear you complain.

The stewardess pulled her cart down the aisle. She paused at their row, gave him a slight look, smiled very politely and asked him what he wanted to drink. She continued to our row. Now, my usual inflight beverage is coffee. I don’t really care if it tastes good. I just want to stay awake for the flight. I always order coffee. She asked the other two passengers what they wanted while I stared intently at back of his head, with an an ever growing, pleasant sense of courage welling up inside of me. I opened my seat tray and it fell down with little room between it and my stomach. She looked at the tray and looked at me and asked me what I wanted. “Water please.” She smiled, and I swear she knew exactly what I thinking when she asked,”Would you like ice with that?” “Yes…please.” I replied.

I’ll leave the rest up to your imagination, but as the passenger who was in the aisle seat, I had to get up several times to allow the passengers in the middle and window seat to go to the lavatory. Each time I did, I grabbed onto the seat in front of me and pull myself up while precariously and not always successfully balancing a full glass of ice water.

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This is me staring at the ceiling of my very nice, historic hotel in San Francisco. Presidents have been shot at on its steps. Celebrities have graced it’s corridors, and I had the very good fortune of staying here while working on a corporate show at the Moscone Center.

Everything was paid for. Food was brought to us every three to four hours. And not the usual craft service of weak coffee and packaged junk food. Instead I was treated to steak, fish, pasta, mexican, chinese, and there was always dessert: chocolate cake or chocolate moose. I was never hungry. It was there at my fingertips before the thought even crossed my mind.

I’m not use to my needs being anticipated. My bed was made for me and although the hallway on the fourth floor reminded me of the hotel in “The Shining”, I couldn’t of asked for a nicer experience. I was happy, grateful, and rested.
There was even time before work to walk around Union Square and take some photographs or stop by one of the several bistros that lined Powell Street and sip espresso.

However, here I was in what my sister called, “A cleaner New York.” A place that I had left ten years ago for the trenches of NYC, enjoying unusually balmy weather (mid-seventies), and every photo I took had the same over yellow, bland expression. Somewhere, I was “lost in translation”. It was beautiful. I was not the least bit stressed by either my surroundings or the job was on, and still I couldn’t find “it”. That part of me that zeros in on the moment and is able to capture it artistically.

What I had to ask myself…”Is my art rooted in my discontent?” And if so, what is going to happen to me or my work if I have nothing to complain about?

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Link to Tigerlilly’s european cousin

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I procrastinated all day, until I realized that I had zero pairs of clean underwear. I gathered my whites together. I would only force myself to do one load. I was determined to do as little as possible. I blame it on the World Cup final, France vs Italy, how could I miss it. I found a non-air-conditioned laundrymat with the game playing on the television. $3.50 for a load of wash, and 5.95 for a smoothie to keep me hydrated. Nothing about life is cheap anymore.

An hour later, France and Italy were tied, and I was retrieving my newly clean clothes from the dryer. Now comes the sorting process. Certain articles of clothing will not survive the “inspection”. Either they are too stained and tattered or they have strunk, and resemble baby clothes.

The first victim, a white H&M shirt that I paid $7 for, but wore for five years. I wore it with jeans and heels to my first real job in New York. Farewell my fond friend, you served me well.

The second, a tube top that was once grey seven years ago, but now is an off beige. I wore it under any sheer shirts that couldn’t be worn alone. I bought it before going to Hawaii with significant other #1. The shirt lasted longer than our relationship, but was now unraveling at the seams. Au revoir.

I am on a roll. It was time to start anew. I had to let go of these pieces of the past. I geared myself up for the biggies. The next t-shirt was stained in several places but was one of my favorites, I wore it underneath a loose knit sweater the first time I met David’s parents. We broke up a month and a half later. I remembered the words he said about the “distance being hard” and how he was interested in someone on his softball team. Better luck next time.

And then I spyed, the final piece I was ready to be rid of, a shirt I wore three summers ago when I spent the night helping a friend finish his video. I found myself falling in love despite severe reservations. My instincts ended up being correct, but I couldn’t help myself. The shirt wasn’t stained, but I was ready to let it go, finally. Bittersweet but necessary.
In the end game it turned out to be a much harder day for France as I watched them lose the World Cup during the penalty kicks.

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It’s a sunny Sunday morning. I’m still sleeping on the couch. I woke up in the usual manner, with the sound of my cat Alice destroying the papers on my desk, scratching, biting, pulling the edge of each one. This has become part of our routine. She wants me to get up and, and I refuse to budge. I think it is quite passive agressive of her. I don’t want to reward such behavior. She’s determined to be fed.
So are my other two furry friends, but they are content to use more gentler forms of pursuation like a soft meow or a tenative caress. Sometimes, if my dog Grace really has to go to the bathroom he’ll sit upright on the bed next to my lazy body and just stare. Hovering over me, both silent and patient. There is nothing as disconcerting as waking up to see two big brown eyes fixated on you from above.I want to nap. This is not fair. They all get to nap whenever they wants to. I on the other hand get up at 5 or 6 in the morning most everyday to go earn a living for us. Don’t they understand? Mummy is tired! I yell at Alice for the fifth time to leave my papers alone. She stops, hops down and disappears for a moment. I know this repreave is only temporary. I gear myself up for the final showdown, when Alice will return to target some precious mememto or a plugged-in electrical cord in the attempt to escalate the situation enough so that I can’t ignore her.I’m ready. I have my hand on the water bottle I keep by the couch for situations like these. She slyly walks back into the living towards the desk. She glances at me to gauge my reaction, sees the water bottle, and promptly turns around. Alas I have triumphed but I get up anyway. Something far more persuative has forced my body into action: guilt.

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