It has been two years since I've written. Amazing. Well, I guess I'm going to have to catch you up on few things, but not right now. Right now I want to focus on this super exciting thing that just happened. I was able to use the word "lieu", and spelled it right the first time I wrote it, while I was at work! Imagine, a beautiful word like "lieu". It's just so fluid, so languid, so... so... so French! Ah, maybe I will always be a Francophile. It's not my fault, though. It's the language. How dare it sound so romantic and sexy. Add the wine and champagne, not to mention the deserts, the liquors, it's too much to turn away from all that luxury. Just don't tell my husband. He'll start in on the politics and next thing you know I've taken the wine into the next room.

I went to the dentist today and I found out officially that I'm falling apart.

Thinking back on it I now realize it all started about late last spring when I decided to dye my hair red. No, wait. It started when I decided to get bangs. They were cute, too. For a minute. Maybe a little bit of a hassle, but I thought I looked younger, yet sophisticated, which is a very delicate balancing act. And that started it. The personal grooming taste went from one cute little change just to shake things up a little and hide the growing amount of gray all the way down the running-into-becoming-a-red-head-along-the-way-hill. Oh, and for those of you who lived through that phase, I'm sorry. Thank you for telling me it was great. It wasn't. I know that, you know that. It was very sweet of you to say otherwise, though.

Don't get me wrong, I know that hair really has nothing to do with teeth. What you need to understand is that I'm not just talking about teeth. I'm not just talking about hair. I'm talking about my youth. Yes, my youth! The one thing I never thought about has crept into my mind of late. And only because it's saying good bye. So, I freaked out for a minute, then, after looking at multiple pictures of me as a clown, I mean redhead, and having a more difficult time finding colors to look good in besides green, I decided to be proud of who I am at all ages. I decided that I will wear the gray and call it silver. No, I will call it sparkle. My hair has sparkle. And I will be beautiful because I accept myself as such, without the outside influence of the media, the starlets, the ideas society has inflicted on us on what is glamorous and beautiful. And I will be okay with getting older. I mean, I don't have much else to do, do I? And, if it's just the hair, what the heck - that's such a small part of getting older. Right? I mean it is pretty obvious, but what the heck, I will wear it like Rogue, from X-Men, and be beautiful. No problem.

But there's more to getting older than gray hair. (Of course there is, but let us all remember that I am just now facing this fact.) There's also the body, or the wearing down of the body. This is where my tooth comes in. My poor tooth: another clue, more physical evidence to my aging body. (Okay, maybe I'm being little melodramatic, but I've never done this before and it's freaking me out!)

Now let me give you a little history about this bugger in the absolute Siberian back of my mouth. I got a cavity when I was 16 or 17 while I was wearing braces. This is common and it wasn't that big of a cavity, but one day, when I was 23, 6 years after the braces came off, while eating a hamburger, the filling came out and part of my tooth broke. This was not fun and not pleasant. Also, I didn't have dental insurance because I worked as a waitress, was attending college and was a single mom. So, money was more than tight. It just was not there. Until I was 26 and started a job as a receptionist. As soon as that dental insurance kicked in I marched right over to the nearest dentist, opened my mouth, pointed to the tooth, and demanded that they fix my poor broken tooth. Or, rather, I went in for multiple appointments, including a root canal and was soon happy with my fixed tooth, cap and all.

So, here I was, proud that I saved my little molar and did the right thing. I pshawed the fools that said I should have just had it pulled after all the running around I did to fix it. I puffed out my chest and proudly exclaimed that I was going to keep my teeth. I wasn't going to be toothless. I apparently had no idea that 7 months later my cap would come off. And more of my tooth would break. And, once I fixed that, it would come off again a little more than a year later. And then, after extensive work on rebuilding the cap and a new screw to hold it (the idea of screws in my mouth to hold onto a piece of ceramic, or whatever it is that looks the color of tooth enamel, still scares me), just about 2 weeks back from the date of this posting the cap came off again! I was eating a soft, delicious piece of white bread when, pop!, the cap came off, screw came out, and my poor little tooth became defenseless. Again. Just a few days later another piece of the actual tooth broke off. Don't ask me how, I'm still in wonder that there was that much tooth in the first place. I mean, this is the biggest tooth you ever read about or what?

Off to the dentist I went, with cap and attached screw in a crumpled kleenex. (What else was I supposed to put it in? It grosses me out just thinking about it.)My new dentist, who, by the way is a large man and by large I mean about six-foot-three-inches and easily 250 lbs with hands bigger than my entire head, peered into my mouth using his mirror on a stick and a pokey stick. Then he opened my carefully crumpled present in his larger than life hand, giving the impression he was working with a miniature fairy cap.

"This tooth has had a lot of work done on it." He said with a smile on his face."Yup." I replied. He was an observant giant.

"I can't put the cap back on. There's not enough tooth. And there's an infection." His smile stayed on.

I wonder, is the smiling and talking without moving your lips a part of the dentist training or is it a reaction to the obvious money pit that my tooth obviously is?

And of course there's a small infection. It couldn't just be that I don't have a cap on my empty of nerve-endings tooth, but there had to be an infection. Think about it. I like alcohol, scotch and wine most of all. I drink cranberry juice once a day. Chocolate is my best friend. Scratch that, it's my life support, my only true addiction, without it I could not breathe. You get the picture. Anyway, of course there is an infection. So, since there's really nothing in the tooth and nothing to build onto and glue the cap to and so therefor nothing to keep, we're gonna pull the sucker. Oh, and, by the by, the dentist was very impressed that we even had that cap on there in the first place. He didn't even understand why we bothered to cap the tooth as there was so little to it. Isn't that a lovely thought?

"You mean to tell me I could have pulled this tooth the first time they put a cap on it and I would have been fine?" I asked once he was doing that creepy talk-and-smile-without-moving-the-lips thing."

"Yeah. We'll you still want to try to save bone. So, blah, blah, blah..." And they he went into a whole explanation of why I want to get an implant. Tooth that is. Remember, I was at the dentist's office.

But can you believe it? I could have saved myself a root canal and TWO replacements of the cap! Not only would my insurance company have benefited from that, but think of the time and anxiety it would have saved me! Not to mention all those broken bits. Could have just gotten rid of the whole thing. Battabing! Done.

But really, here's the kicker: should I get that implant that costs all of this money? I mean, do I really need to? That's more pain and more money. And this tooth is in the way back and would not affect any part of my bone, only a slight shifting of my teeth. I'm used to that. They've never been really stationary, even before the braces and bridge (yes, I already have two fake teeth, but you would never know and they are only there because the genes I inherited decided to pull a fast one and not give me those two teeth. Weird, I know). Then I look at my celery and peanut butter snack and think about how difficult it is to eat it right now. That, coupled with the fact that I still have at least 30 good years in me I figured I wouldn't go Redneck just yet. And please, do not take offense in that term and the direction it is going. Really, I speak from close personal experience: trailer, mullet, missing teeth. And I loved it. It was a blast. So understand that while I don't want to go that route, it's only because I've been there and I prefer uncharted territory. So, I decided to go for it. I'm going to get that implant. Tooth implant. I'm going to save that bone. I'm puffing out my chest and letting everyone know with all my pride so very apparent that I will not have a space where a tooth should be. Granted, it's not a real tooth, but it's the next best thing! So, even if I am falling apart, I can keep it partially together with more screws and glue, just less hair dye. I'm going to go ahead and pretend I'm not growing old and falling apart, I'm going to simply rebuild my youth!

Meanwhile, I promise not to talk tooth talk any more.

I have always lived partially in a dream world. Not just any dream world, but a specially crafted and insulated dream world. Occasionally I open a window and peer out. I take stock of the outside world and all it has to offer, all that it is missing. Then, I shut that window nice and tight and live in my little world until I feel that it is necessary to view reality again.

This little fact about how I choose to live is often thrown in my face as an accusation, usually by those that feel it is wrong to be so oblivious to all the ugly, horrible truths that create reality. These same people want to see the hard, sharp claws of life and hold onto that pain that the lacerations inflict, rejecting complete healing. They tear at the scabs and the scars, trying to cut out or keep open all the hurt that was purposefully or incidentally pressed upon them. They take all that was a burn and look around them for any sharp tool or branding iron of the present or future and worry at the past wound. The healing almost never comes and so they never see the beauty scars can lend to their world, their lives. And because I do not choose to see my pain, my scars, my past hurts as something ugly, because I choose to see how beautiful I have and will become, how the scars have shaped and formed me, becoming tools, experiences that I can give and use to make not only my little world better, but influence others as well, I am accused of dreaming and not seeing.

What these people don't know, what they refuse to see is that I'm not completely oblivious. What these people don't understand is that I do choose to see reality. Only, I choose to allow it to transform me into something stronger and better than what was in my place before, no matter how much it hurts, so that I can face the monumental as well as the trivial. So that I can keep opening that window and continue to change and grow and become. So that I can keep dreaming and living in my carefully created and cherished life.

I realize that I could remain in my cocoon and be safe, allowing the padding of my dreams, wants, and desires to weave a web about me. I could very easily allow this, but then what would happen to me? I would rot. The sweet, sugary threads of that which is only hopes and dreams would begin to disintegrate, fall on my skin and eat me away. I would be nothing but a wisp of a person. And this is not who or what I want to be.

So, it's not that I don't want to be a part of real life, only I want it on my terms. And, since it is my life and my options are endless, I live that way. Funny how I never realized any of this until recently, within the past few years. Funny how it takes 30 years to realize I can do what I want. Nothing holds me back but myself. I just wish everyone knew this little secret.

Who was your favorite character on Sesame Street?

This is a tough question. At least for me it is. I mean, at one point I totally loved cookie monster. I related to his fanatical desire for cookies, you know? It's one of the reasons I don't keep cookies in the house. I love them, don't get me wrong, but I think that my love for cookies may be a little on the obsessive side. It's more than difficult for me to have just one cookie, especially if chocolate is involved in anyway. And forget about Oreos - even the generic hydronated chocolate wafer cookies that are similar, but not quite the same. I love to have a tall glass of milk and alternate from twisting them open and licking out the insides, dipping the plain chocolate wafer into the milk to eating the cookie in two bites and washing it down with two or three delicious gulps of milk. Ah, satisfaction to the max! Like I said, cookies don't stand a chance in my home. I have no self control. So, as you can see, I can completely relate to the Cookie Monster's motivation: his love of cookies.

Of course, after having my son and discovering I can mimic the Elmo voice (yeah, i know, creepy) and then, after watching the cute little bugger, I fell in love with him. He was just so terminally cute with that voice and genuine concern for people, his desire to please and often hitting the mark. I couldn't help it. Plus, it really helped that it seemed as though he was just pulling everyone's leg with the whole cutsie routine. I think anything that is that cute with that kind of voice has to be pulling some kind of sham. It's not a far stretch for my imagination to invision Elmo strapped to the nines, smoking a cigarrette and nursing a bottle of whiskey, sans glass. Of course my minds eye sees all of this as the "private" Elmo, as if he does this behind the scenes, but when he's on TV he shows his usual over-elated, high voiced, sweet little self. For some reason, I really dig this dual personality I've given to the Sesame Street character. I refuse to believe he's all sugary sweet. No one is. Except, I suppose, the fictional characters we create. So, I guess Elmo could be all good and no bad. Only, that supposition really creeps me out. More than my "talent" of not only talking with an Elmo voice, but also using his vocabulary and grammer.

My third contemplation is Ernie. He definitely has charm. I can relate to his personality in many ways, right down to the laugh. See, since I was a little girl I have often laughed Ernie's laugh. This is not a concious thing at all. In fact, I really don't know where it comes from or why I do it. In fact, it's a bit embarrassing. Here I am trying to be graceful, sophisticated, lovely, adorable, lady-like when someone says or does something funnier than all get out and I laugh so hard I start making this sound like a snort, but it's from the back of my throat. No, milk does not usually come out of my nose. Although there was this one time... but I digress. Let's just say it's definitely a talent I wish I did not have. The good news is that I am not alone: I have heard one other person do it, besides Ernie. Unfortunately I cannot direct you to them as I have lost contact with them.

Of course, Ernie's laugh is not the only reason to love this well-known puppet. He has charm, a simple sense of humor, and a desire to be good, although he unfortunately fails, and pretty continuously at that, to meet the expections of his room-mate, Bert. In a nutshell, that's me. I don't seem to have a problem charming people, my humor is still stuck on word play and simple children's jokes, and I want so badly to be a good girl, only find myself short of the goal. So, I guess it's a fair assessment to say that Ernie is my favorite. Simply because I get him, or, rather, I get the puppet's "character". *

So, who's your favorite Sesame Street character?

*Just a side note: I know Ernie's not a real person. None of these characters are real people, but for some reason, as I sit here typing up this little blurb, I find myself writing as though they are real. And I guess that's what really puts Ernie in the forefront of all the characters. His foibles, his silly laugh, his simply sweet sense of humor, his love for his rubber ducky... If I didn't know better I'd say he's real!

Okay, I'm a terrible mom. I just typed up my son's paper for English class. No, I didn't write it. I just typed up what he had handwritten. Did you know that 7th grade teachers want the students to turn in typed up rough drafts? It's absurd, if you ask me, but who am I to say. I'm not the teacher.

Again, I digress. See, I honestly don't think it's bad that I typed up this rough draft. He's done all the others and I've insisted on it, although it does take him quite a bit of time. However, when he began his usual pleading of me to type this paper up my cloudy and sleepy mind came up with the cleverest idea since, well, let's just say for a bit now. Oh, it's so very clever. You are going to love this: I sold my typing skills to the boy for the payment of one toilet scrubbing. And not a sometime-in-the-future-scrubbing. It's a today scrubbing. Yes! My toilet will once again be clean. It's been since the last time I had a clever idea. I'm going to have to really start eating some avocados and other brain food so I can get these ideas coming on a more regular basis. It would be nice to have a cleaner home and if I'm not going to do it, I can definitely barter services to get the child to do it. See, I'm an awful mom.

I'm sure you have all seen the television show The Wonder Years. If you haven't, you really should. It is an excellent show and I would continue to campaign its virtues, but I think the link has pretty much summed it up for me. And my blog isn't about television shows, it's about Cay's Place - my place. Which, if I do say so myself, is a pretty cool place to be. There's quiche, cookies, cocktails, crafts, and lots and lots of books. Oh, and there's the Bug. He's the best part of the whole experience. Only, my Bug is growing up. I know, of course he is. He can't stay young and innocent, wide-eyed forever. And I really don't expect him to. It's just that this stage is a little tougher than when he stopped using a sippy cup. It's a tougher age than when he started to ride his bike to school on his own. It's even tougher than the first day of school. I mean I cried and everything when I dropped him off at class for kindergarten. I was a total sissy. Of course I didn't let him see me do this. It was completely on the down low. Gotta keep the sissy-ness to myself, after all.

But this stage... Now this stage is what I call the "Wonder Years" stage. This is the beginning of the end of his childhood, essentially. Maybe I'm being a bit dramatic here or maybe it's not dramatic enough. Because see, soon he will be a teenager. Soon he will not need his mother as much. And this last statement is true even more so because I have raised him to be so independent. Not only does he get his own water, but I have taught him a little bit of cooking. In fact, and here I go bragging a bit, the other day, he made scrambled eggs for me and served me breakfast in bed. And he's only 12! I swear, he had good grades, his room was clean - well, as good as it gets, there was nothing amiss. It was just because he loves me. What a doll, eh?

But I digress... Back to explaining my... my... well, for lack of a better word, my woe. I'm not upset about my child growing up. I'm proud of that. In fact, I couldn't be happier or more proud. He's an amazing, fun, sweet, and extremely smart individual. What it is is this: I'm sad that there's an end coming to his childhood. I'm going to miss the "kid". And, while I know it's going to be just as sweet to watch this new phase of life with the directional decisions that will affect his life with more depth then the kiddy choices of all blue or all black legos for the ultra-mega space ship, I still feel this feeling of loss. I'm going to miss the cuddles, the kisses, the need. I'm going to miss the hand holding just to be close, the unquestioned trust, the soft spot just above the upper lip that I would pet with my index finger, saying, "Gimmie the lip! Gimmie the lip!.. ahh, the lip!" I can't pet that lip anymore. Two reasons: one, it embarrasses him (of course. If you didn't catch it before he's 12. Everything I do embarrasses him and, don't tell him, but often times I do it on purpose. Hey, I have to get my kicks somehow, right?) and two, in a year or two stubble is going to grow out of that spot. It won't be as fun then. See, it's all of these little things that I'm going to miss. Mostly, though, it's the need that I've been fulfilling all these years and that sense of identity. I'm a mom. I wash clothes, make lunches, organize schedules, buy a lot of bandaides (I mean a lot!), sacrifice my desire for diet soda so that the child is not tempted to drink it all and then act as though there was no way he could have consumed it all even though I did not have one drop and all of the soda is gone. Frankly put, I'm not educated on how to not be the need, how to not fulfill a need. I've been doing this since I was 20. And, although I am trying, facing the fact that one day he won't need me at all is a bit bitter on my heart. That is, until the next time I decide to make a chocolate cake and find a finger groove in the icing where the cake meets the pan. Yeah, I'm sure I'll be looking forward to living alone at that time. Meanwhile, I'll continue to steal bear hugs and kiss his cheeks with lipstick - in public, just so he knows exactly how much I need my Bug, even if it is just to embarrass him with how much I adore him.

So, I'm currently helping Bug with his research on his next English paper. This paper is to be about a place, any place in the world, and how it is significant to us. His previous assignment was about a person, any person from history, born before 1970. Bug chose Hannibal for that paper. Of course when choosing this particular historical figure, Bug thought Hannibal was the cannibalistic serial killer, who was the protagonist in the movies Silence of the Lambs, Hannibal, and Hannibal Rising, none of which he's seen, mind you. We soon found out that Hannibal is a real person and is NOT a serial killer. In fact, he is not only a Carthaginian general that lived from 247 to 183 BC, but he managed to accomplish one of the greatest feats in military history when he marched on Rome. His strategies are still used today and, honestly, now that I have done the research with Bug on this great general, not only can I pretty much tell you what was so great about this man I had never heard of, but I have added him to my list of people it would be cool to have lunch with.

Now that you are armed with this information. Guess the place my twelve year old son wants to write about. Go ahead, guess! I double dog dare you! I bet you will never get close...

Okay, I'll give it to you: Buchenwald.

For those of you that do not know what or where Buchenwald is, it is one of the largest concentration camps that was built during the Holocaust and is located in Germany. And, frankly, because I like to be frank with you good people that make up my fan club, I got depressed within 30 seconds of reading about this horrific place. So depressed that not only did I quit the little bit of research that I did on the internet and told Bug that "I found the information, at least two sites. So, now you need to do the research and come up with something. I'm done", but I provided a link for you good people here on my blog. Misery loves company right? So, although I want all of you to be happy and whatnot, I do not want to carry this information alone! Nor do I want to help Bug with this paper. I mean, it was tough enough to focus on all of the boring military mumbo-jumbo when helping with the last paper and here I've got to face yet again ( I took a class called Facing History and Ourselves in highschool that delved about shoulder deep into the cruelties of the holocaust - no wonder highschool was so emotionally tough for me!). So, basically, I'm complaining to you my lovely fan club.

But do not worry yourselves too much. I will survive. Yes I will come out of this radiating joy! My triumph will be the new recipes that I accomplish. See, I'm not just checking out the horrid research that must be read by Bug, but also, I'm checking out another cook book. I'm going to be cooking up a storm. It's the only true way to overcome any type of depression. And I can't eat all this food by myself! So, anyone want to come over and eat?