The three D's are on my mind today. Two cleaning products I want to recommend and a bit of information concerning cleaning procedures at dental offices. So, let's go:
1.) I hated my dishwasher. Hate as is "I would rather do them by hand then wash them twice." I would pre-clean my dishes, put them in the dishwasher (which always had Jet Dry), run them through pre-rinse, then a Pot Scrubbing cycle, then a hot dryer, only to get dirty, spotted yucky dishes. Until I found this amazing (and not expensive) product -- Electrasol Powerball tablets. They contain, a pre-rinse cleaner, a detergent, and the little ball in the center is Jet Dry in an ecapsulated form. These things are AMAZING! Not only do my dishes come out clean, but everything, from the silverware to my best glasses, are now spot free. This whole time I was blaming my dishwasher when it was actually my crappy detergent. Go figure. (in discount stores at a little over $3.00 for 20 tabs -- in bulk they are must cheaper)
2.) Murphy's Oil Soap has long been my wood cleanser of choice. It's gentle, yet extremely effective. Now they have these convenient little wipes and while you pay for the convenience, I'm only using them once a month and doing my regular dusting in between, so it isn't bad at all. They carefully wash your wood objects leaving a beautiful glow behind. These work especially fantastic on antiques. They're sold just about everywhere too! (And yes, for those out there thrifty like myself, a bit of Murphy's Oil Soap in warm water with an old rag works just as well, if not better, while costing much less.)
3.) My last D isn't so much as a kudos or thumbs up, as a warning. I used to be a dental assistant. While talking to a friend recently, I realized I took for granted the things I knew about dental offices and their cleaning practices. Things many dental offices may not be doing that they absolutely SHOULD be doing. Things that not only could make you sick, but some which transfer serious viruses and germs -- including HIV.
When you go to a dentist for a cleaning or any procedure, the instruments the dentist or hygienist are using on you have been used on thousands of people before you. (and every procedure leaves blood, skin, or pieces of tooth behind) This is why dental offices are supposed to manually wash the instruments, put them then in a sterilizer (ultra-sonic), which vibrates as well, rinse them and THEN put them in the machine above, which is called an autoclave. Think of the autoclave as a mini-furnace. The temperatures become so hot inside of it, nothing can live. Just like a self-cleaning oven.
If this last step isn't done, the viruses on the instruments are NOT dead. They're still alive and still waiting to get mixed in with your blood stream. Unfortunately, this isn't me being an alarmist. People have actually contracted HIV from going to the dentist. People also have contracted herpes right through to the common cold.
What can you do? Always ask your dentist or prospective dentist how they clean their instruments. "Sterilize" is not enough, so listen or ask about the "autoclave" machine. Finally, how do you know your instruments have been cleaned in the autoclave? When you enter the dental office for your cleaning, are the instruments bagged? Autoclaved instruments get immediately bagged and sealed to ensure their cleanliness.
One more thing, if you are getting any drilling done, be sure to visually inspect the drill bits. These are usually the dirtiest, most contaminated items in an office. At the office I once worked for, the previous assistant was just lightly brushing the drill bits between patients and that's it. Tooth, saliva, blood ... they stayed on. I changed the way they were cleaned, but the material cannot be autoclaved. This is why proper scrubbing of them followed by at LEAST the sterilizer (ultra-sonic -- the shaking action is almost as important as the solution) should ALWAYS be done. You will easily be able to see if there are white swirls on the tip. This is someone else's tooth. A lot of someone else's. The drill bits naturally want to hold on to anything they've been introduced to and let's just be real, the world is a dirty place, and the human mouth is filthy. You and your children deserve the right to clean dental instruments. So now you know.
I used to agree with the school of thought that went something like this -- "Martha Stewart makes regular women feel bad about themselves." And by regular, I think the word may have been "normal" or "lazy" or "not industrious" or "not crafty" or "whatever makes you not Martha-like." Either way, I no longer agree.
Martha Stewart doesn't make anyone feel bad about themselves. You either feel good about yourself or you don't. If some woman in khaki and light blue holding up a homemade egg wreath makes you feel less than, chances are you felt that way BEFORE you saw the picture.
I'll admit it, I kind of love her. No, let me clarify, I don't want to pour myself a piping hot cup o' Martha and savor it for hours, I don't want to go to her house for dinner, or to a craft segment on her show. In fact, I don't think she'd be a blast to hang out with at all and I imagine my anxiety would be at an all time high just by being around her. (not because she MAKES me anxious, but because I don't know how to calm the frig down)
I was partially raised by gay men. Gay men who loved Judy Garland, Barbara Streisand, Diana Ross, and yes, Martha Stewart. By loved I mean paid full price for Martha Stewart Living Magazine at the grocery store so they could get it hot off the press. At almost $5 a pop, it's not a cheap read. Heck, most of my books don't cost that much. And everything in the magazine was fabulous, fabulous, fabULOUS to them!
It used to make me laugh. Matching dishes. Crafts at every holiday. The proper way to wash table linens. I mean, we were poor. Our dishes were Cool Whip plastic tubs. Crafts were something you did at school with Elmer's glue and paper strips. Linens? Plastic and disposable, but my mother just kept washing and reusing them. Why buy a magazine to tell you what to do with stuff you don't actually own? Sillies!
So today when I found the latest issue of Martha Stewart Living magazine in my mailbox and exclaimed to my children, "Oh, yes! It's the Easter issue of Living. Wow, look at that fabulous egg tree," I felt a little befuddled. A little confused. A little bit like U-2 during the "Zoo TV" tour. In other words, a complete sellout.
I like khaki. I think it's a genuine color. I like plenty other of muted colors in paint as well and wouldn't dream of putting wallpaper on my walls. My dishes (gulp) match and I buy tea cups and saucers that are harmonious colors. Fiestaware muted turquoise, espresso cream, the palest pink. All matching sets without any zany detail. Hand-blown blue glass juice glasses, Anchor Hocking Bloopie vintage drinking glasses. It's all like Martha ... and I didn't even plan it ... much. My brothers created a monster.
I'm making new wreaths for my doorway every holiday and/or season. Scanning the aisles of a craft store for peat moss and glue gun sticks. Slopping in mud through the forest for the right twig or branch of Holly. Putting handmade ornaments on my mailbox, wrapping the chain in shamrock swags, just to pull it off and put up the painted egg, the climbing flowers. It seems monstrous.
My sister didn't get this disease. She puts her dinner on the table in the pan the food was cooked in -- whether it's a clean pan or not. BAM! Down it goes and there you have it -- pot of macaroni soup, bag of generic bread, and a yellow tub of margarine.
I'm forever plating on white dishes (to show off the food) and arranging it to look nice. Fanning the fresh baked bread in a beautiful configuration, plucking some herbs for (gulp) garnish. This can't be right. This can't be me. The stoned little girl who once ate Vienna Sausages (chicken lips and dicks) straight out of the can, cold hot dogs (more disgusting parts) right out of the package, and drank cold milk out of the jug.
But this is me. I've grown up, I've morphed into all the things I once laughed at as a kid -- perfectly tri-folded towels, khaki walls, and matching dishes. I actually get excited when entering a craft store.
My skin tight mini-skirts and stripper heels were gone long ago. I believe khaki pants/shorts are the perfect bottom to the even more perfect button-up top. Thongs are for whores. Cotton panties say, "I'm not a whore. I'm thrifty and understand a vagina needs to breathe like my best plants. My arse cheeks weren't meant to have anything inside of them except for my anus."
Holiday after holiday, project after project, Martha Stewart becomes less of an enemy and more like a beacon of hope. Sure, I don't have a staff of hundreds to manicure my lawn, prune my plants and trees, care for my seedlings, clean my home, or even construct my decorations. I'm the gardener, the chef, the maid, and the designer, but I take it all on gratefully all because a dear friend once said to me, "Cooking is how I show my family I love them. Everything I do at home is a way of loving them, caring for them, and I want them to know just how much I do." It was life-changing advice.
I thank Martha Stewart for being bitch enough to survive in a man's world while decorating it in great style, class, and comfort. I thank her for providing inspiration. No, Martha, we still shall not lunch together, but your magazine has become a spark to bigger and better things.
Anyone can throw dinner on a table, but it takes a special kind of taskmaster to prepare a feast and plate it with panache. I am ripe and ready for the challenge, Martha, Queen of the Home. May women like us destroy Vienna Sausageland forever, where its citizens eat every meal out of Cool Whip containers or dirty metal pans. May we make beauty a rigid thing that never goes outside of the lines. Off with their hands if they pull that one! At the end of our lives, may you and I (and the women like us) slip into a blissful coma where flowers always bloom, cakes always turn out, counters and floors always sparkle, linens are always crisp, and people ooh and aah at it all. Especially when those "people" are the family you love so much. Now that's a good thing.
I've been rekindling my love of this band that began many years ago in the 80's. Normally, I wouldn't mention a band that wouldn't be "cool" among the general populous, but I love these guys. The lead singer's voice especially ... the little trill he ends off the notes with on most lines. His range, the clarity of it. Perfect to me.
I think some of Men at Work's songs are anthems for my life. "Who Can It Be Now" is one. "I've done no harm, I keep to myself ..." and all that. Then the not so popular "Overkill." "I can't get to sleep ... Especially at night, I worry over situations, I know will be all right, Perhaps it's just my imagination." It's like the songs expose my hidden aberrations (then and now) so much that it's akin to being watched.
So, this led me to a question I thought would be a bit fun -- any bands you love (or even songs you love) that you feel would be a bit embarrassing to admit publicly? What do you love about them/it? Come clean, folks. =)
I think my husband relishes in misery like some enjoy happiness. It seems every few months, sometimes weeks, he wants the universe to recognize he's the center of it and if it doesn't, look out ... he becomes like a spoiled child.
He turns his iPod on, puts the earbuds in, turns the music up full volume, blocks everyone else out, unfortunately including the kids. On the weekends, he'll shower in the morning with music blasting ... not a care of who else might still be sleeping. The silent treatment will greet us when he's inside the house or he'll ignore us completely by sitting in his Jeep for 9 hours at a rip. (yes, you read right ... 9 hours)
Long ago, my husband was put on medication for manic depression. Well over 10 years ago. All the medication, no matter the dosage or manufacturer, made him like a zombie. He was in a light haze all the livelong day. He could function, could work, but never really experienced any real emotion. So, about a year ago, possibly more, he went off the medication and there he was ... laughing again, feeling again, and happy to be free.
Let me just write this, I personally believe depression is one of the most over-diagnosed "diseases" in the world ... that and ADD. Many doctors have tried to give me anti-depressants and I don't suffer from depression. I've been given them to help cure anxiety (which doctors felt was depression related) or for weight loss (which doctors felt was depression related) or insomnia (which doctors felt was depression related).
I'm not saying there aren't crazy people out there who shouldn't be medicated. Hell, it's a great last resort, but my husband's depression is the ultimate excuse for bad behavior. Any time he says something rude to myself or the kids it's, "Well, you don't believe it, but maybe I'm depressed." Any time he wants to play his guitar for hours at a time with the amp loud enough to make the house shake, it's, "I need this and I'm not going to explain to you or anyone why. You don't believe in my depression anyhow."
Yet, in the same breath, in the same instant, if one of his friends come to visit, there he is -- happy, cheerful, making coffee, laughing at jokes. What happened to the depression? My husband goes to work on time every day and does more than what is asked or expected of him -- cheerfully. And every day, usually six days a week, he is never rude to his employees or the company owner. Never! Where is the low then?
Manic depression, or even depression itself, isn't something you can turn on and off. I've read pounds of literature and oodles of pages online on the subject. There's no off switch. I wish! Yes, there's functioning depression, but for the manic (the person getting it in cycles), you can't turn off a low. If it hits, you're down ... period. A visit from a friend, a call from your boss, the Colts winning the Superbowl ... they're NOT the magic switch.
At this point, I know the drill and just deal with it. His selfish tantrums are so far and few between now (about 3-4x a year) that I just let leave him alone. If he says some rude comments and then stops talking to me, I shrug my shoulders and carry on with my daily tasks. We just don't talk, sometimes for the weekend, sometimes for a couple of weeks. Right now, I believe we're on a week and a half. I haven't counted because I've lost the ability to care or miss him during the silence.
I do wonder if all this wasted time and ridiculous behavior is some kind of test from the universe. If there's some lesson in it I'm not seeing. I worry more about how it affects my children. I try to explain to them why their father is a bit "off," but I know if they truly understand it since I don't even understand it. I watch them watch him when he's like this and it's not hard to see their anxiety, their confusion, and desire for him to just snap out of it. The eggshell walk. How long will it last THIS time? When will it strike again? So sick of even having to ask these questions.
