Metal Meredith

....I am required to go get my first Mammogram. Don’t get me wrong, I am aware of the importance and necessity. I will go down to that office with confidence and knowledge that I am doing the right thing. But I am pretty nervous. Not that anything will be found, not to have strange women hold my breasts in their hands. Nope.

I am scared of that huge machine that presses them into pancake form. I am nervous that it won’t stop like some creepy vice on a cartoon and squish it until it becomes more flat that it already is (vertically, not horizontally, btw). Many, many women have done it and in March, I will be one more. Goodie.

Vivienne had a Thanksgiving play and feast on Tuesday at her preschool. She was an Indian in the first Thanksgiving. She spent most of the time picking her nose and eating the boogers, which I dutifully caught on video to show her later and explain to her that I tried many times to get her to stop but finally gave up. Oh well.

I did find myself wishing just for a moment that I could go back to childhood and enjoy these holidays for what we were all told they represent, John Smith and Pocahontas-type myths that made it all much more interesting than knowing the harsh and horrible reality. For now, I get to relive it in dyed brown t-shirts with hand cut fringe, colored macaroni necklaces and paper headbands with stapled on feathers.

Somehow, this is just as fun. 

Night after night, it is Phil’s job to put the kids to bed. He likes doing this, despite how annoying she can be at times and how much both of us would rather be sitting on the sofa with laptops, ice cream and TV. Most nights, he comes back downstairs chuckling with funny things that Vivienne says or does. Then, we talk about how we wish we could recall all of the things that make us laugh each day so we won’t ever forget the silly things she says. This one, in particular, made us both laugh out loud.

Vivienne had a small blister on the back of her foot. When Phil was putting a bandage on it, this was their conversation:

Vivienne: You know, the back of my foot is called my heel.
Phil: Well, that’s right. Do you know what this part is called?
Vivienne: Nope.
Phil: The arch.
Vivienne: Hey! I know another arch! Old Arch Road, like where we live!
Phil: That’s right.
Vivienne: Do you know why they call it a road?
Phil: Um. No?
Vivienne: Because it would be silly to call it Old Arch Peanut Butter.
Phil: (chuckles) I guess it would be.
Vivienne: And it would be hard to drive on.

My Dad, in his recent acquisition of wisdom and peace, has become downright Zen. This is why I am sharing his not-so-fun experience at an Atlanta area restaurant, The Feed Store.

I have worked in restaurants and retail for a good portion of my adult life. In those years, I have seen, and sadly been the cause of, some horrible dining experiences. I am smart enough to know that a good meal will get you a repeat customer, but a bad meal will be mentioned to everyone with whom they speak.

Therefore, since my father has become such a nice man in his old age (ha ha!), I am trying my best to spread the word. I would feel totally different had the owner made an effort to respond to his complaints.

So if you feel so inclined, pass this along to anyone you know who might be in the Atlanta area and might be looking for a decent place to eat. This doesn’t seem to be it.