I wasn’t much different as a teenager than I am as showboating old bat. In August of 1979, I was at the pool in a friend’s backyard and my friend’s older brother had a supercute best friend in a very convincing blue Speedo bathing suit. I had taken diving lessons since the Mesozoic, so I stepped up to the diving board, took a few swift, sure steps, made my hurdle, did something zany with a few somersaults, pointed toes and sliced gracefully through the water. Aaaaand I swam into the side of the pool and broke my front tooth.

In retrospect, it was at this exact moment I should have realized comedy would be my life.

The cute boy helped me find the broken tooth. My friend’s mother made one in what Mom remembers as a long series of “Mrs. LongItalianLastName, Domenica’s okay, but – ” calls. The dentist glued my tooth back together. A few months later, I was holding a ladder while a guy I’d just met hung decorations in the high school cafeteria when I recognized his butt. You would think a kid who spent all her waking hours in costume would have the sense to reach for a trenchcoat and false mustache, but no.

Tata: You’re friends with Nipsy?
Imminent Unrequited Love Of My Young Life: Yep.
Tata: You swim a lot at his house?
IULOML: Sometimes. Why?
Tata: Remember a girl with a fancy dive and an exciting faceplant?
IULOML: Yes, I do.
Tata: That was me. Hey, I’d like to crawl in a hole, now.

Soon after, I spent two years picking leftovers out of my braces, so my high school years were like a catalog of dentalwork failures. Six years ago, I got braces again. That’ll put a crimp in your adult sex life. Stop laughing! Three years ago, I had capped four teeth damaged by braces and moral sloth. Immediately, one came apart: the one I broke with my enormous ego and a concrete wall. I have my own dentist now. He’s pretending all his patients go through gallons of epoxy. He glued it back together, and again three weeks ago.

Tata: Okay okay okay, I am in such a MOOD. A few days ago, I thought I was imagining my tooth was loose, but no. The cap came off in my hand. I was so mad I actually cursed my own ancestors, which means yours are cursed, too.
Daria: That explains the noises in my attic and my children speaking in tongues.
Tata: But the cap went right back on like a puzzle piece and everything was fine while I waited for the dentist. But then the dentist needed to take the cap for a couple of days to clean off the glue.
Daria: So you stayed home and whistled?
Tata: No, I went to work and scowled like George Harrison.
Daria: OH MY GOD! You snaggletoothed it for TWO DAYS?
Tata: Yes, and my job involves talking to lots of people, so I mastered the fine art of talking to people like they’re actually standing five feet to their right, not to mention facing away from them in meetings. It’s a good thing people already thought I was insane or it might bother them when I walk up to them backwards.
Daria: I can’t breathe!
Tata: So he glued it back together and then I bit down on some frozen dark chocolate with 85% cocoa content. It’s full of antioxidents, you know, and my tooth broke into three pieces.
Daria: I know how mad you were then. You don’t have a Louisville Slugger anymore, do ya?
Tata: Nope.
Daria: Then your dentist’s probably safe. Is it fixed yet?
Tata: It is not, and here’s the best part: we’re going to Cape Cod to fix Mom’s front door and you know who cares more about my teeth than I do? Mom does. And our Mom’s mean. She’s going to stare at me. I’ll have the heebee jeebies!
Daria: Your best chance is to bring extra wine and hope Mom gets crosseyed.
Tata: I thought my best chance was to dress up as someone Mom would ignore, like police officers and car salesmen. But your way is better.

For the first time in my life I look forward to getting dentures.

Tata: Knock knock!
Pete: What?

Pete: You awake? Still napping?
Tata: Is it dinnertime and you’re making me a sandwich?
Pete: I am!
Tata: And it will contain bacon?
Pete: It will!
Tata: I’m about to have a great evening.

We’re doing what?

NASA plans to crash a rocket into the moon early Friday, blasting a huge hole in the lunar surface to search for hidden water.

Why blast a hole in the moon? NASA wants to see if any water, ice or vapor is revealed in the cloud of debris. If there is, that might provide supplies for a future manned moonbase.

Countdown to the rumor that the moon had nukes trained on Israel in 3… 2… 1…

Previously on Poor Impulse Control:

On Saturday, Pete had a delightful encounter at the toy store.

Pete: I looked up and there was this little girl, about nine or ten. She looked like your niece.
Tata: Which one? Lois?
Pete: Lois! Light blond hair, blue eyes, skinny. She was wearing a little girl t-shirt, a little girl sweater, jeans and sneakers. And a big fake mustache like that movie critic –
Tata: Gene Shalit?
Pete: Yeah! She was completely serious, so I said, “Can I help you, sir?” She cleared her throat and said in a deep voice, “Yes.”
Tata: GET OUT!
Pete: I didn’t smile or anything, I just kept going. “Would you like me to gift wrap this for you, sir?” and she said, “[deep voice] That would be nice.” She was alone in the store but her mom kept peeking her head in from outside.
Tata: I’m so happy! Did you recognize the little girl?
Pete: How could I recognize her? She was in disguise!
Tata: Omigod, you should have taken a picture!
Pete: I wanted to but I would’ve had to let on I knew she wasn’t a grown man.
Tata: Then what happened?
Pete: She got into a van with her parents and her sister and they took off.
Tata: I’m so jealous! I wish I’d seen her. Oooh, you know who are going to be mad they missed that? Anya and Corinne! My sisters are going to be steamed!
Pete: She’s my favorite customer ever.

Last night, my sisters hosted a book signing party at the toy store for local heroes who’ve written a new book. Pete made tortellini with spicy arugula, spinach and basil pesto, truly beautiful fruit and cheese platters, humus and vegetable trays that’d make you sigh, bruschetta and toast rounds. I worked the cash register and gift-wrapped for the gift store and kept an eye on my niece Lois, who was tending the informal banquet but has never waited tables. One of my brothers-in-law tended bar. My mother hovered nearby, anxious to help. Everyone was very busy, so it was at an odd, slack moment when Pete looked across the counter and asked the question of the evening.

Pete: Have you ever worn a mustache about town?
Little Girl: Yes, I have.
Pete: This is the one! I knew it! She came into the toy store wearing a mustache and speaking in a low voice.
Tata: You’re my hero.
Pete: I love that story! I tell it to everyone!

Pete ran off, while I chatted with the little girl, her friend and a familiar looking woman. At the other end of the store, I saw Pete push through the crowd with my my sister Corinne, telling her, “That’s the girl with the mustache!” and Corinne nodding happily. Presently, Pete reappeared at my side and asked the next best question of the evening.

Pete: What are you going to be for Halloween?
Little Girl: Frida Kahlo.
Tata: Frida Kahlo!
Pete: Who is that?
Tata: A famous, dead Mexican artist.
Little Girl: She had the unibrow. Like mine.

And then I realized what I should have known all along: she’s me.

Tata: My aunt used to take me to museums so I could read her the Latin signs.
Little Girl: You can just sound them out.
Tata: I know! Do you do theater?
Little Girl: I am an excellent actor.

And then, as little girls do, the little girls ran off. We remain delighted, and now we know her name.

I.

Pete stands in the doorway in new boxer shorts and a t-shirt.

Pete: …I was thinking we could go the grocery store and AutoZone and stop at the farm stand on the way back. You’re looking at me funny.
Tata: Am I? I guess I’m a little distracted.
Pete: I’m wearing your underwear, aren’t I?

II.

Tata: I’d like to buy a case of this wine so my neighbors shopping at the drug store stop clutching their children when I buy three bottles at a time.
Young Liquor Store Clerk: Here you go. That’s $54.75.
Tata: Thanks. My Handsome Prince just ran off to look for gluten-free beer, so I’ll just stand here …and …look purty.

Then we laughed for different reasons.

III.

Auntie InExcelsisDeo: …and you, in your sweat pants –
Tata: These aren’t sweat pants. They are stunt pants. I’m wearing them over jeans to keep my hip warm, but look – zip, zip, zip and they come right off!
Auntie I.: Don’t they all!

HOLY SHIT.

In 1979, I stood near the uneven bars with my arms outstretched! Thank Christ a yearbook photographer was standing nearby!

In a fit of poor judgment, I joined Facebook. One of my sisters promptly published horrifying, nostalgic photos. I loathe nostalgia. Well, good to know that on one day in my life I had nice knees.

As the machine released, the tech wrapped her arms around me and urged, “Don’t faint! Don’t faint!” I said, “I’m not a fainting kind of girl. I’m a whining and complaining kind of girl.” She laughed but guided me to a chair. I stopped there. She urged me forward and sat me down. “Don’t faint!” she repeated. I did not faint. I hate mammograms.

My insurance company used to send postcards reminding me to schedule a mammogram. I would’ve been happier to receive Blue Cross’s gloating pictures of a drunken Cancun adventure, but no. Shitty test. Next, I had to get a prescription for the test from the gynecologist, which by the by involved also holding still for a pap smear, and then making an appointment with the radiology people. Last time I went, the receptionist was angry I didn’t have an authorization number from the insurance company. I said, “Why would I need authorization when I’m getting pushy bulk mail insisting I show up and parade around topless in a clinical setting?” Then I spent half an hour on the office phone, getting that number before taking an eight-picture test that turned into ten, then twelve. I should’ve fainted that time. Instead, I started leaning on the gynecologist to write prescriptions for MRIs instead. Rumor has had it for a long time that MRIs are the future of breast cancer detection, and when the cost comes down, women will have painless tests. The gynecologist wouldn’t do it. He said my insurance company wouldn’t allow it. So I showed him: I didn’t make another appointment for three years. I bet he’s red-faced!

Some of the women in my office line up their medical tests over the summer because then parking is easier in a college town. This year, I gritted my teeth, followed their example and got a prescription for the mammogram. I called the insurance company for the authorization number.

Tata: I need an authorization number.
Rep: No ya don’t.
Tata: I do! Last time, I had to call you from the office, where they were very perturbed.
Rep: That was a couple of years ago, right?
Tata: Uh. Yeah.
Rep: You changed insurance companies!
Tata: I didn’t. You changed your name and pretended to be someone else. You didn’t even change your phone number or try talking with a funny voice.
Rep: And you don’t need an authorization number.
Tata: I’ll give it a try, but I think perturbed receptionists are in both our futures.

Nevertheless, I made an appointment and went yesterday. Have you been to the doctor lately? They have a new demand: photo ID. I’d forgotten my prescription because weeks had passed, so I felt a twinge of guilt when this happened:

Receptionist: I need to scan your driver’s license.
Tata: You what? What would you need that for?
R: We need to verify your address.
Tata: To repeat, why would you need to do that?
R: Well, we don’t have to do that.
Tata: And you’re not going to, because I am who I say I am, and live where your records say I do. Which you just asked me and I confirmed.

I didn’t say anything else, because last year the State of New Jersey was prepared to take away my license if Motor Vehicle Services, the IRS and Homeland Security couldn’t agree on what my name was, so I had no doubt that my medical records now have to match my passport. Then the receptionist called my doctor’s office across the street, where the doctor mysteriously wanted to look at my old report before faxing a replacement scrip. I waited half an hour and the scrip still hadn’t come, probably because my doctor is one of the few I’ve seen who actually listens to his patients. Then the tech took me anyway, because the scrip was bound to come sometime. I’m sure it did, but I was probably already at home, snacking nervously. I can’t wait until next year.

Images courtesy of I Can Has Cheezburger?

Today is not a good day for my sister to be a controlling bitch.

On Saturday, Pete had a delightful encounter at the toy store.

Pete: I looked up and there was this little girl, about nine or ten. She looked like your niece.
Tata: Which one? Lois?
Pete: Lois! Light blond hair, blue eyes, skinny. She was wearing a little girl t-shirt, a little girl sweater, jeans and sneakers. And a big fake mustache like that movie critic –
Tata: Gene Shalit?
Pete: Yeah! She was completely serious, so I said, “Can I help you, sir?” She cleared her throat and said in a deep voice, “Yes.”
Tata: GET OUT!
Pete: I didn’t smile or anything, I just kept going. “Would you like me to gift wrap this for you, sir?” and she said, “[deep voice] That would be nice.” She was alone in the store but her mom kept peeking her head in from outside.
Tata: I’m so happy! Did you recognize the little girl?
Pete: How could I recognize her? She was in disguise!
Tata: Omigod, you should have taken a picture!
Pete: I wanted to but I would’ve had to let on I knew she wasn’t a grown man.
Tata: Then what happened?
Pete: She got into a van with her parents and her sister and they took off.
Tata: I’m so jealous! I wish I’d seen her. Oooh, you know who are going to be mad they missed that? Anya and Corinne! My sisters are going to be steamed!
Pete: She’s my favorite customer ever. “[deep voice] That would be nice.”
Tata: I love that you didn’t tell her to take off the mustache or pretend it wasn’t there. That’s the most fun: seeing something coming and letting the adventure unfold.
Pete: And it was way better than my other idea: there’s a man wearing a little girl suit and forgot to cover his mustache.
Tata: Hmm, suddenly this has gone all Cinemax.

First thing yesterday morning, the genteel older gentleman who sits next to me smiled sweetly and said something so bitchy all I could do was stare at him until my eyeballs parched. Thus, I was discombobulated by 7:35 A.M. At lunchtime, I could not find my strawberry banana yogurt in the refrigerator no matter how many times I searched, but there was a vanilla yogurt of the same brand on a different shelf. I stared at the contents of the refrigerator. Once again, until my eyeballs parched. So I ate that other yogurt, because obviously one of my co-workers must’ve innocently eaten mine.

While he made dinner last night, I mentioned this odd occurrence to Pete, who has had run-ins with guilty co-workers. Pete growled. Pete gnashed his teeth. It was like Where the Wild Things Are with julienned radishes. Dinner was pretty good, too, with cute little meatballs rolled like the heads of his enemies. So imagine my chagrin when I emptied my messenger bag and found the salad I never ate and the strawberry banana yogurt I never put in the fridge.

This morning, I put a vanilla yogurt back where I found it. I am torn between writing a note of apology and wiping clean my fingerprints. I will say this: it was a very tasty yogurt, and I truly enjoyed it, but I recall it even more fondly, knowing it was pilfered. Yes, delicious, delicious stolen yogurt. I can’t wait until someone comes to my desk and tells me a story.