Thanks, Dr. Pettit -- Again!

Why do I love jewelry? I mean, I LOVE jewelry. Ask anyone who's seen my birthday list. It sure wasn't something in my genes. My mom has some really cool things, and she certainly likes it in general, but I think basically she could live a fine life without it. My sister likes to wear it, but only when it's subtle and simple and cool. But me? I love it. I don't think I ever am without earrings or rings or necklaces or watches, preferably all at once. I like it all—gold, silver, turquoise, diamonds, bold, prissy, faux, real. Bring it on, baby. I wear it all. And I guess my grandmothers liked it, but it's not like we have these fabulous pieces that have been handed down through the generations, or anything. In fact, I have a set of pins that have been in the jewelry box for years, and I always thought they had belonged to Grandma McCormick, my mom's mom. But when I wore them recently, my mom said, "Oh, those are nice! Where did you get them?" I looked at her puzzled, and said, "Mom, these were Grandma McCormick's!" Her reply? "I've never seen them before in my life." Huh? I mean, she doesn't forget this stuff. She is not wrong.

So there you go. The one piece that I've treasured for many, many years, enjoying its rich heritage from the Irish/German side of my family and their love of this lovely piece of jewelry… Turns out they've never even seen 'em. They're not from our family! And I know they're not from my dad's mom—they're shamrock pins, for heaven's sake. Can you imagine Hilda Brushaber wearing shamrocks? I think not. They're probably something somebody picked up at a thrift store somewhere. Oh, the pain. But I still love them!

But there you have it. My love of jewelry has not been handed down through the generations. I hate that! But just recently I had a brainstorm on this subject. As I previously mentioned (see post March , 2007 Thank You, Dr. Pettit), I spent a lot of time in the dentist's office when I was a kid. And I never got novocaine—my choice. Which did not make for eager anticipation of these frequent trips to the dentist.

But Dr. Pettit was always nice (something that didn't occur to me until much, much later—sorry doc) and after the crying and the drilling was over, on my way out I would always get a gift! I could choose between a ring from what seemed at the time like a huge tray of rings that were so beautiful I couldn't believe it, or from a really pretty collection of little glass animals. Let's just say I could have started a gift shop with the collection of each I amassed from all those cavities. I can still picture in detail many of the rings I got, and in particular I remember a little green milk glass crane, very pretty, very delicate. Which didn't survive very long. I mean, that long, delicate neck—come on, I was a kid.

But I can remember in an odd sort of way looking forward to my next visits. I could only get one gift per visit, of course, and there was always more than one of the rings or animals that I just had to have. So I would painstakingly pick the one ring I could get today, and then comfort myself by planning to get the other one the next time I came. Which I knew would happen, just as sure as the sun comes up in the morning. Because my mom had just set up the next appointment with the receptionist.

So while I've always thought of my childhood trips to the dentist as only awful, in retrospect they kind of shaped who I am today. And possibly even in a positive way. Did I learn to cut back on the sweets and eat more healthily? Nope. But boy, I still remember that fabulous feeling walking out of the dentist's office and into that receptionist's office with all the possibilities open to me there, after I had braved the dentist's chair and come out alive on the other side. From the awful to the sublime. I think that's why all things beautiful call to me. Why I can see that there's no reason not to make everything sparkle, even something as icky as getting your teeth drilled, commando style. Maybe why I cling to insisting that everything can have something pretty about it.

I think that going from that absolute terror and pain right into the luxury of something beautiful has created my vision that everything should be pleasing—even your box of tissues, for heavens sake.

Or -- maybe it's just from some cartoon I used to watch.

Whatever. I love beautiful things, that's for sure. From whence it came, I'll probably never be sure. But associating beauty with those darn trips to the dentist can only be a good thing, right? I feel better already.

What Is WRONG with People?

Here's something that I just cannot figure out. Why, oh why, do people leave that stupid, ugly license plate frame from the dealer on their car? I mean, you go out and spend $20,000 or $40,000 or even $60,000 (I'm in the dreaming zone here—truthfully, at the $40,000 level, too) on a beautiful car, you pick out the color you like, the wheel covers you like (apparently they're not hubcaps anymore, they are "wheel covers"), the chrome trim package, and the cool pinstripe down the side. Then, you drive happily away from the dealership, proud as can be in your beautiful sort of custom created shiny new car. How neat is that? Imagining everyone staring at you as zoom by. But in reality, all the driver behind you sees is that stupid license plate frame which you've for some God only knows reason chosen to leave on. So instead of looking at your flash as you drive by, they're looking at "East City AutoMall" or "Desert Kia/Acura@AUTO NATION" or "Western Lexus—Where the Service Is Great!" I mean, really. How tacky and ugly can you get? Why would you want to drive around in a big fancy automobile with an ad on it, for heaven's sake? Are they just lazy? Do they think they owe some obligation to the dealer? Or have they not even noticed that it's there???

Could you please just get out the darn screwdriver and take that hideous eyesore off of your vehicle? Please? Do not force the rest of us to suffer from your ignorance any longer.

What is wrong with people?

This is, of course, just my humble (but always correct) opinion.

Thanks, Dr. Pettit

When I was a girl, I spent a lot of time in the office of my dentist, Dr. Pettit. Lots of cavities. (I loved sweets—still do.) And it wasn’t really too bad, because the nice dentist would always very nicely say, “Okay, now, Kathy, just close your eyes and I’m going to rub this magic water in your mouth so you won’t feel a thing.” Which worked like a charm until one day, when my brother told me, with great enthusiasm, “Kathy, that’s not magic water--when you close your eyes, he’s giving you a giant shot of novocaine!” I cried like a baby, told Bill to shut up and called him a liar. But the next time I went, the jig was up. And when I saw that long, long, silver, scary (did I say long?) needle, I was so horrified I refused to have novocaine ever again. So I just sat through all those cavities and all that drilling in pain, lots of pain and tears—but at least I didn’t have to brave that terrifying syringe, which, come on, was about as long as a yardstick! (Funny, it never occurred to me to cut down on the candy.)

But before I even got to the dentist’s chair I spent lots of time in the waiting room. Which meant I had my choice of reading. And the pickin’s were slim. It was basically either The Illustrated Bible for Children, or Highlights magazine. I chose the latter. Every time. I don’t know why the heck the Children’s Bible was always there, but it seemed to be a required staple for the waiting room of every doctor, dentist, orthodontist, and fill-in-your-doctor-specialty-here. (I saw those guys pretty regularly, too.) I never picked it up and I never saw any kid reading it, ever, although the cover was awesome, with beautiful colors. Maybe it was like the Gideon Bible being in every hotel room. Are those things still there? I think the Gideon Bible is. I don’t have kids, so I don’t know about the kids’ waiting rooms. I bet if I stepped into one, though, I’d see Highlights in all its glory. Funny, thinking of Highlights doesn’t give me a scary feeling in the pit of my stomach. I think because that was the only part of the experience that was ever any good.

Well, luckily for unhealthy children everywhere, Highlights isn’t just good, it’s a fantastic magazine. Filled with stories and lots of cool puzzles. And I used to love those puzzles. I still do—I wonder if that’s where my penchant for puzzles came from? Somehow, I’ve disassociated myself from the dentist’s origin of that love, so I’m able to enjoy them freely, without baggage, nowadays. There are two things I remember best from Highlights. One was the Hidden Picture. This was a puzzle that was a drawing—different every time—with all sorts of items “hidden” throughout. The list underneath would tell you what you needed to find—a bell, a bird, a hand, whatever. I loved to do that puzzle; I was pretty good at it, too. The other thing I remember—and I’d say this one shaped my life forever after!—was Goofus and Gallant. This was a one or two picture cartoon about two brothers. Goofus and Gallant. One was the Perfect Boy, and the other was, well, less than perfect. I think you can guess which was which. The picture would show some scene, and then the caption would say something like, “Goofus pushes little girls into mud puddles. Gallant throws down his coat so they don’t have to get their feet wet.” Or some equally good/bad scenario for the boys. Each issue a different situation was presented, and each time Goofus did something foolish and always inappropriate, and Gallant did just the right thing. I don’t know why it made such an impression on me. I was fascinated by it, and I always felt a bit of fondness for Goofus, never able to live up to his always-perfect brother. (I also suspected Goofus would be a lot more fun to hang out with.) But I couldn’t disagree that Gallant’s conduct was much more to my liking. Especially the parts about being nice to girls. But for whatever reason, these brothers have lived in my head ever since.

I am nearly fifty years old now, and I still see the world in terms of Goofus and Gallant. I refer to them regularly in conversation to put some situation or other in perspective. I’d been doing this for quite a few years before I discovered that my husband Steve (www.stevechandler.com), didn’t know these brothers who were so dear to my heart, and had no idea what I meant when I would say, “Don’t you think that’s just like Goofus?” (He apparently had perfect teeth as a child.) In fact, I’d many times suggested he use that analogy in one of his seminars or books (he’s a writer and public speaker and business coach, among about a hundred other things that he excels at) but he never seemed too interested in snapping that idea up. Well, no wonder! Although now that I’ve explained it to him ad nauseum, he’s still not too intrigued. Go figure.

Agree or disagree, as you will; these are just my humble (but always correct) opinions.