Awkward Encounters and Perfume

It is never appropriate to sniff your neighbor Let’s take that as a public service announcement.

Except when…

I used to love a perfume with a hideous bottle.  Let’s just say it rhymed with Ron Saul Faulty-ay.  When Sweetman and I were dating,  Ron Saul and I had to break up. It was a tragic.  I loved how Ron made me smell.

Unfortunately, however, Sweetman couldn’t bear this other man being in my life!  Or on me.

Literally.  His body couldn’t bear it. He would get a monster migraine, along with all the nausea one could never want, for each and every date that I arrived at with all my perfumed self.

We came to realize that it was, indeed, my perfume that made him so ill.  Actually, “we” didn’t come to realize a dern thing.  It’s just that Sweetman finally got comfortable enough, and he liked me enough to stick it out until he could get comfortable enough, to tell me that my perfume made him sick.  That’s Real Romance, right there, folks.

I have not worn perfume in 16 years, 1 month, and 5 days.  Or something like that.  Not that I’m counting.

It should come as no surprise, then, that when my neighbor stopped by the other day, smelling beautifully reminiscent of my old flame, Ron Saul, we had an awkward encounter.  It started off just fine and dandy.

“Hi Neighbor. How are you?  Fine Spring we’re having.”

“Why, yes, it’s nice to see the grass again, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is! My, but you smell good! What perfume is that?”

“Ron Saul Faulty-ay.”

“OH. MY. GOSH! GetoverheresoIcansmellyou!”

That took some explaining.

Yes, indeedy.

Oh, perfume, I miss you so... My neighbor wishes I didn't miss you quite so much.

Oh, perfume, I miss you so… My neighbor wishes I didn’t miss you quite so much.

Dragon Breath

One of the “life skills” we’re working on around here with both kidlets, but most especially with Sweetboy,  is to consistently brush their fangs in the morning.  Without the aid of so much toothpaste and so little actual brushing, my Sweetchildren have some major dragon breath.  I suppose all kiddos do; but it sure makes it extra challenging, with jimmies on top, to kiss and snuggle little people with said dragon breath, doesn’t it?  Especially at 5:50 in the morning.

You know it’s gotten bad when the smallest, youngest, most inexperienced in the ways of the world’s hygiene habits informs her brother of the following: “Ewww, brudder, you got stinky breath. Don’t kiss me!”  This causes much distress for the brother, as he adores his little sister and would smother her with dragon-breath kisses if someone didn’t intervene.  What causes this former teacher distress is that I can’t seem to get Sweetgirl to shake the word “got” in inappropriate places; as in, ‘You got…”,  “I got to go….”.  Alas…

It goes without saying, then, that I really do hope they catch this sooner rather than later.  The potency of their unbrushed fangs can about knock a mama out!  Oh, yes indeedy, it can.  Heaven help me if I’m ever found passed out in my home and I have to give Dragon Breath as an explanation for why I needed smelling salts.

So, what do you do to teach your little dragons to brush their fangs?  Any games you use?  Any special “equipment” (props)? Do tell, please!

Off in a Cloud of Turtledust

I could also have named this “Scour Your Fangs” or “Sew Buttons on Your Underwear”.  And some other fascinating phrases that The Nana (wife to Captain Ahab for those of you following along) used with us kids growing up.  I use those same phrases now with my own sweet children and the neighborhood kiddos.  It never ceases to amaze me how long it takes for a lot of kids, these days, to catch the irony.  Now, sarcasm? This generation of kidlets have that market cornered.  And it would seem that most of the words that come out of the mouths of the  7-13 year old crowd are made up of sarcastic phrases.

But irony?  It seems to be a lost art. And it bothers me. It might be because sarcasm always sounds like so many knives in my ears when kids use it.  The elementary school teacher in me cringes because we seem to be letting proper use of grammar and English slide more and more toward the crass.  Truthfully, though, it bothers me because I don’t want my Sweetchildren to be considered rude.  That little bit of Southern girl still in me, or maybe that “Manners” gene in me, wants my Sweetchildren to be considered well-mannered.  (Special note to The Nana – it’s shocking to you, I know.  You thought the day would NEVER come when I would truly give a rats toot for manners.  It turns out that the “White Gloves and Party Manners” class, you forced encouraged me to take, wasn’t all for naught.  You’re welcome. And Happy Mother’s Day early…)   One crazy little thing that puts joy in my heart is hearing a child say “No, thank you.”  Or, “Yes, please.”  It goes back to that whole “certainty” thing.  I want to know that there are some things that will hold importance generation to generation.  And with that, I’m off in a cloud of turtledust to instill some more manners into my Sweetchildren. Oh, yes I am.  In my pajamas. With coffee in hand.  Indeed.