Wednesday, August 26, 2009

Mastering the art of French kissing.

Channel surfing at this time of year, when you don't like reality shows, dancing, Big Brother, talent, or CSI – leaves a person pretty much watching reruns of Property Virgins on HGTV. Last night, before I succumbed to the cute plumber buying his first home – again – I caught a bit of an interview with Sheryl Weinstein.

Not exactly a household name – unless you live in New York and have a mezuzah hanging on your door frame (a mezuzah is a small box that hangs on your door frame with a note inside that says something like, "Listen, Israel, if you forget your key one more time, no motzah for you") – Sheryl Weinstein's fifteen minutes of shame has begun.

If Hell hath no Fury like a woman scorn'd, then look out Katz's deli, because Sheryl Weinstein is pissed and she's not taking it lying down. Well, actually she did take it lying down, and apparently on her knees, and standing up – banging her head against the mezuzah when Bernie Madoff came a callin'.

Sheryl Weinstein not only lost millions in Bernie's Ponzi scam, it appears Bernie also made off with her dignity. Years ago, Sheryl had an affair with the slimy bastard, which of course, she has written a tell-all book about. Apparently Madoff's Other Secret is on the shelves and Sheryl is busy working the talk show circuit. Who really cares, but I did watch long enough to hear that her nickname for Bernie was "Mr. Windydink", and apparently Bernie was a great kisser. My guess is, he must have been decent enough in the rack too, considering how many people he screwed.

Anyway the thought of kissing Bernie Madoff made me feel a little sick, which is odd considering the only person I've necked with recently is my now-deceased dog, Hooey. It did make me think maybe I should screw someone evil like Bin Laden or Pete Rose, and write a tell-all book about it. Or, like the blogger Julie in the movie Julie & Julia, take on a blogging challenge like cooking – only instead of cooking – I could French kiss someone different, every day for a year. And then I thought, no. Anyone who would want to French kiss me would either be too drunk, too old, too senile, behind bars in a women's prison, or too certifiably crazy – so never mind. There's has to be an easier way to achieve fame and fortune aside from allowing Bernie Madoff types to visit my safety deposit box.

I remember the first time I ever experienced the art of French kissing. I was about 12, a dirt-bike riding tomboy and a late bloomer (ugly as shit). The thought of kissing someone hadn't really crossed my mind. Mind you, I wasn't exactly innocent, having had access to the "articles" in my grandfather's Playboy magazines for several years. Grandpa kept a stash of Playboys in the sliding bookshelf that doubled as a headboard, in the room where we slept when we visited Ontario. Anyway, no suppressed weirdness there, but in hindsight, and with knowledge her grandchildren were arriving, maybe my grandma could have moved that reading material out of the room and replaced it with Goodnight, Moon or Reader's Digest even. But never mind.

Caving in to peer pressure one afternoon, I found myself cross-legged in a circle playing Spin the Bottle. To this day I remember thinking it was all fun and games, until that is, the bottle spun around and pointed at my flat-chested Adidas t-shirt. Leaning in with my eyes closed and my freckled face all scrunched up, I was doing okay until it happened. The boy delivering the kiss opened his mouth and stuck his tongue in my horrified pie hole. If that wasn't enough to make me puke, he then proceeded to probe it around, like he was looking for a lost piece of Bazooka or something. I recall my eyes bulging open and out, reeling back in horror, thinking he was likely having a seizure or something was terribly, terribly wrong. It was, the most disgusting and embarrassing thing I had experienced to date.

Anyway, the good news is, I grew to love the occasional, randy necking session, and it was kind of sad when necking became something you did for 5 seconds before you struck a pose like Miss July (who was also a Gemini and liked walking in the rain with no undershirt on).

So maybe Mastering the Art of French Kissing isn't for me. Besides, I haven't been to the dentist for a while, since things like professional oral care and pedicures take a backseat to hockey gear and groceries during a recession. I am a compulsive teeth brusher though, but maybe that's from years of trying to get the taste of that boy's tongue out of mind and my mouth.

When I can scrape enough money together to visit the dentist, I'm thinkin' the Community Dental Centre out in Sackville is the place I wanna be. I'm in Sackville all the time getting skates sharpened anyway, and besides, Dr. Heather Maclean made free mouth guards for Jack's entire hockey team one year. And, as much as I like Heather, there's a hot, new dentist out there. I figure if you have to drool, it may as well be because some young buck like Dr. Matthew MacIsaac has his youthful fingers jammed down your throat. You can just lie back in your mom jeans with the elastic waist and pretend when the good Dr. says, "open wide" that you're 16 and .... Christ! On top of all else I'm a pedophile – Dr. MacIsaac is about twenty fucking four.

Oh well. If anyone out there has any idea of something I can do every day for a year, besides offend people, please let me know.

Community Dental Centre is located in the mall where Wal Mart used to be at 752 Sackville Drive. Their phone number is 865.7260 and their website is