A dentist's dream

Yes, I was. And I can firmly, and without reservation, place the blame on at least one suburban institution: Packy's. It was-- and still is, I think -- an areawide distributor of pre-pubescent deviance.

It's a candy store. (You sickos! What did you THINK I was talking about?!?!)

A real wall-to-wall shop full of penny, three-cent, five-cent and (for the big spenders) 15-cent candies.

I thought of it because a colleague of mine brought in a family-sized bag of what SHOULD be Halloween candy. Yeah, right. Like it's going to last that long!

I'm chewing on Sweet Tarts right now, having already eaten my strawberry Laffy Taffy. I took a small selection which includes Bottle Caps and Runts (oooh! there are not one or two, but THREE bananas in the Runts!!)

My parents taught me to share, so I brought another small selection to other colleagues and the talk began of Charleston Chews, Marathon bars and Slo-Pokes.

Okay, the conversation actually started with Lik M' Ade. Remember the fruity-flavored powder that you ate from the pouch by licking the weird-tasting, plastic-looking and dipping it into the powder?

Do you remember the long strips of strawberry (or were they cherry) licorice that you'd tie in knots before you eat it? What was that called? How about the candy bracelets and necklaces?

How I have ANY teeth left in my head is one of my family's biggest mysteries.

I've heard there's an online candy store where these cheap thrills still exist. Does anyone know the website??

Things to do....

before I go:

• See all of the continents at least once
• Speak at least one other language fluently
• Write a novel and have it published
• Learn to express myself musically (singing or playing an instrument)
• Fall in love with someone WHO LOVES ME
• Learn how to tune up a car and do an oil change
• Find a satisfying, challenging and lucrative career
• Live, at least for a while, in another country
• Learn to golf reasonably well
• Fly first-class
• Live in a house w/a garden and a huge wrap-around porch
• Own shoes that were hand-made for me
• Do something worthy of a newspaper headline (an obit doesn't count)
• Be there when the Cubs win the World Series (maybe I'd settle for a pennant)
• Spend a weekend at a beach house (not in the Midwest, thank you)
• See my first love again
• Learn to swim (it's the underwater part that gets me)
• Have a hairstyle that both stylish and classic (and that I can recreate on a regular basis)
• Get one of my ideas patented or copyrighted or at least, sold
• Witness the miracle of birth

To be continued...

Bratty little Sox fans

My colleagues, several of whom couldn't name more than one White Sox player and think Ozzie Guillen is still the shortstop, are trying to instigate a dispute with me, a diehard Cub fan. The White Sox have won the American League pennant and are awaiting their rivals for the World Series, which begins this weekend. The Cubs are once again relegated to "waiting until next year" - - a phrase we coined, I think.

Trouble is....I don't care.

I leave for Australia in less than two weeks and for me, baseball season has been over for a few weeks now. I'm busy counting the days till Sydney and then Spring Training.

It reminds me of a situation a few years back with my ex-husband. It was a few weeks after we filed for divorce (amicably, I might add). We were riding an elevator to a courtroom where we could finalize things.

"I'm dating this girl and she told me that her ex-husband calls her Lucy, short for Lucifer," said the ex. (I suppressed the urge to laugh at the fact that my ex would be dating someone that reminds another person of the devil.)

"I have a nickname for you, too." He added, waiting anxiously for me to ask what possible monniker he could have for me when in the company of his (alcoholic, jobless, living-with-their-parents) friends.

A minute goes by...No answer.

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see him squirm as he desperately wanted to impart this bit of information.

Just then, the elevator doors open and we arrive at the courtroom and the conversation-- the verbal poking-- is over.

Sox fans don't bug me, neither do ex-husbands.

Cultural enlightenment

In my continuing effort to experience culture on a worldwide (or is it worldwise?) basis, I happily accepted an invitation to a birthday party for my Mexican friend's 9-year-old son. I missed the smashing of the pinata, but I was thrilled to enjoy a margarita and some sinus-blazing mole and chicken. Wonderful!!!

Since I'd already enjoyed my friend's hospitality at a previous function, I wasn't surprised to find myself once again, the token gringa. A great opportunity to practice my Spanish (I can't even claim high-school Spanish since I took French.)

To really expand the whole cultural thing, I found myself heading out the door after having made a tentative date with another non-Mexican party guest (actually, I think we might have been the ONLY non-Mexicans.) You're going to love this - - he's the birthday boy's martial arts teacher, he's younger than me (somewhere between 25-31) and he's Romanian. Oh, it gets better!! He used to be a clothing designer and an exotic dancer.

Now THAT's how you end a weekend!