Tooth Fairy Smackdown

A college friend used to tell me that hate was a strong word, and that you don’t really hate anyone. But she was wrong. I hate the Tooth Fairy. After being up all night again because the babe is cutting his six tooth in a row, and after years of my own roller coaster relationship with teeth, I have had it. I’m ready to face the Tooth Fairy mono – e – mono.

I believe that my meeting with the Tooth Fairy would be a little one-sided, he being a male, and me being a Hot Mama. I would like think that the Tooth Fairy is a man, because only a male would choose to give kids a buck–twenty–five for a cavity-free molar. I imagine the Tooth Fairy looks something like Rupert from Survivor, wearing a loosely-fitting tie-dye tank top with an ironed-on “Tooth Fairy” logo that is starting to peel away. He’s up all night playing Tooth Fairy World of Warcraft, trying to gain levels by inflicting pain on innocent teething infants and headgear-wearing tweens. When he wins this pain battle, he high-fives his only friends, the googly-eyed Cookie Monster and the creepy Burger King. He’s big on torture, short on organization. And when its time to deliver new teeth, he’s too busy smacking on Listerine and Whitening Gel to realize he put the chompers in skeewompus or backwards, resulting in years of ridicule and orthodontic treatment for the recipient.

In a perfect world, the Tooth Fairy would be a type-A female, empathetic to the sleepless nights of the Hot Mama’s of the world. When she’s not manufacturing or shipping incisors, she’s lobbying on Capital Hill to get rid of colored-orthodontic bands, which although festive for the seasons, don’t help any 14-year-olds in the “socially acceptable” department. Working overtime, she would make it so after a few short days of discomfort, you would wake up to a mouth full of 20 pearly whites. And when the time came to trade in the compact teeth for the SUV version, you wouldn’t have to sleep on spare change; instead you’d get a new Izod polo with matching socks (much softer = less trips to the Chiropractor later in life). These grown-up teeth would be delivered as Chicklet-shaped beauties, straight and strong. No need for teething tabs, bottles of Tylenol, or having to gag while panting through one of those mouth-molds in the Orthodontist office (which don’t taste like Bubble Gum). Ah, life would be grand.

Sadly, I believe my version of the Tooth Fairy is the truer story. And I’ve decided it is time for a WWE Tooth Fairy Smackdown. Being that I’m already awake, I was thinking about running, but in my preparation of meeting the Tooth Fairy in the Octagon – I think I’ll pop in the good-old "Tae Bo" VHS workout tape. With Billy Blank’s help, I think I’ll be able to speed bag and roundhouse the Tooth Fairy into giving up the rest of my son’s teeth – pain free.

Intervention

I’m worried. I called my sister this morning to see if she wanted to head to IKEA for some inexpensive Scandinavian furnishings and Swedish meatballs. She didn’t answer her phone. I think she’s hungover. Not hungover from a night of competitive bowling and too many White Russian’s, but a different kind of hangover. You see, Miss Priss has an addiction. And this is an intervention. No undercover cameras, no Chris Hansen from “Dateline NBC,” no A&E special, just this simple post.

Before I start, I must let you know I believe the Internet to be a wondrous place chalk-full of fascinating people and interesting information. I use the web to feed my compulsion for information on being a Hot Mama. My brother uses it to watch Limahl’s music video for The Neverending Story over and over again. Since then, he has requested that we call him Atreyu on weekends (Sunday dinners are a riot in our family). Essentially, sufficing your hunger for a deadly sin is only a click away. Priss’s chosen sin: You Tube Gluttony.

I came to the conclusion that Miss P had this addiction yesterday while chatting with her over cheese bagels and Italian sodas. I believe someone across the café whispered “You Tube” under their breath, and demon was released. I could see a twinkle her eye and her body start to twitch. She began to stutter quotes from Charlie the Unicorn (“shun the unbeliever, shuuuunnn”) and Shoes (“these shoes rule, these shoes suck!”). After being removed by security, I knew we had an addict on our hands.

You probably don’t think watching You Tube in excess is an addiction. There aren’t any G.I. Joe/You Tube Public Service Announcements, nor are there any YTA support groups. But the threat is real. I’m afraid Miss P will never be able to appreciate cinematic quality again since she has numbed herself with the low budget shorts of You Tube. Her fingers are getting knobby and socially we can’t take her anywhere without her quoting Cunningham Muffins. Hopefully this intervention will work. Because currently there’s no cure. Therefore, while you’re with Priss, please keep this treatment handy. I have invented what I call “Miss Priss’s Crazy Delicious You Tube Suppression Kit.” The remedy for temporarily curing her You Tube addiction, oddly enough: Mr. Pibb and Red Vines.