Brushing, flossing and other dental obsessions

By Tammy Malgesini

Staff Writer

Published on June 20, 2017 12:01AM

I don’t like the dentist .

Not any particular dentist — just going to the dentist in general.

Despite what my friends might say, I have a small mouth. That, coupled with having anxiety about not being able to breathe because of asthma, makes my mouth not very user-friendly when it comes to dental work.

Seriously, there’s not very much room in there for my teeth, much less hands, mirrors, suction tubes and various instruments that I probably don’t even care to know what they are called.

It seems quite unfair that I brush my teeth several times a day (I even have a toothbrush in my desk at work) and I have all kinds of funky implements to clean and dislodge debris from between my teeth and gums. Yet, I seem to have my share of dental issues.

And, don’t even get me started on dental floss.

Too late.

I floss with regularity — more in the past five years than ever before. It hasn’t gotten to the level of a social activity, which I get the impression from my dental hygienist wouldn’t be a bad thing.

The interesting thing is, I recently came across an article in Time — “How Dental Floss Became a Thing in the First Place,” Aug. 2, 2016 — that suggests flossing isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

The article talked about the history of dental floss (yeah, I know, a riveting subject). It ends with, “Today, however, the value of dental floss is not so certain.”

Another thing I’m intrigued with is the specialty areas in dentistry. Back in the day, your regular dentist was one-stop shopping. They did it all, from basic care to extractions and root canals.

Now that I think about it, maybe there is one dentist I don’t like. It seems my parents paid for a root canal when I was in high school that I never actually got. I remember getting hit in the mouth with a rock and it resulted in a slow and agonizing death of the tooth.

The fix — a root canal and cap. Evidently, the dentist decided to collect the extra cash for the root canal without actually performing the procedure. Or he did such a lousy job, the endodontic specialist I saw in the fall couldn’t tell it had ever been done.

I recently looked up the dentist’s name on the Oregon Board of Dentistry. It seems he had some issues over the years.

While I can’t be certain that dentist did me wrong decades ago, I do know I didn’t get the best set of choppers genetically. I won’t hold that against my mom and pops. Before I had braces, I could have left a pretty gnarly bite mark. They did sacrifice to give me a straight smile — something I appreciate to this day.

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Tammy Malgesini is the community editor. Her column, Inside my Shoes, includes general musings about life. Contact her at tmalgesini@eastoregonian.com or 541-564-4539.

On Memorial Day, a penny isn’t much

By Tammy Malgesini

Staff Writer

Published on May 30, 2017 5:58PM

I spent 45 minutes and left a penny on the headstones of 75 veterans Monday at the Hermiston Cemetery.

It’s not much — not even an hour and not even a dollar. But, for me, it’s a way to commemorate Memorial Day.

Sometimes people forget the meaning behind the holiday. It’s not merely a day off from work (although I did work swing hours) or a day to have a family barbecue.

It’s a small gesture — extremely small. It doesn’t even compare to the sacrifices made by the men and women who have served in our nation’s military.

I became aware of the tradition of leaving coins on headstones nearly a decade ago. Every year since then, sometime during the Memorial Day weekend, I have grabbed a bag of pennies and headed to the cemetery.

According to information I’ve read, the tradition is a way of paying respects. As the coins increase in value, so does the level of connection the person leaving it has with the deceased:

• A penny means a person visited the grave of the veteran that is buried there.

• A nickel means the person trained or was at boot camp with the deceased veteran.

• A dime represents military personnel who served together.

• A quarter indicates the person was present when the deceased was killed.

Reading the headstone, I learn the date of birth, date of death and the branch of the military the veteran served. Then, I say their name and thank them for their service while setting a penny down.

Sometimes, I have to brush away grass that has been cast onto the headstone during the mowing process. And, I’ve even poured water from my bottle to wash away bird droppings. Again, small gestures for people who have made sacrifices to serve our country.

Every once in awhile, someone asks what I’m doing. Such was the case Monday, when an Air Force veteran and his wife noticed the “U.S. Air Force Academy” T-shirt I was wearing.

They said they had come across a pair of headstones — a man and wife who both served in the Air Force. Dismayed that there were no flowers or flags, they returned with a pair of small bouquets. I thought that was pretty cool.

Of the section I visit each year, I personally know the relatives of less than a handful. And, to me, that makes it even more significant. Those veterans didn’t know me — yet they served our country so that I may reap the benefits of the freedoms we have.

Each year I post a photo on Facebook — not because I want attention — but in hopes that maybe someone else will be moved to do a little something to pause a moment and remember to thank our veterans.

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Tammy Malgesini is the community editor. Her column, Inside my Shoes, includes general musings about life. Contact her at tmalgesini@eastoregonian.com or 541-564-4539.

When flying the friendly skies, the airport grounds me

By Tammy Malgesini

Staff Writer

Published on May 10, 2017 6:33AM

Although not even close to the fiasco a recent United Airlines passenger experienced, I was thinking back about some of my travel woes over the years.

I’ve observed escalations of passengers on several flights, but my most memorable experiences have taken place in airports.

John and I used to own a timeshare in Mazatlan, so we often traveled to Mexico. After making several trips, it became apparent how addicted I am to Tillamook cheese. Seriously, I went through withdrawal. I would have settled for any cheddar cheese, but you couldn’t find it anywhere — not in stores, not at restaurants, nada.

One particular trip, I decided to remedy that by bringing a pair of Tillamook cheese baby loafs. I’m not sure why I thought I needed four pounds of cheese for 15 days, but that’s what I packed.

To ensure it would be in decent shape by the time we landed in the hot and humid climate, I froze them. I also decided to wrap each package in aluminum foil.

I didn’t think that through very well.

Yup, it pretty much looked like I was smuggling drugs. Oh, and to really add to the appearance of international drug smugglers, my husband brought a couple of pounds of ground coffee. For the uninformed, coffee is often used to mask odors to throw off drug detection dogs.

My realization of how this all appeared flooded my brain as we headed to customs at the Mazatlan airport. John dropped his bag of coffee while rifling through his backpack. Trying not to panic, as sweat poured off my brow, I thought maybe they wouldn’t make a thorough search of our bags.

This was the late-1980s and when you stepped to the front of the line, you pressed a button. If you got a green light, they waved you through. And, a red light meant more in-depth searches.

The odds were against us. Each previous visit, we had gotten the green light. We were due to be detained.

I had packed the foil-wrapped cheese in the center amongst clothes — lots of clothes. Luckily, they merely did a cursory search and we were on our way.

During another trip to Mexico, we were heading home and John’s carry-on baggage caught the attention of security. Soon, there were several agents standing around talking in hushed tones — not that I could have understood what they were saying as my Spanish is muy poquito.

Finally, one of them pulled out the questionable item — a Costo-sized package of double-AA batteries. The best we could figure is they thought it was a package of bullets when viewing it through the baggage scanner.

Another time we arrived in the United States and were going through customs in Los Angeles. Once again, the x-ray machine seemed to alert on something in John’s bag. The agent asked what was in a side zipper compartment.

Trying to save her the odoriferous encounter of the running clothes he wore that morning — which, by then, were ripe after stewing in a plastic bag for hours — John said, “You don’t want to open that.”

Well, of course she did after a statement like that. I have sinus issues and my sense of smell isn’t that great, but I’m gagging now just thinking about it.

All of these experiences have added additional considerations when I’m packing. However, I still periodically raise the eyebrows of security agents as they come across weird items in my bag. Although, none have blinked an eye about my TENS machine during several post 9-11 flights when security is supposedly heightened — that’s a whole other column in itself.

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Tammy Malgesini is the community editor. Her column, Inside my Shoes, includes general musings about life. Contact her at tmalgesini@eastoregonian.com or 541-564-4539.

Work history includes cards and crabs and diapers, oh my

By Tammy Malgesini

Staff Writer

Published on April 19, 2017 7:07AM

I’ve done some odd jobs over the years — some odder than others.

The first time I recall earning money, I wanted to buy a baseball mitt. I saw a small advertisement in a comic book and asked my parents if I could sign up to sell greeting cards.

We lived in rural Kern County, California, and I straddled my Stingray bike and headed out to hit up the area farmers. Honestly, I don’t know if they really wanted the cards, but it seems they couldn’t resist a little tow-headed kid on a bike. These same farmers also bought Kool-Aid and iced tea from the stand I set up at the end of our driveway.

Later, while living near Medford, my entrepreneurship continued. A neighbor up the street had a fruit stand, so I went out and picked wild blackberries and sold them to her by the flat.

The neighbor lady seemed to have the best end of the deal. She made a profit, while I toiled in the sun and got purple fingers. Instead of being the middle man, I later sold them myself.

My sales experience came in handy when some college roommates and I hooked up with a fishmonger in Newport. We convinced him to let us sell fresh crab on the street corner outside of Portland.

We picked up a load of live crab on the coast and the roughly two-hour drive home featured the sound of clacking claws. The little suckers seemed to know their demise was soon to come. But that was nothing compared to the first time I thought they were screaming when we threw them into boiling water.

I freaked out!

“They screamed, they screamed,” I exclaimed. “We’re hurting them.”

My friends, who seemed to know a little more about crustaceans that I did, said the high-pitched sound was merely steam escaping from their shells.

Having only eaten crab on one prior occasion, I wasn’t totally convinced we would be able to sell them. However, once we got set-up on the street corner, they sold like hotcakes.

Evidently, I was much more suited for sales than babysitting. I’ll never forget the time I watched a toddler and baby for the youth pastor and his wife.

This is back in the day when cloth diapers were the standard. Rather than merely disposing of a soiled diaper, you had to rinse it out so it could go in the washer.

Angie, an inquisitive 3-year-old, was right there watching my every move as I changed her baby brother’s diaper. She later gave a play-by-play to her parents.

“Tammy got sick,” Angie said. “She barfed, she barfed lots.”

Yup, I was 23 years old and married and wretched my guts out changing Chad’s diaper.

However, that experience came in handy when I worked in a group home for emotionally disturbed adolescents and later one for adults with developmental disabilities.

I became so skilled at dealing with a variety of body fluids, I could list it on my resume — now, that would be odd.

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Tammy Malgesini is the community editor. Her column, Inside my Shoes, includes general musings about life. Contact her at tmalgesini@eastoregonian.com or 541-564-4539.

It stuck out like ... the sore thumb that it was

By Tammy Malgesini

Staff Writer

Published on March 22, 2017 7:07AM

I recently spent a week firmly planted on my daybed with my right hand wrapped in an icepack resting on a pile of pillows.

I’ve had issues with my thumb joint and it really flared up 10 days ago. It was so swollen and painful — it basically stuck out like a sore thumb.

I couldn’t even hold a book, much less write or type. I watched TV, more DVDs than I can count and then even more TV. It got tiresome.

I was ready to stick a needle in my eye. But I couldn’t hold one with my right had and I certainly would have missed with my left hand.

At one point, my shoulder started aching — likely due to the awkward position I had to maintain in order to keep my hand elevated. I had an icepack on my hand and a heat pack on my shoulder. If I was a horse, I risked being put down.

The diagnosis: Gout.

I had a gout attack in my big toe about 20 years ago. I should have recognized the pain. For anyone who has experienced it, I’m preaching to the choir — it’s excruciating.

The doctor said gout is caused by high uric acid levels, which is related to intake of foods high in purines. Just like with the previous attack, I’m baffled because I don’t think I eat excessive amounts of foods that fall in that category.

After several days of torture, my sarcastic sense of humor was in prime form. Luckily, most of my musings were only heard by my dog and the four walls of my daybed room.

However, there are some things that I pondered while lying there that continue to take space in my head — like, who came up with the “Enjoy the go” ad campaign for Charmin. That’s just weird.

But seriously, it gets worse — they have an app. It’s the SitOrSquat app. I don’t even wanna go there, but evidently in a quest for clean public restrooms, people can access the app to know where to go, literally.

And, I don’t even know where to start with advertisements for Devour frozen meals by the Kraft Heinz Company. Although I grew up with “Leave It To Beaver” and “The Brady Bunch,” I’m no prude. The commercials are as spicy at their Chicken Enchiladas Suiza. “Food you want to fork.” Golly gee Wally, that’s kinda racy.

Before this next digression, I want to make it clear that I fully understand how difficult weight loss can be. I have my own struggles, which is maybe why my dark humor comes out. Oprah has been touting the benefits of Weight Watchers after recently losing more than 40 pounds.

I told my husband, “If Oprah had kept all the pounds off that she has lost over the years, she would be at her birth weight.”

Anyway, back to the gout — my doctor said it could have stricken that particular area because of recent overuse and arthritis in one of the bones in my thumb joint. The x-ray was so clear, I could have diagnosed it.

Evidently, when that bothers me enough it will need to be fused. If and when that day comes, I’ll need some recommendations on movies to watch — I don’t know if I can handle another overdose of regular TV and commercials.

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Tammy Malgesini is the community editor. Her column, Inside my Shoes, includes general musings about life. Contact her at tmalgesini@eastoregonian.com or 541-564-4539.

True confessions: The writing’s on the wall

By Tammy Malgesini

Staff Writer

Published on March 7, 2017 10:23AM

I think of myself as a fairly law-abiding citizen.

Other than speeding on occasion, I pretty much try to live according to things outlined in the 10 Commandments.

Maybe you’re a bit confused by my use of the words “fairly” and “pretty much.” I was relatively comfortable with my status as a decent human being until a recent office discussion was met with a moment of silence and blank stares.

I came late to the conversation so I’m not sure the level of true confessions my officemates were revealing. I shared about the time I broke into a house.

Before you call the police, double-check your alarm system or get a guard dog, let me explain. It was a friend’s house — yeah, yeah, I know, with friends like that ....

When Suzanne Tosten didn’t show up for work or answer her phone, I finally drove to her place. It was dark and quiet — you know, how you would expect to find a house if no one was home.

Clearly, I watch too much TV and my imagination ran wild. A painstaking process, I finally removed the window — only to end up dropping it.

Once inside, nothing looked out of the ordinary. There was no note (as if I write one when I leave the house).

It turns out that Suzy, her husband and dogs went on a Sunday drive in the mountains and got stuck in the snow. Out of cell phone range, they found a cabin, broke in and hunkered down for the night.

Appreciative to find a warm and dry place to stay, Suzy left a note and some cash at the cabin when they left.

And, I paid to replace Suzy’s window. I credit my parents with teaching me about honesty and doing the right thing.

Although, even with the best of parenting, kids start to make their own decisions and choices. Sometimes, it takes making a mistake and dealing with the consequences to learn lessons in life. Such was the case when I drew on the bathroom stall at school — evidently, they call it vandalism or graffiti.

I was in second grade and was using the restroom in the junior high part of the building. There was writing on stalls and walls. In my 7-year-old mind, I thought it was what the bigger kids did — so I wanted to do it, too.

Obviously I didn’t think I was doing anything wrong. I very neatly and clearly wrote my first and last name. It didn’t take authorities long to track me down. My punishment included scrubbing down the entire area.

However, in recent years, I seem to have reverted back to my second grade self. Whenever I go home to visit my parents, I write on doors, under shelves and in drawers.

The first time I did it, I wrote a message to my mom because she was feigning being upset that I hadn’t bought her a Mother’s Day card. Instead of cleaning it off, they left it there. My pops even painted around it when they re-painted the room.

Since then, it’s become a bit of tradition — I’ll write messages in obscure places and it’s like an Easter egg hunt. By the way mom, if you’re reading this — did you check under the toilet seat?

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Tammy Malgesini is the community editor. Her column, Inside my Shoes, includes general musings about life. Contact her at tmalgesini@eastoregonian.com or 541-564-4539.

Technical difficulties result in time-out

By Tammy Malgesini

Staff Writer

Published on February 22, 2017 7:06AM

I recently got electronically put in time-out.

After numerous failed attempts to log into a secure message from an email link, I was locked out and directed to call the National Help Desk.

I don’t even understand why such an email — which requests the information be printed in the newspaper — needs to be sent in such a secure fashion.

If I had known the hassle I would go through, I wouldn’t have dialed the phone. After I provided my name and company information, Mrs. Help Desk asked how she could assist me.

After describing what led to the call, it’s apparent she had no clue what I was talking about. I repeated my dilemma with extra details. Mrs. Help Desk then asked if she could access my computer remotely.

I said, “No.”

But it probably sounded more like, “Nooooooooo!!!” (Similar to John Belushi in the old “Saturday Night Live” sketches). Realizing I sounded a bit annoyed, I added that she didn’t have the ability to do that.

Mrs. Help Desk asked if she could put me on hold for up to three minutes. I‘m not sure why she stressed the three minutes — maybe she was hoping I would just hang up.

I should have. The thing is, I had gotten locked out an account that’s primarily used by our records editor. I didn’t want this to become Renee’s headache after she returned from vacation.

When Mrs. Help Desk returned from her more-than-three-minute break, she said since I wouldn’t let her remotely access my computer, she couldn’t help me.

I replied, “It’s not that I won’t let you — not that I would — but you can’t because you don’t have access to my system.”

Luckily, all Renee had to do was change the password when she returned — how secure is that?!?

Dealing with technical glitches gives me a headache. I think the writer of error messages could help in lowering people’s blood pressure by the way they word the messages that end up popping up on computer screens — like this “connection trouble” one that I received in December:

“Apologies, we’re having some trouble with your web socket connection. We’ve seen this problem clear up with a restart of your browser, a solution which we suggest to you now only with great regret and self-loathing.”

Error messages that make no sense are most irritating to me. After experiencing a glitch in an old news system, the message box asked, “Do you really wish to quit Newsedit?” I detested that message because I had no choice. I had to quit. And I prayed my work would still be there when I logged on again.

One of the most baffling messages I received on several occasions was, “Your computer woke from sleep or hibernation. Your connection to the server has been lost.”

Seriously, I could be typing away and that message would pop up on my screen. I think my computer had narcolepsy. Instead of technical support, I think it needed to see a doctor who specialized in sleep disorders.

Growing up in an analog world, I’m an old dog trying to learn new tricks when it comes to all things digital.

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Tammy Malgesini is the community editor. Her column, Inside my Shoes, includes general musings about life. Contact her at tmalgesini@eastoregonian.com or 541-564-4539.