The EGO Has Landed

Like most of my fellow Americans, I spent some time last nigh watching the "Hope for Haiti" telethon. I want to believe that most of the celebs who showed up to sing, man the phone lines, and convince us to give to the relief effort were genuine in their desire to help the Haitain people. I want to think that they were really there out of the goodness of their hearts, and that their top...nay, only priority was to help.

But I have that nagging feeling that while some of them were indeed there sincerely, others were there to "be seen".

As my husband pointed out, "Who cares?" They were there to raise money, and they raised money. Haitain people are in dire need, and really, who the hell cares how the aid gets to them?

I'm going to give George Clooney, Samuel L. Jackson, and Bill Clinton a free pass on this one. I fully believe that they were compelled to go because the plight of the Haitain people truly speaks to them. You can criticize George Clooney here, but let me just give you fair warning that this is NOT the appropriate venue to question the motives of Bill Clinton or Samuel L. Jackson. I won't have it.



I have to admit that I tried to call last night because once I realized SLJ was manning the phone lines, I knew that if I ever got through, I would definitely get SLJ on the horn. But then I was worried that I'd lose my cool if I ever had the chance to talk to him directly, so I rethought the call. Also, I was worried that I might get Mel Gibson on the line and that would not end well.

While I'm on the topic of Mel Gibson...

Can I just ask...WTF? Why was that asshole let within a ten mile radius of this telethon?




This jerk has a laundry list of victims resulting from his own personal earthquakes. I couldn't even get over seeing Hollywood's favorite Anti-Semite sitting next to Steven Spielberg at the phone bank. REALLY?

I mean, wasn't there enough celebrity power there? Did they really need the likes of Gibson there? Talk about having no standards. Again, the people of Haiti probably wouldn't turn down any money garnered through Gibson's fundraising attempts, but still....

Maybe he should have just given anonymously and then disappeared into the woodwork....where he BELONGS!

I get that they were doing the whole "humble" thing and not introducing the celebrities by name before performing. Madonna launches into "Like a Prayer" without so much as a, "Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Madonna!" Ok, I'm down with that. But it seemed like they were trying so hard to NOT make it an ego-fest, that it became quite a massive ego-fest.

Ok, and what was with Julia Roberts? I was sitting around in my sweats in my living room, and I was dressed better than she. I understand that she wanted to go with the understated look. You know, a natural disaster has struck. This isn't a runway show. But really, Julia? You didn't have something a little less frumpy in your wardrobe? Jesus, I was almost ready to crack my wallet open to donate to the Julia Roberts wardrobe charity.



Maybe I shouldn't be such a negative nelly, but I am always really skeptical of these egomaniacal Hollywood types.

1019 Reasons To Avoid Strawberry Jam

With a name like Smuckers it has to be.....

A dental disaster in the making.

It all started off when I bit into a seed that was lurking in my strawberry jam. (Jesus...why did I opt for toast and jam that day? What possessed me to opt for that over the oatmeal?)

Talk about sowing the seeds for a pain-in-the ass repair and recovery mission.

So far this nonsense has set me back 1019 bones.

179 for the first temporary filling procedure.

340 for my portion of the root canal. (That was just the estimate. They told me they'd reimburse me if I overpaid, and bill me additionally if I underpaid. I'll give you one guess which way I think that one is going to fall!)

And today, had to pay 500 dollars for my portion of the crown I received to cover up the root canal. (And of course the woman at the dentist's office thinks that it's likely I'll have to pay a couple hundred more when all is said and done.)

Oh, and in case you were wondering...YES I DO carry dental insurance. And the real kick in the teeth (God forbid...I'd need more dental work), my dentist says that comparatively speaking, I have good dental insurance.

Jesus, I'd hate to see what would happen if I had crap dental insurance.

All's I'm saying is that I've already shelled out over 1000 bucks, and I'm not deluding myself into thinking that this is the extent of it.

Ain't that a bitch?

In any event, I made my return to my original dentist. Totally awesome.

I've learned two things from all of this...

1. Avoid fucking strawberry jam as if your oral health depended on it....because it DOES.

2. If you love your dentist, do NOT set him free!

The Eagle Has Landed

As Boston College students make their way back to the 'hood, the relative quiet of life in Brighton comes to an abrupt halt.

I have to admit that I actually like living in a college neighborhood. That's probably a good thing, because the campus is a two minute walk from my house, and half my building is in habited by BC undergrads. So essentially, what I'm telling you is that my 36 year-old self and my 42 year-old husband are essentially residing in a college dormitory. We do not mistake ourselves to be among the youngsters, but rather have taken on the self-appointed role of "Building Den Parents". Newly arriving students quickly recognize us as the go-to people for advice, directions, and simple kitchen items. Their kitchens are all equipped with keg-o-rators and shot glasses, but they are frequently lacking such basic essentials as a baking sheet or a fork.

"Details," they think, as they pack their bags in preparation for the big arrival on campus.

It seems like the BC kids have had a pretty long winter break this school year. It's been calm and quiet around here for weeks now.

They must have started trickling back within the past 24 hours or so.

I ventured to Cleveland Circle today. One of the things I miss most when BC students are off campus is the awesome BC Shuttle. It stops right in front of my building, and will cart my ass down to Cleveland Circle and back for gratis. Technically I'm sure I'm supposed to have some affiliation with BC in order to ride the bus, and when I first moved into the neighborhood, I never even though to take the shuttle. Then, on night, I saw some 80 year-old couple piling onto the bus alongside a bunch of drunk ass college punks, and I figured, "Oh come on. Grandma and Gramps have NOTHING to do with BC, and yet they're rockin' that bus like it were their own personal chauffeured limo." I climbed aboard, got dropped off at my front door, and have not looked back since!

I finished conducting my business at CVS and then headed to the BC bus stop shelter. There, right on the bench, was a half-drunk cocktail from Roggies (I recognize the glassware). It had a lime and little umbrella and shit in it.

Awww.....BC parents. There's your money well spent!

I am going to suggest to Roggies that they send their barback out there to pick up any errant glassware. That's not joke. That'll end up costing them.

When I came home, the first thing I noticed was that the lower glass panels on the front locked door to the building had been shattered. Oh, that's right. The door buzzer is busted. Most people have been simply telling their friends, through the door intercom, that the buzzer is broken and the door isn't releasing, and then the person in receipt of the visitor comes to actually unlock the door. Now that the BC kids are back, waiting around for a friend to come open the door has clearly been decreed a waste of time, and so the glass pane was shattered clear out so that eager guests can climb right through and report directly to the party!

The second thing I noticed was that there is already an array of beer bottles littering the stairway. Kids, these were NOT here this morning.

I wonder when I'll see my first passed out coed on the stairs. Probably this weekend.

I can't imagine I'm going to have to hold my breath too long to see that familiar sight.

All I know is that there is currently a parade of bulky guys wearing shorts, those gym shower shoes, and ill-fitting BC shirts, lugging cases of beer into the apartment next door to ours. I can only kind of hope that they wait until Friday night to celebrate their return to campus. But hey, if they decide to kick off their revelry tonight, I can hardly blame them.

I used to so look forward to my return to campus after lengthy breaks. No parents. No rules. No official drinking age.

It's kind of fun.

City Upon a Hill. Come Worship.

My friend called last night, suggesting that we do some shopping and maybe grab a bite to eat.

Shopping? Eating? I'm game.

The only thing I wasn't looking forward to was what I suspected would be her proposed venue for our rendez-vous. Since the Chestnut Hill Mall is located about halfway between us, I kind of knew she was going to throw it out there. Keep in mind, she's a very flexible person. If I told her that I abhor this place and more specifically, the people who frequent it, I'm sure she would easily have agreed to meet me elsewhere. But I couldn't think of anywhere else, and I wasn't feeling like taking the T all over creation, so I agreed to meet here there.

I know I have ranted about "Cambridge People" and "Brookline People" in the past. Let me just say, though, that after you've been exposed to "Chestnut Hill People", those other species look like harmless houseflies.

In Cambridge, where I'm clearly an outsider because I don't have a toddler suckling at my breast in public at all times, at least people will deign to speak to me. They might even hold a door open for me or say "thanks" if I do the same for them. Cambridge people like to be seen as non-judgmental and tolerant of lower life forms such as myself. Even though they are really practicing their humanitarian awards acceptance speeches in their heads when they let me get in line ahead of them at Whole Foods because I only have two apples (which sets me back roughly one month's salary), and they have four shopping carts of tofu, I don't mind. They aren't really looking to help me out, but rather they want their neighbors in the "Fromagerie" to see their act of kindness and bring it up at the next book club meeting. (Think Angelina Jolie traveling to the lowest pits of humanity with a full camera crew and makeup and wardrobe team in tow. Even though she's boosting her own image, and she'll eventually return to her 17 million dollar chateau in France, she's still done something kind for people who have far less than she).


Brookline people don't really care whether they appear to have any humanitarian tendencies. They slam doors in the faces of lowlifes like me. They stare blankly when I greet them. They seem not to be able to register the sound frequencies of the voice pitch of my species. They throw frequent temper tantrums about the 1/4 inch of foam in their latte, as opposed to the 1/5 inch they requested of the barista at Starbucks. Apparently in order to be a barista in a Brookline Starbucks location, one need's PhD in thermo-nuclear physics from MIT. The one thing that manages to salvage Brookline, in my book, is that there are still a few areas of town where people are keepin' it real. There are a couple of grimy spots. Plus the place is constantly infiltrated by Brighton and Alston dwellers, so they get that reality check. So although Brookline people are pretty frightening, and they have no inclination to demonstrate good will to their fellow man, I can still somewhat handle being there. Granted, I usually plan my route through Brookline very carefully so as to minimize my time there. I get in and out of the places I need to go and then retreat to Brighton as soon as I can.

Chestnut Hill is a whole other ball of wax, kids. If you do not personally have the purchasing power of a small, wealthy, Western European nation, you have no business here and your existence will simply not be acknowledged. Well, let me clarify that one. Nobody acknowledges each other's existence in Chestnut Hill. For to do so would be to admit that you are not alone in the world, and that there might be times when, gasp, other people might actually be entitled to do or get something before you. I don't think the people of Chestnut Hill have grasped that concept because it would be too earth-shattering of a reality check. If you venture to Chestnut Hill, you will be bumped aside, crashed into, cut in lines, stepped on, and bowled over. I guarantee that all of the above will happen.

The Chestnut Hill Mall is located on Route 9. I'm still terrified to drive on Route 9. Usually, on Sunday mornings, when I got to the gym in CH, I just walk there. Last night, I decided to walk to the mall.

What I kind of failed to take into account is that it is one thing to walk somewhere in the full daylight hours of a Sunday morning when nobody is around (And I really no mean nobody is around. It's not the CH version of "nobody around" when there really are a lot of other people, but you just don't see past your own nose to realize they're there), and another thing entirely to walk down a highway in the pitch black on a Saturday evening. Granted it was only 5:30 PM, but it might as well have been the dead still of the night.

There are sidewalks, but the side streets leading up to Route 9 were so poorly lit that I admittedly bumped into a few of the 15 feet stone walls that buttress the properties to keep slobs like me away. Then of course motion sensors activate lights and dogs start barking. God forbid a 36 year old middle school teacher walk down the street and accidentally make contact with your stone wall. They'll be sending the contamination crews out there today to delouse the areas of the fence where I had the temerity to make bodily contact.

When I got to Route 9, where there are also, thankfully, sidewalks, I was still kind of terrified. Yes, there are sidewalks, and yes, in other parts of the world that would signal to drivers that they should cede that space to pedestrians. But this is Chestnut Hill and damn it, if somebody wants to drive their BMW 7 series over a sidewalk, well, they just will.



I kept thinking that if I am going to meet my death on a sidewalk, it might as well be on the underside of a luxury automobile. Then again, in Chestnut Hill, a BMW 7 series is somebody's idea of a beater. They were probably driving so damn fast because they wanted to get home to their mansions and house these embarrassing vehicles in their bigger-than-my-condo garages before anybody in a Mybach could see them.

Whatever.

Then I realized that while a lot of the world is really geared more toward drivers than pedestrians, Chestnut Hill would prefer to think that pedestrians don't even exist. Why would anybody need to walk anywhere when they can take their Lexus?

Or maybe they just don't have street lights because it would only make the residents of Chestnut Hill uncomfortable to have to look upon any lowly creature who doesn't have the means to go get a new Rolls Royce for every day of the week, and is rather doomed to walking. Dude, even the #60 bus went by with the lights out! The headlights were on, but the inside of the bus was totally blackened. I could only see the outlines of the house servants, maids, and pool cleaners riding the bus. These folks can't even show their faces. Silhouettes only, please, domestic helpers. Thanks! I don't know who is more pathetic in the eyes of CH people, bus riders or walkers? Oh well, I've been both, so I'm an all around sad sack.

Whatever.

I get to the mall. Bloomingdales? No thanks. I did go into a couple of stores, but I didn't really find anything I liked until I got to Sephora. I found a little something for 9 bucks. I figured I'd pick it up. I was surprised at how long the line was. I hunkered down to wait. There was one general line feeding into the two open registers.



I realized that what was holding up the line was that as the cashiers were ringing up sales, the customers purchasing the items were going into neurotic rants about the items they had chosen AND customers who were shopping on the sales floor kept approaching the registers, asking questions of the cashiers. The cashiers in most stores in most parts of the world would likely explain to such intrusive customers, "Sorry, I'm with a customer here at the register. There are sales people on the floor whould would be happy to help."

But in Chestnut Hill, that doesn't work. As I've already said, each person in Chestnut Hill is the only person in the world. So, the woman who comes to the cashier (*) to ask a question cannot see that the cashier is with another customer, because that other customer simply doesn't exist in her world.

(*) The cashier and other service personnel do exist in Chestnut Hill. Why? Because they are there to wait on people. Amazingly, they have the ability to be seen by all CH residents, although I bet they'd be quite happy to be in possession of a CH invisibility cloak. (I bet JK Rowling got the invisibility cloak idea when she visited Chestnut Hill and realized that nobody could see her!)

Anyway, the cashiers have obviously learned that it is of no use to try to thwart these customers' interruptions, so now they are not only ringing up customers in the line, but they are fielding detailed, CH-neurotic questions about the entire store inventory.

Just as the cashier was finished ringing up the sale in front of me, and turned to me in greeting, some typical Chestnut Hill overly-wealthy, deeply dissatisfied matron lept in front of me, barrel-assed to the open register, and called over her shoulder, "I'm in a real rush here." The saleswoman looked at me, clearly distressed, and I encouraged her to wait on this asshole. What can you do? Anywhere else in the world, I may have stood my ground. But this isn't anywhere else in the world. This is Chestnut Hill. And like the wildlife conservationists always say, when you enter a creature's natural habitat, you need to respect their way of life. Such is the case with Chestnut Hill, I know. I went there willingly. It's like your passport. Read the State Department notification inside. Even though you have an American passport, when you travel to other countries, you are willingly subjecting yourself to the laws of that land.

I will say, though, that maybe there's hope for CH people. As I think of the woman cutting me yesterday, I'm encouraged that she thought to actually yell back at me, "I'm in a rush here." Granted, she did not ask if she could cut me. She did no apologize. She did not thank me when I allowed her to cut. But she must have at least seen me there. That's progress. Maybe she was born elsewhere and has moved to CH, and thus has some primal memories of a time when there were other people in her world.

Who knows?

All I know is that I was happy as a clam to get the hell out of there last night.

I do not belong in Chestnut Hill.

I do not expect people to grovel at my feet...



I dot not have money to burn....




And more importantly, I don't want to belong there.

See ya in Brighton!

Breaking Up is Hard to Do...Unless the Person You're Breaking Up With Has No Idea That You've Broken Up With Them. Then It's Not So Bad.

I've recently had two pretty dramatic breakups and reconciliations. The strange thing is that I'm the only party, in each situation, who has been left emotionally drained. In both circumstances, the receiving end of the breakup/reconciliation had no idea that anything had ever happened.

Of course I have to harken back to my life's recent dental drama to recount the first one-sided breakup and reconciliation.

About two years ago, my husband told me that I should see his dentist. He said that his dentist was happy to take me on as a patient. I was sure to make my husband check with this dentist to make sure that he could handle my manic behavior in the dental chair. My husband asked, and the dentist assured him it would be no problem. We could start "seeing" eacho other, thanks to my husband acting as the go-between to negotiate the terms of the relationship. (Doesn't this sound like 7th grade romance? Remember sending your friend across the school yard to confirm that your object of affection felt the same way about you?)

My very first visit to this dentist resulted in my getting a filling. Drills were involved, as you can imagine. I did my usual dental dance. I shook, trembled, yelped, cried...you get the picture. The dentist was totally unfazed by it. He was encouraging and calming. He called me dear and reassured me that I was doing a great job. He even called me later that evening to make sure that everything was going OK, and to tell me that I had been "very brave."

Now I'm no idiot. I know the guy probably rued the day he decided to pursue a career in dentistry after he was confronted with my antics in his office. And we all know that he must have turned to his staff in disgust/dismay as soon as I left. They probably all demanded raises and he was probably obligated to give them to them just to keep them employed at his office.

At the very least we can hope they had a good laugh at my expense behind my back, but in all probability, they had to go into group therapy for PTSD after dealing with me.

But the long and short of it all is that the guy was awesome. I knew it was love at first filling. THIS was MY dentist!

I even have referred a few fellow dental-phobes to this guy, and they all love him, too.

Fast forward to a few weeks ago when I busted a tooth while biting into a seed in strawberry jelly. Yeah, I'm not even joking.

I went to the dentist, and he hooked me up with some massive filling thingee. He had been talking about some horrifying sounding periodontal procedure, but seemed, after his examination and filling, to think that that would not be necessary.

Things were great for a a while, but eventually the filling started to kind of hurt. When I called to check in with the dentist, I thought he sounded a little jerky on the phone with me. I was shocked by his behavior. I got all in my head over it and decided that I could not allow a person who was annoyed with me to come at me with a dental drill. I've pretty much got the anxiety level maxed out. No need to compound it.

So, I decided I had to break up this till-then harmonious relationship. I decided to go elsewhere to have the filling checked out. And of course, we all know where that landed me. Root canal city, baby.

The asshole who performed the root canal made me feel so horrible about myself. He yelled at me throughout the procedure, and then said, "Thank god I don't have too many patients like you. It would be very draining on me."

Not to worry...I did confront him and remind him that I had spoken directly with him on the phone and warned him of my anxiety. At one point in our conversation, he said, "Oh, don't worry. You can't be that bad." I was quick to assure him that, "Yes. Yes I am that bad. And in fact, I'm 100 times worse. And that's just when I walk through your door."

Of course my retort was not as strong as I would have hoped for. My face was numb with novocaine, so I am pretty sure I was drooling all over the place while I mumbled my rant. I don't even know if the guy knew what the hell I was talking about.

But I left there feeling like a jerk. I was thinking, "My dentist would NEVER do this to me. Not to my face."

I was all upset that night, lamenting to my husband the fact that I had broken up with my dentist. I rethought our conversation on the phone. Was he really being jerky to me, or was he just asking me questions to try to figure out what was going on? Was I so anxious about it that I read into his tone? Did I completely let my phobia cloud my judgment of the conversation? I mean, really. The guy had NEVER been a jerk to me before.

It was my husband who pointed out that it since the dentist was never aware of the fact that I had broken up with him, I could reconcile with him...again, without his even being aware of it. Then I started fretting over how I would justify my straying to another dentist for this root canal. I knew my dentist would take it hard. We've been building up our relationship for so long. If anybody was going to earn my trust to rip an entire tooth apart in my head, it should rightfully have been him. I mean, he did all this work with me and then for the "big show" I called in a wannabe, second rate understudy.

Stephen pointed out that since I had the procedure on a Saturday, we could depict it as an emergency, where I woke up and was in terrible pain and we went to that office because they had Saturday hours and he does not.

Great plan. Reconciliation in the bag.

I still have to get a crown to finish this nightmare. I called my original dentist's office and explained the "emergency root canal" procedure to the secretary. Stephen had an appointment there for a cleaning Thursday. As the hygienist was bracing him to get the cleaning underway, the dentist came in and asked what had happened to me. Luckily Stephen and I had our stories straight, because he explained the whole "emergency" thing. The dentist was very sympathetic and explained that he always responds to emergency calls and that I should never go through anything like that again.

So, he has no idea that we suffered a brief breakup and staged a reconciliation. As far as he's concerned, we've had a peaceful (well, ok, maybe not peaceful...I'm hardly at my best in his office) and uninterrupted relationship for the past 2 years.

Why am I always the one suffering in dental situations, and the dentists always
escape unscathed?

My second one-sided breakup took place today.

I got a letter in the mail from my gym. I expect it every January. It's the rate increase letter.

I usually just suck it up. This year, however, the increase just bothered me.

I had already gone to the gym, and I rocked my two awesome Saturday morning classes. Then I got home and found this letter.

I decided, "That's it. I'm breaking up with Healthworks!"

In my head, they were already dumped and kicked to the curb. Out of my life. Good riddance! Who needs a clean, well-maintained, superbly-equipped gym with loads of classes on tap at all hours of the day? Not me! I'm going to Bally's!

And I did. I walked down to Bally's. I was all but resolved to just join up.

People, the first thing that assaulted me on the walk in was the stench. It was like walking directly into a filthy gym sock. Then I looked over and saw a guy working out in Skidz. SKIDZ!!!! I looked at the calendar on the desk to check the date. Yep...just like I thought, 2010. Apparently this gym is in some kind of time warp. Then I saw another guy who was sweating so much hair gel out of his buzz cut that every time he touched the handles of his treadmill, you could just see the grease coating growing thicker. The guy behind the desk was missing a front tooth. I know I'm hardly one to talk at this point, but really? That's the receptionist? That's "the face" of Bally's fitness? I know there are all kinds of myths about women walking around in full faces of makeup. Actually, most of the women there seemed kind of normal. And the guys didn't seem lecherous or anything, but they were cheesy and gross at worst, and stuck in a different decade at best.

I didn't get very far into the discussion with the guy behind the desk. Just far enough to find out that they don't have any fitness group exercise classes, that the only words "Rough and Toothless" seemed capable of muttering at me were "you can purchase personal training packages for an additional rate" and to be offered a free can of "Rock Star Energy Drink" if I joined today.

Ah....I'm gonna give all of that a miss.

So, I gracefully exited the club and resolved to continue paying my monthly membership dues at Healthworks. If I divide the membership into weekly payments in my head, I think of all the silly ways I could spend that amount of money weekly and have nothing to show for it. At least I actually use the gym all the time, and the money spend is an investment in my health.

So, I decided to smooth things over with Healthworks and reconcile.

Damn, all this breaking up and making up has taken its toll on me emotionally. I'm glad to have this three day weekend to recover.

Go "Figure"

I had to go to Marathon Sports today to get a new pair of sneakers. I had to replace the ones that I lost and/or were stolen from the gym. I was sure I had left them at the gym, and when I went in to check with the lost and found folks, I was surprised to find that they were not there. The gym employee told me, "Oh yeah, you'd be surprised at how many people find and then keep sneakers. We get iPods, phones, wallets, and other valuables turned in all the time. But sneakers? They mysteriously go missing all the time."

Really? Used gym sneakers? Smelly used gym sneakers?

Go figure.

Anyway, I had to just buy my old standby, the Brooks Adrenaline GTS. I think the first time I bought these, they were in the 4th generation of them. Now they're all flashy and disco-ball encrusted. They're in the 9th generation now. They cost 104 dollars! I was thinking of sticking with the horrible, too-big Saucony shoes that I had as backup, but I was feeling the onset of the dreadful Plantar Faciitis pain that had me grounded a couple of years ago. No thanks on that one. But for reals, 104 dollars? I would NEVER spend 104 dollars on shoes that I would actually wear out and about. And yet, I willingly spend it on shoes that I only wear at the gym.

Go figure.


On a much more serious note, one that makes me almost embarrassed to prattle on about the pointless drivel that pretty much constitutes my daily life...

I have been shocked by the scope of the devastation of the earthquake in Haiti. My god. Have you been following this? It is pretty amazing that these natural disasters always seem to befall the most impoverished, and therefore already-quite-fucked places in the world. I mean, Jesus. Haiti is the poorest nation in the western hemisphere. Did they really need this on top of all that?

I hadn't even thought this through clearly this morning when I mused to myself, "God, if that happened here, we would be self-sufficient enough to bail our own residents out."

Then I thought of Katrina. What the hell happened there.

But seriously, back to the earthquake in Haiti. They already have absolutely nothing and now this?

Go figure.

OOOOHHHHMMMMMMMM......

Today it sucked when the alarm clock went off early. I was about to get all annoyed about getting up early, but then I thought...."I survived a root canal yesterday. Early morning alarm clock? Ha! That's nothing." Suddenly, I was exceedingly serene and happy to greet the early morning. Serenity now.

I got to school and the students told me that the substitute teacher berated me for about twenty minutes because I had mis-numbered the quiz I left behind for them to do. I was feeling all hot under the collar at first. How dare that asshole berate me publicly in front of my students? Then I thought, "Screw that shit. I survived a root canal yesterday. Public flogging by a jackass who gets paid 60 bucks a day to deal with this nonsense? Ha!" I just serenely told my students that any person who would publicly criticize a woman he didn't know in front of her students was a far lower life form than the teacher whose Microsoft word auto-formatting sabotaged her quiz numbering. Serenity now.

I called Target today to see if they had a specific item. "Sure," they said, "We have plenty of those in stock." When I went over there to pick up said item, I found out that in fact, not only do they not have this item, but that they have not carried it for some time. I was about to go all Ralph Nayder consumer advocate on their ass, but then I thought, "Really, Nants? You're gonna get upset over this crap when you survived a root canal yesterday? Let this one go!" Incompetent Target employee?? Ha! I smiled and apologized to the woman at the customer service desk, stating that clearly the mistake must have been mine. Surely I misunderstood the woman whom I had spoken with earlier. They called the Target in Watertown and confirmed that the item was there and would be set aside for me. Serenity now.

I was stuck behind some jackass who must have learned to drive at the Stevie Wonder Auto School. I was about to honk his ass into oblivion, but then I thought, "No way. I survived a freakin' root canal yesterday. Slow driver who refuses to use directionals? Ha!" Serenity now.

Somebody at Shaws nearly hobbled me for life with her shopping cart. I was about to turn around and tell her where to shove that godforsaken carriage. But then I thought, "Christ! I survived a root canal yesterday. Coming away from a trip to the seafood counter with a permanent limp? Ha!" Serenity now.

Basically, that's my new outlook on life. When something looks difficult, challenging, or overall shitty, I'm just going to think of how I survived being restrained by three people while a dentist shoved an injection directly through a dental nerve and I'm going to think, "HA!"

Serenity now.

Would You Rather...??

I took the day off so that I can go for my root canal this afternoon. The appointment isn't until 2:30, and I'm sure that my fabulous principal would have let me leave school early to get to the dentist on time, but here's the thing..

I'm on some two-part sedative pill therapy. I took the first one last night before going to bed and I'll take the second one today one hour before the procedure. The doctor promises that it will calm me down and leave me with a heightened feeling of relaxation. I'm kind of expecting to walk in there all calm, with images of kitties prancing through pastures and shit dancing through my head, but then going into full panic mode once I catch the first glimpse of a dental instrument of torture.

I had no choice but to take the whole day off. I'm already a basket case. It would not have been a good day around the kids. I would have felt really badly with them having to put up with me in this state of anxiety.

So I'm hanging out at home and I'm watching the Law and Order SVU marathon. (Jesus, is there ever NOT an Law and Order SVU Marathon on?)

I'm watching the victims and perps in these episodes fret over their problems, and I'm thinking, "Yeah...that's nothing. I gotta get a freakin' ROOT CANAL! How do you think I feel."

I'm seriously thinking that all of the "hardships" I've seen on this show so far would be welcome alternatives to what I'm facing in the dental chair later today.

I'm inspired by that game, 'Would You Rather?"

Here are a few Law and Order/Dental Surgery "Would You Rather" scenarios:

1. Would you rather:
A. Be pushed down a flight of New York City cement subway stairs?
B. Endure a Root Canal?

Personally, I'm gonna have to go with the subway stairs.

2. Would you rather:
A. Be murdered and then have your organs harvested and sold by black market low-lifes?
B. Endure a Root Canal?

I'm gonna have to say that I'm all for organ donation. I'll go for A.

3. Would you rather:
A. Have a stalker track your every move and terrorize you at every turn?
B. Endure a root canal.

I'm thinking that as long as my stalker isn't a dentist, I'll easily opt for A.

4. Would you rather:
A. Be kidnapped by a disgusting pervert and taken in a van all over New York City?
B. Endure a root canal.

You know, New York is a great city, and travel by subway has the disadvantage that you can't really enjoy the sights. At least in the van I might catch a glance of the Statue of Liberty and the Empire State Building. I'm going to have to opt for A again.

5. Would you rather:
A. Have your apartment completely torn apart by angry police officers with a search warrant?
B. Endure a root canal.

I'm going to have to go for A. I need some redecoration inspiration. Maybe the upturning of my sofa and the hurling of my bookshelves to the other side of the room would be like an interior decorating muse.

6. Would you rather:
A. Face hours on end of police interrogation?
B. Endure a root canal.

All the TV shows I watch show the cops giving their interrogation subjects sandwiches and coffee. How bad could that be? I'm going to have to go with A.

7. Would you rather:
A. Find our that your high school aged kid is running a drug smuggling ring out of the school bathroom?
B. Endure a root canal.

At least the high school kid will be taken to jail and out of your hair. Just think, an extra bedroom to turn into a home office. I'm going to have to opt for B again.

8. Would you rather:
A. Be the victim of identity theft?
B. Endure a root canal.

Hey, if somebody so badly wants to be me, they can even go and have my stupid root canal. I'm all about A.

Do you see a trend in my answers?

Not So Gentle Dental

Maybe I should have been more skeptical of this outpost of a chain dental practice that's wedged between an Irish bar of ill repute and a check cashing store in Brighton Center. Maybe the homeless guy living in the lobby of the building that houses said dental practice should have been a flashing warning beacon. Maybe the receptionist who made Tammy Faye Baker look all dewey and fresh-faced should have served as a deterrent.

But I was in pain and the dentist who I've revered and respected for the past couple of years was actually MEAN to me when I called up to tell him I was experiencing some discomfort following the repair he did on my fractured tooth. I normally get a lot of patience, sympathy, and prompt treatment from this guy. I expected him to clear his calendar and race into the office to put me out of my misery when I called. Instead, he told me to keep taking 800 mg. of Advil every 8 hours until my scheduled dental cleaning on January 21st. Keep in mind, I had already been taking that dosage of Advil since December 20th, and I placed the call in question on January 4th.

I'm no great fan of my stomach, and sometimes I feel pretty anxious to blast it away, but burning a hole through it with Advil didn't really appeal to me.

So, I made the call to Gentle Dental. I knew they had lots of office locations, and, most importantly, Saturday hours.

I got an appointment for the Brighton Center location on Saturday. Two seconds after evaluating my X-Ray, the dentist proclaimed me in need of a root canal. So we got that underway. I can't really bring myself to describe it again. Read the previous post if you really need to know about my dental trauma.

At the conclusion of the appointment, the doctor handed me an Rx for vicodin. Clearly, then, he was anticipating pain. I thought I was being a good patient in asking, "What kind of pain is normal? What should I expect and when should I be alarmed?"

He assured me that he had left me poised to experience low, dull, throbbing pain, but that there would not be any nerve pain or sensation.

GREAT. Now we're in business.

This morning when I woke up, I almost fainted at the sharp, shooting, through-the-nerve pain in my tooth. I literally almost fell over when it hit me. I've never felt anything like it before and I never EVER want to experience it again.

Had there been a cliff nearby, I would have happily walked right off it. I do live on the 6th floor of my building, so I could have jumped out the window, but these storm windows are a bitch to open. Plus, knowing me, the only damage I'd do in the fall is break more teeth, which would make this whole scenario worse.

Anyway, I figured, "OK, this pain is exactly what he said NOT to expect. I'm going to call the emergency number." So, I look up the office online. There is a phone number there, and it explains that if a patient calls after normal business hours (Sunday), she should expect to get the emergency beeper number on the outgoing voicemail.

Thank Goodness.

So, I call and guess what......????

Not only is there no human voice announcing the number as belonging to Gentle Dental of Brighton, but there is absolutely NO information regarding any emergency contact number. There was just some automated voice saying, "Hello. Please leave a message."

FOR REALZZZ??????????

Yeah....for realz.

In an utter state of panic, I called the Brookline Gentle Dental location, and I get the absolute nicest, kindest human being on the phone. He is a dentist and he explained that what I'm going through is normal and that the other dentist probably should not have promised me absolutely no nerve pain. He said some patients have no nerve pain, but others do. I guess I'm one of the lucky ones.

Funny how your nerves calm down when you are in pain, but you at least know that it is "normal."

I left a scathing message for the corporate Gentle Dental folks. I don't give a shit. I am not going back there to have my root canal finished.

But come on, people, whose job was it to check the freakin' outgoing voice message and switch it on when the office closed yesterday??? That seems like something that should be in the normal realm of responsibilities for the office receptionist. She was probably too busy putting on another layer of foundation to get the job done.


The guy on call from that office is probably all psyched to have a nice, quiet weekend. Meanwhile, the Brookline office is all swamped with emergency calls and shit. Or maybe they just did a caller ID thing on their phone and programmed it to thwart my attempts to contact them. Everybody else got the proper outgoing message, but I was call blocked. After all, it's easier than having me in there shaking, trembling, crying, and whatever the hell else I did to compromise the very core of my integrity, self-respect, and dignity.

Anyway, I took about 800 Advil this morning to quell that pain. I had to turn on the radio to have some sort of distraction. I put on NPR. I figured they might be running a story about some third world country whose residents lots are worse than my own. Again, seeking solace in the misery of others is a great therapy for one's own suffering. Instead, there was a story on about the economy. They were talking about how Obama should try to get to the "root" of the problem by "extracting" the expendable income and taking a "bite" out of.....

whatever. I turned it off at that point.

Really, NPR...tooth metaphors. Is that the best you can do? Don't you have any sympathy for my suffering?

Apparently not.

OK, I'm out.

The Soundtrack to My Root Canal

This morning I experienced the utter horror of a root canal procedure. Actually, to be more precise, I endured the beginning of a root canal procedure. I have to return next week sometime for the remainder of the treatment. The doctor told me to expect to be in the chair for at least another two hours. But kids, the fun doesn't stop there. You see, upon completion of the root canal, I will have to get a crown to quite literally "top it all off".

I am armed with vicodin and prescription strength ibuprofin, both of which I fully expect to use. The novocaine has not even come close to wearing off. My entire face is numb, but I can STILL feel the post procedural pain deep down in my gums. I am not looking forward to the full force of the pain when the novocaine eventually does wear off. Suffice it to say I'll be spending a majority of the weekend in a dope-induced haze.

Will it be a bad idea to down the entire 12 pack of Michelobe Ultra that we have in our fridge along with the vicodin? I'm not actively planning that self-prescribed pain therapy "cocktail", but if need be, I'll self-medicate.

I was sitting there after the assistant gave me the X-Ray. She walked into the room with the X-Ray and said, "Yeah, you're gonna definitely need a root canal." The dentist walked in, looked over her shoulder at the X-Ray, and quickly concurred.

FUCK!

People, I am not proud of this, but I actually started crying. I really, really did. The guy hadn't even touched me yet and already I had lost all semblance of composure. Let's just say that it all went down hill from there.

The guy started explaining the procedure to me, giving me the blow by blow of what he was going to do. I actually stopped him and said, "Doctor, look at me. Do I look like I want or need to know what is going to happen in my mouth?" He considered that for a moment and decided to stop talking. Good call, doctor. Good call.

He did say that the alternative to performing the root canal would be to just extract the tooth. Christ, though. I don't want to look like a Jersey Shore cast member.

During the procedure, there were times when I FELT what was going on. Horror of all horrors. I would not wish this on anybody else. I really, really would not. I wouldn't even inflict it on the person who invented skinny jeans.

Anyway, back to the title of my post.

Of course I expected the usual cacophony of drills, scraping, suctioning, picking, grinding and whatever the hell else one's ears are assaulted with during a dental visit.

What I was not expecting was that the rather loud music issuing forth from the surround sound speakers would be coming from the XM Satellite Disco radio station.

Cool.

I did feel kinda bad for the really elderly Russian Jewish Orthodox woman who was clearly flustered and uncomfortable during Donna Summer's "Love to Love You, Baby". Not quite the Bubushka's musical preference, I guess.

The sad thing is that some of the awesome songs that would ultimately become the soundtrack to my root canal have been ruined for me forever. And they were all songs that, prior to 9:00 this morning, I LOVED!

Here's the list:

1. The Hustle: The dentist wheels the tray of torture devices (dental instruments) into the room just as the song is starting up. The once seemingly innocent whispers of "Do it!" at the beginning of the song suddenly take on extremely sinister overtones. Listen, guy, just hustle on up and get this thing over and done with.

2. I Wanna Be Your Lover: The dentist starts inserting some "dental dam" into my mouth. I probably don't need to say much more than that.

3. Off the Wall: I'm going off the wall as the dentist tells me that he things the 19 shots of novocaine that he has given me so far are going to provide sufficient anesthesia for the procedure ahead.

4. Happy Birthday To You (Steevie Wonder): I'm ruing the day I was ever born and the 36 years of moments that lead up to the busted tooth that landed me in this damn chair.

5. YMCA: I'm thinking, "Why don't I just have the damn guy pull out my tooth? Then I can just be a toothless wonder living at the Y. Anything would be better than having to endure this crap.

6. Don't Stop Till You Get Enough: Great idea. I've had more than enough. Let's put down the drills and STOP!

7. Give it to Me Baby: This ditty came on as the dentist was removing some long tube thing and INSERTING it somewhere in my tooth area, presumably into the root. Why oh why did I even look? Why? I'll have that image seared into my head forever. He gave it to me, Baby, alright.

8. There But For the Grace of God Go I: I realize that people walking outside might have a view through the long blinds. I might be on display having a root canal for the world to see. I'm sure the people on the street were thinking, "Oh, Jesus, look at that poor bastard getting a root canal. There but for the grace of God go I." That's what I'd be thinking if I saw some other sucker having a root canal.


9. Fly Robin Fly: I was pretty sure I was going to fly right out of the chair when the doctor hit an area that somehow was impervious to the effects of the novocaine.

10. Lady's Night: As the doctor was handing me the vicodin prescription, I was thinking, "It's gonna be party time tonight!"

But seriously folks, I'm blogging now because I fully expect the pain level to get ugly as the day goes on. I can't imagine I'll be in any shape to sit at the computer later on.

The double edge sword is that I didn't eat before my appointment, and I can't eat now because I'm totally numb. And I can't take the painkiller on an empty stomach. Damn, I wish I had thought that out better.

Gotta go watch "The Rise and Fall of Tiger Woods." I have to feel better about myself and the only way to do that it to bask in the glory of somebody else's failures. Sorry Tiger.

What was I thinking when....?

1. I told my husband, "Go right ahead. Put on that Netflix movie featuring early footage of Metallica!" To be honest with you, it sounds either like Metallica were performing in a tin can, or that my 4 year-old niece recorded them using her Fisher Price "my-first-boom-box" radio. Possibly both.

2. I expected the 7-day T pass that I purchased to actually work?

3. I called the T, expecting a quick and convenient solution to remedy said 7-day pas SNAFU? Of course I have to haul ass all the way over to Park Street to get the pass re-encoded. (?? HUH??)

4. I expected there to actually be a T employee manning the cavernous Porter Square station? Naturally there was no such person there and so I cannot get my pass to activate the automated door to allow me the access I need to the train to take me to Park Street to get the pass squared away? (When I called the T to find out what was going on, the woman quite seriously asked me why on earth nobody was working the Porter Square station. Seriously. She really did. I guess I'm now in charge of scheduling ground personnel for the entire MBTA system. Damn.)

5. I sent the two students whose lifelong goal seems to be to elevate procrastination and lollygagging to high artforms to get the morning fruit snacks today?

6. I bought three sweaters from three separate stores without trying them on last weekend? Of course I HATE all of them and have to bring them back. So much for saving a few minutes in the fitting room. This will amount to hours standing in return lines. And of course, I'll have to negotiate the T on the aforementioned busted pass in order to get downtown. Not the brightest move I've ever made.

7. I skipped right over the introductory workout in the Jillian Michaels "30 Day Shred" video? I thought I was in some semblance of decent enough shape to take on a 30 minute workout. Yeah..right!

8. I decided to wear a really heavy sweater to work today all while failing to account for the wildly fluctuating temperatures in my building? Today it was about 96 degrees in my classroom. Why not shed the sweater, you ask? Well, I had a maroon bra and a really flimsy white t-shirt under said sweater. Not a professional look.

9. I opted for a career that requires me to be coherent enough to deal with dozens of teenagers at ungodly early hours of the morning.

10. I poured myself a Diet Coke just moments before heading to bed for the evening? I guess I'm kidding myself if I think I'll be getting any sleep with this Metallica thing blaring in the background anyway.

11. I allowed myself to sit entranced in front of the boob tube watching two full hours of "LA Ink" over the Christmas vacation. Those are two hours of my life I'll never get back.

12. I somehow lost my sneakers. Yeah. Lost. As in...I can't find them. I do not have small feet. Two of my sneakers should not be hard to find.

I'm sure there are a few other gems I'm leaving out. As the Metallica video blares in the background, I'm thinking that I did well in placing it in this list's top position.

Happy New Year....In Moderation

Merry New Year!!

I've resolved to write more in 2010.

The reason I didn't revive my blog on January first was that I had already engaged in some serious self-sabotage before even getting started. You see, I did the whole, "I'm going to write on my blog every single day" thing. It's a way too ambitious goal and so, knowing full well that I would never come close to making it, I quit before I even tried.

That's the thing with New Year's resolutions. They're always too damn big and overly ambitious. We set ourselves up for failure by making our goals way too lofty and unattainable.

Take, as a case in point, the common resolution to get to the gym. People don't simply resolve to get to the gym a few times a week. They promise themselves they'll get there every single day of the new year. Realistic? Hardly. Life gets in the way. The very first day the person does NOT get to the gym, he immediately feels as if he's failed, and then he stops going altogether.

We don't just resolve to try to eat better. We tell ourselves we will eat nothing but carrots for an entire year. The first time we indulge in a piece of candy, we throw our healthy eating resolutions out completely and pull up a chair at the local Old Country Buffet and eat ourselves into a diabetic coma.

So, in the spirit of setting realistic goals, ones that I can dust myself off and get back on the horse if I fall off, here's what I'm trying to do:

1. Write more frequently. Maybe I'll publish to my blog a couple of times a week. I had initially thought I would blog every single day. There, see....an overambitious goal. When I failed to take to my blog on January 1st, I figured I'd failed. However, today I thought, "How stupid. Just because I have not written within the first five days of January does that mean that I have to refrain from writing all year?" Hells no. So, here I am, sufficiently dusted off and newly resolved to write when I can. And that's going to have to be good enough.

2. I had originally told myself that I would give up wine and beer forever and ever and ever. Then I had a beer on January 1st. Hey wait, though...that doesn't mean that I have to give up altogether and just hook myself up to a beer IV. So, I've readjusted that goal as well. Now I'm just refraining from having any booze on school nights. It's been working rather nicely. The great thing about it is that I never drank heavily through the week. I might have a beer or two a couple of times a week. But I can live without that. It's easier on the waistline, liver, and wallet.

There are a couple more things I'm going to try to do better or more/less frequently. Notice that I'm not saying there are a few things I'll do perfectly or that I'll always/never do.

I'm resolving to resolve in moderation.