Monday, July 30, 2012

You Have to Know Your Audience

In part one billion of Technology is a Bitch, we'll be discussing ways in which technology is um... a bitch. Okay, that's not true. I'll basically be talking about the awesome text message I got today!

Daughter: Mom lets me ride with her today only to tell me AT 4 that she has to work until 5. (insert insult here)

Me: Yep. That's how I am alright. All day. Every day.

Daughter: Mom lets me ride with her today only to tell me AT 4 that she has to work until 5. (insert insult here)

Me: Yep, got it the first time.

Daughter: Sorry, was responding to Zach as to why I can't nap. Didn't want you to get the wrong idea.

Me: Wrong idea? Tell him your mom doesn't charge you for gas. Whatever. I don't care really. Say what you want, but send it to the right person next time. Third time's a charm.

Radio Silence

She works in my office. She rides to work in my car. I went to work early today so she could be there on time when I could have slept in. I have stayed late the days she has to work later than me. I do not charge her for gas. She does not volunteer to drive (EVER). These things are all good and fine. I actually found the whole thing to be quite entertaining.

I should mention that this morning she woke me early to ask if she could ride to work with me. I told her I might have to work late, but I'd just take an early out on Friday. Here's my concern. I think she might have some mild form of brain damage. I don't take that lightly. I might have to have her checked out. Let's examine.

1. She sent the text to the wrong person TWICE.
2. She obviously doesn't understand what "getting the wrong idea" entails.
3. She has memory loss.
4. This is not the first time she's sent me texts about me.

This lapse in judgment is not new. For the most part we have a very good relationship, but during her Freshman year of high school, back when she only had a MySpace account, a similar situation occurred. After a particularly shocking and horrifying fall in her grades, I grounded her from all outside fun until she could pull the grades back up. Now, I'm all about being able to express yourself in writing if you feel you cannot vocalize, but you have to know who you're talking to.

I walked into the office and sat down at the shared home computer. There on the screen was a MySpace post (not a message) explaining why she would be unable to go out for the weekend. The post contained every insult known to man including all the vocabulary you might expect from a drunken sailor. All of that was directed at me. If I recall, it went something like, "F***ing B***h is always up my Mother f***ing a**. She is a _____ ______ ______ and she's f***ing lucky I don't _____ and _____. If she thinks this is as bad as it can be she's got another f***ing thing coming...." and so on and so forth. There were promises to rebel and all the typical teenage stuff. I was cool with it, except that it was on MySpace, and that account had family and friends linked to it.

That's the sort of mom I am. The concerned sort. I don't want to spoil her fun, but you have to know better than to bite the hand that feeds you, steers the car in traffic, and keeps the water turned on to your portion of the house. You really do have to know your audience.



Have you ever received a text or email ABOUT you that was meant for someone else? 

Wednesday, July 25, 2012

I'm just not "country" enough

Guess what. It was hot again today, at least in the center of town where the buildings rise to block the breeze and the concrete carpet radiates hellish temperatures. It's summer for frick sake. Those of you who are complaining about the heat can kindly shut the hell up. I'll talk to you in January when you're crying about the endless stretches of subzero temps and bitching about how many times you've had to clear your driveway of snow. No whining. It's a dry heat! Just saying that makes me giggle a little. 

The Midwest in the summer, to quote my ex, is like the armpit of the United States.  "You don't have any of the water works that the coasts have, but you'll sweat yourself to death in minutes." he said. It's true. Usually. Midwest summers are the reason for words like swalls (sweaty balls), swass (sweaty ass), and swoobs (sweaty boobs). If you're smart, you'll just rub antiperspirant all over yourself. This year, however, you could find yourself sweating from the heat and dry seconds later by the sheer jealousy of the atmosphere. It will whisk away any moisture you put out there, leaving you bone dry and burning. 

Like any good child would, when the weather gets extreme I feel the need to call home and check on the mental/agricultural state of the locals (parents and sister). I prepared myself for a call last week with a cocktail. I knew based on the Weather Channel and my own yard's golden brown hue, that any lengthy conversation about how the crops are doing would just as well be accompanied by a drink. If farming were my job, I'd be having a stiff one right about now. Drink perverts. Stiff drink. No matter the outcome, I wanted to hear how everyone back home was doing. Guess what... also dry. I'll spare everyone the farm report, it's not exactly a cheerful forecast.

Image Source
Some weeks ago a friend introduced me to a few people during a night out. When we touched on the topic of "home", I found one gentleman and I had grown up relatively close to one another. He said, "Wow, you don't look like a farm girl." I suppose I don't. You know how farm girls look right? They wear gingham, cut off short shorts, and have giant boobs.  All farm girls look the same. I can see how he would mistake me for a city kid. I mean heck, I WAS wearing pants that covered my ass cheeks (hey, it was a weekday).

I should mention that I'd also left my cowboy hat at home right next to my shit-kicker cowboy boots. It's obvious that I am simply misleading the public by not wearing my ancestral costume. But when I go home, watch out. With each passing mile on the interstate I slowly morph into the traditional farm girl appearance, complete with a piece of straw in my mouth. I even start to talk differently. I say y'all and I give the 2 finger farmer wave (I actually do give the 2-finger farmer wave, but to be fair the farmers always initiate it).

Yeah, life on the farm is still like it's always been and the trek to the out house is a bitch in the winter. Every weekend there's a barn raising and sometimes, if we're really lucky, we'll make it into town and stop by the old Mercantile. That penny candy is the best. The ride home in the wagon is hard on the old buttocks, but you gotta pay to play. We drink from mason jars because we don't have a need to put on airs. Besides, they are the best for making our moonshine cocktails. And oh the cozy nights by the hearth when Mom makes her special raccoon stew, YUM!

It's been too long since I've been home. I feel the need for a hay ride and a bonfire sometime soon, but not until it cools down a bit. On a positive note, the family is coming up to the big city for the weekend. Yessireeeee they be coming to visit me in my fancy city house. I bet they'll be surprised when I show them how this indoor plumbing can save them from spider bites on the ass. Just wait til they get a load of this toilet paper stuff we have! No more wiping their backsides with the scratchy pages of the catalog. By golly, it's going to be an eye opener for them folks.

While I might not dress like I'm fresh from the corn field, if you want to talk about the crops just let me know. We can discuss nitrogen levels, subsoil moisture, projected yields, Roundup-ready seeds, or the goings on at the county fair. I wonder who won Shelby County Pork Princess this year (I'm not kidding you, that's the her title).

That's all I have for today. It's time to go get my non-farming ass on that fancy conveyor belt contraption that caused me to lose my farm girl boobs. It's too damned hot to go outside... not that I'm complaining!

This post brought to you by all things country: Straw, Corn, Soybeans, Hay bales, Pigs, Cows, Big boobs, Cowboy hats, and Shit kickers. 








Saturday, July 21, 2012

Before You Hit Send

It is never a good idea to email when drinking, crying, or shaking with anger. This is not to say that it's a bad idea to write when you're emotional or intoxicated. It simply isn't a good idea to put those thoughts into what is essentially a digital envelope with a tiny postman waiting to carrying your diatribe instantly to some random mailbox the moment your finger hits the send button. I'm not at all saying that those thoughts and feelings aren't in some way valid. They might be, but if those thoughts and feelings are important enough to be written down, surely they deserve to be presented in well written, thought provoking, clear, and concise form.

Long ago, in a world far away, we had to write our thoughts on pieces of paper. After a letter was written there was plenty of time to rethink what you'd said and how badly you wanted someone to know that they had scarred your tender soul and how much of an asshole they were. There was always time to take back your thoughts.

I've only written and sent one letter I wished I could take back. It was 3 or more pages of me whining like a spoiled child. It was ridiculously pitiful and hurtful and mirrored exactly how I felt when I wrote it. (Sorry Mom) The day I mailed it I instantly felt shame and planned to go to the mailbox at my parents house early in the morning and retrieve it before it could be read. Small town mail, house to house, is almost as fast as dial up email. Mission failure.

Other than that one time, I don't remember being prepared enough to have all of the necessary equipment to complete the process at the same time: Paper, pen, envelope, stamp, wherewithal to remember the address, etc. The advent of email changed all that. The ability to fire off random bits of vitriol is a mouse click away. You must resist the temptation. That's why I use Word... now (sorry Y, I wasn't always as thoughtful).

I'm a document saver. Rather than opening a blank email, which let's be honest, is just waiting to auto fill the wrong damned email address, it's best to open a nice fresh Word document and put your thoughts in there. If you are pleased with yourself when it's all over, you can do one of two things. You can email the document itself or you can copy/paste that text into your email program. If you're not pleased with it or you're still unsure about your desire to send, you can always save it. That's what I do. I don't send nearly as many letters as I write. You're all welcome.

It's always interesting to just click the "x" in the top right corner and let the document save itself as whatever your first written line is. I have mine automatically save to My Documents. It makes it much easier to erase them later if I feel they might be particularly embarrassing if found after my death. It also helps you answer tough questions, such as:

1. When did I start using the word douche so frequently?
2. What time of the day do I experience the most unattractive emotions?
3. What was going on in 2009 that caused me to be so hateful? (yes I transfer old docs to new computers)
4. When did my speeling becom so atroshus?

There are still times when I've given myself plenty of time to calm down and I still send things I wish I hadn't. Fortunately it's not nearly as frequently as the amount of times I've spoken out loud and wished I hadn't, or sent a text message I wished I hadn't, or slashed a tire I wished I hadn't, or keyed a car I wished I h... Life was easier when I had to buy a stamp and find an envelope.



So kids, have you ever mailed a letter or sent an email that you wanted to take back and couldn't? Have you ever sent an email to the wrong person? 

Tuesday, July 17, 2012

Single Parenting 70s Style

When I was growing up I only knew of one biologically related set of siblings with different last names. Mine. We're a His-Hers-Theirs family. Everyone else had a "regular" family. Even when people got divorced, they tended to do so later in life without having more children. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that we lived in small communities. If you stayed in the same town after your divorce you didn't have many options for marrying someone you weren't previously related to through marriage.

Every child in the family had the same last name for the most part. All 10 of them in some cases (small Catholic communities in case you wondered). These days things are different. It's not uncommon for several children in the same home to have different last names. We're an accepting people. We know that sometimes things don't last. Even in those relationships that do last, some children have the same biological parents yet some take the mother's last name and some the father's. Things are certainly different, but it's accepted.

Yes, my children have the same last name. I have the same last name as well. I am not married. To those who find this whole thing confusing, here are a few things to note:

1. They have the same name because someone slept with me more than once. I know. It's shocking.

2. More shocking: He was the first guy I'd ever been with.

3. Twice as shocking as that: I married him.

4. Yes, I am old enough to have a kid that is finished with high school. No, I'm probably not mature enough, but I am old enough.

5. I married young. Obviously there didn't seem to be a lot to do and I lacked goals ambition self-esteem imagination.

6. Contrary to my ex husband's second wife's beliefs, I am entitled to keep my married name as long as I damned well please, bitch!

7. Having my kids when I was young is what allows me to take as many naps as I want on the weekends now. Neener. Neener. Neener.

I have never really considered myself old fashioned, but the more I look at my life the more traditional I feel. I have a 1970s style divorced lifestyle. Just the idea of it makes me want to buy a copy of Our Bodies Ourselves, grow out the old landing strip, smoke a little recreational weed, buy some crystals, and maybe try to get into that free love swing of things. Who's with me? Anyone? Anyone? 

Saturday, July 14, 2012

Saturday, Status Changes, and Sushi

I've had a Facebook account since early 2008. Aside from a brief period of time when I was listed as in a relationship with myself, I have avoided the dreaded status change. This is not to say that I've not been in a relationship over the last 4 years. I have, but as it turns out I'm not very good at them. 

I have had condiments in my fridge last longer than some of them. Sure, it sounds disgusting, but let's be real. Everyone has either a jar of pickle relish they thought they might eat once or some freaky ass hot sauce or marinade that they used one time and it has migrated to the back of the bottom shelf. I think right now I have some 4 year old buffalo wing sauce, a jar of pickle relish, an Asian inspired marinade, and some stir fry sauce in there for sure that have outlasted all of them. 

When I broke up with myself on Facebook I made a huge spectacle of it. I was a horrible partner. I never complimented me, never took me out for nice dinners, failed to spoil myself once in awhile, and rarely if ever did I feel like I was really in love. The sex was non-existent and so was the affection. The most I ever did with myself was talk, and usually not kindly. So I got out. 

Still, I felt like I wanted to try again. I just wasn't sure when it would be right. Many nights I cried and wondered, "When will it be my turn? When will I find someone I can have a Facebook relationship with? When will I finally change my status?" Then Wednesday night a miracle happened. HE signed in. 

It started out innocently enough. We exchanged our standard, "hey, hi there, how are you, what's been going on, kids good, family good, getting a burger, it's late, hey do you want to be in a Facebook relationship?" messages. So we did. So we are. And ya know what? We're doing pretty good with it! It's Saturday and things are still humming along nicely. Almost 3 whole days. 

So monumental that I framed it. 

Sure, maybe he prefers blondes and I prefer Asians. So what? We have a lot of mutual friends. We both really like ourselves each other a lot. We've been friends for years and he lets me rant and ramble all I want and never cuts me off to tell me how ridiculous I sound or how something doesn't make sense. The conversation limit is hats. I am not allowed to talk about hats. I'm not sure about that, but we'll see. 


Also, on a non-related note, I convinced my son to go eat sushi and sashimi with me today. I bribed him. He saw some cooking show the other day where a person fried ice cream and he's a glutton for that sort of thing. As it turns out Tokyo Sushi and Hibatchi does a fried ice cream so I executed my plan. 

He could choose one cooked roll, but he had to at the very least sample the spicy tuna roll, the yellow fin sashimi, and the rainbow roll. Which he did, then proceeded to eat half of everything. As it turns out, this might have been a bad idea. That boy can put away some food and sushi is sort of pricey. It will be awhile before we do that again. 


After lunch he asked me to buy him some razors and shaving cream. Apparently he feels all grown up now. 

I hope you all have a fantastic weekend. Don't do anything I wouldn't do... okay do a lot of things I wouldn't do because frankly, I'll just be cleaning house and working out and that is sort of boring. Email me the details. 




Monday, July 9, 2012

Angie Answers: Is it okay to take my kid to a strip club?

Dear Angie,

I've been planning to take my kids on vacation this summer and just can't figure out where to go. Do you have any suggestions?

Sincerely,
Get Us Out Of Here

Alright, this one is totally made up, but I'm posting it anyway because my weekend proved to me that some parents just don't think this through. 

Here's a list of places the kiddies might enjoy: 
1. Disney Land or World (take your pick)
2. Universal Studios (take your pick)
3. Six Flags (take your pick)
4. Camping
5. Yosemite
6. Sea World
7. The shore (take your pick)
8. Rafting (the spring thaw is over so it's relatively safe)
9. The Grand Canyon
10. Grandma's house

Here is a list of places your kids absolutely do not belong.
1. Strip Clubs (self explanatory)
2. Bars (self explanatory)
3. Casinos (self explanatory)
4. Las Vegas (uh... WTF people)

Did you really have so few options for vacay that you felt the Vegas strip was the best you could do for family time with the little angels? It advertises itself as Sin City for the love of God! When some place lives by the motto that "what happens here stays here" you really should pause for a moment and think about what you're about to do.

Save your looks of disdain. I don't go to Disney Land and ruin your fun. Vegas manages to combine all of the above things (plus a few others) into a few miles of drunken debauchery. It's like a moving titty bar with street side booze vendors! When I see you wearing your 3 foot long whale bone margarita container that is so heavy you need a shoulder strap to carry it and you have your children in tow, I really want to slap you. When it's 1:30 in the morning I want to punch you.

As it turns out, my friends like to say sexual things for no real reason except to say them. It's like a Vegas version of Tourette Syndrome. To be honest, it's a bit contagious. By the time we were into full on party mode I was just as inappropriate. Unfortunately, every time I felt like saying something really naughty, it would fly from my mouth just as some parent walked by with their child... in the casino, in the bar area in the casino, on the strip, etc. 

Aside from the vulgar language (ours) and the gluttony that surrounds the place, we saw all of the basic atrocities. There were skin tight clothes on people who shouldn't ever wear skin tight clothes and shorts so short that I'm sure the girls wearing them had a hefty bill just for Monistat each month. Just sitting at one of the venues outside Caesar's we saw more crotch than the average gynecologist's office.

The guys fully adopted the Vegas stare. Apparently it doesn't matter what you're looking at or who, you never look up further than the breasts. I was told that it's acceptable... so I started doing it too. On Saturday I pulled up a chair next to them and just watched boobs as they went by. Fake, fake, real, real fake, WTF, is that a man, fake, fake.

So to the 500 or so people we saw dragging their kids up and down the strip and through the casinos, I don't care how the tourism board was promoting it; Vegas is not a family destination (unless everyone is over 18). Those of you who are thrill seekers can find an adventure park without the Vegas atmosphere. Sure, you won't likely find giant whale bone margaritas, but if that's the point of your vacation, maybe you should leave the kids home.

Sunday, July 8, 2012

Purgatory on Earth

Forgetsy Friday brought to you by Las Vegas, which distracted me so much I forgot to hit the publish button.

There are times in life where you witness something that is so bone chilling and so traumatic that you turn your whole life around. That is exactly how I felt this morning. Initially, I assumed that what was happening would be brief. Like ripping off a band-aid, it would hurt, but it had to be done. It would be over in a flash and I could go on about my day smiling at strangers like a crazy chick on really good meds.

What actually happened was quite the opposite. I closed my eyes to gather myself, and upon opening them I gasped as a strange panic gripped my heart. I was staring into the gaping mouth of Purgatory. Whether you're Catholic or not, the term is likely known to you. For those unfamiliar, according to the Catholic Encyclopedia, "Purgatory is a place or condition of temporal punishment for those who, departing this life in God's grace, are not entirely free of venial faults, or have not fully paid the satisfaction due their transgressions."  

As a Protestant, I grew up being a "good person Christian", which means that if I were a good person everything would work itself out. It's like Christian Light. Same great taste, but not too heavy. Still, Purgatory scares the bejeezus out of me. See, I'll probably end up in Purgatory for that. Add all of the Oh Em Gees to that and I'm looking at a good century or so in the holding place. From what I saw today, that place would be worse than even Hell. 

I know you're probably saying, "Why does she keep going to Walmart?" But you're wrong. That's a pretty scary place at times, but I liken that to a 3rd world country more than I do a place of temporal punishment. Walmart is voluntary. I could grocery shop somewhere else, but I choose the punishment in lieu of higher prices. Where I spent my morning isn't exactly a place I ever want to go. There's no discount for choosing it over any place else. In this country you practically have to go there if you plan to actually exist. 

DEPARTMENT OF MOTOR FREAKING VEHICLES 

We arrived at just after 9 AM. I knew immediately it would be a bit of a wait when the parking lot only had 1 open spot available. It's not like I had a choice in the matter. My son had waited patiently for me to arrange time off work to take him, and I don't like wasting time off. We were there. There was no turning back. 

Upon entering, I couldn't escape the feeling that the scene was familiar. Rows of chairs were occupied by people of every age, race, and creed. The line leading up to the first counter was quite lengthy, and judging by the scores of people sitting on the floor, it had been for awhile. The smell made me think of a 70s hippy sit in, or even more currently, Occupy movements.

The longer people waited the more frustrated they became. The people we encountered in the first few minutes of our stay informed us that we would be waiting between 2 and 3 hours. They smiled with sympathy and kindness, but 2 hours later I heard that same nice polite woman swear at her husband, and quite aggressively I might add. It turns people into angry monsters. The confusion on everyone's faces as to how in the hell it can take 10 minutes to process one license renewal was evident. You could read their expressions clearly. It cried, "Why God? Why hath you forsaken me? What sin so great could deserve this punishment? Please let me leave!"

The individual windows are occupied by Government employees who have no experience with the technology they must use to complete the transactions. I watched them peck away at the keys, looking over the tops of their glasses, talking to each other about who would get the early lunch for the day, and generally avoiding any real contact with the paying customers in their care.

It's slow. It's painful. It makes me cry a little (mostly on the inside). It causes panic and a tightness in my chest. It is Purgatory on Earth. Now that I've said it out loud, I am more worried that ever. I think prison would make me less uncomfortable, yet I have to go back again in a week when my son takes his driving test. I might be sick just thinking of it.


Wednesday, July 4, 2012

Early mornings, old jeans, and freedom

The sun had only just broken the horizon when my eyes fluttered open. It's July 4th, Independence Day in the US of A, and I should have been dozing peacefully until at least 8. Still, I lay in bed for a few minutes and waited for my daily alarm to buzz on the nightstand. I always forget to turn the damned thing off when I had a midweek break. When it sounded at 6 AM I rose and made my way to the bathroom to splash cold water on my face. 

The thermostat is set for 68 degrees, much to what I'm sure would be the disappointment of my parents. I wasn't raised to be this frivolous with energy. Was I born in a barn, dammit? Am I trying to cool the outside? Do I need to live in a freezer? Yes. Yes I do. This house is a story and a half... and an old one at that. It gets much warmer upstairs than the 68 degree main floor. Much... like 73. Stop judging. 

It's not appropriate for a woman of my advancing years to go traipsing around the house in the buff, especially considering the impressionable ages of my children. To be quite frank, I don't know that it's a good idea no matter how old the kids are. We've been a "clothes on" family for a long time. It seems a little weird to consider exposing my nudist side this late in life. So I wear the clothes. I do it daily.

I reached into the cabinet this morning and pulled out my favorite jeans. They are old, worn, patched, and frayed, but they are the most amazing article of clothing I own. It's important to do this even in the sweltering days of summer. It helps to remind me that a sedentary office life will put pounds on even the most faithful of cardio nut jobs like myself. They slid on like I'd just worn them yesterday. It was like slipping into happier times when I didn't need money,  fancy possessions, or praise to be happy. I just needed my favorite jeans and one day to make things better. 

As I wandered the near silent rooms of my house, save the soft snoring of a 16 year old boy, I set my mind to a task. This place has been too long neglected; The house as well as the family that lives within it's walls. Today we celebrate Independence. Perhaps today can be a day of Independence for me too; Freedom from something, whatever that something might be. 

My wish for you all this holiday, whether it's celebrated as yours or not, is that you embrace the spirit and find your freedom. Much love to all of you. 

Tuesday, July 3, 2012

Hot Holiday Cool Treats

Apparently June was dairy month and I didn't even know. Can you believe it? Me, from the Midwest, farm girl born and raised, and the idea that there would be new recipes, rife with lactic acid, had completely escaped me. It's okay, settle down, I'm back on my game. It's time to take out your Lactaid and loosen your belts, I don't want you to get bloat from the moo juice.

It's hot. Tomorrow is a holiday. Let's get fruity and, dare I say, enjoy some refreshing treats that aren't entirely unhealthy.

Orange Cream Chiller


3 oz orange juice concentrate 
1 cup low-fat milk
1/2 cup nonfat Greek yogurt (plain)
1 small banana (frozen) or 3 large strawberries (frozen)
1 teaspoon honey
1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract


Place all ingredients in blender. Blend until smooth. Serve immediately. Can be refrigerated for short period of time, but will lose consistency as fruit thaws.




Strawberry Frozen Yogurt Squares 


1 can (14 oz) fat-free sweetened condensed milk, divided
Non-stick cooking spray
1 cup Post Grape-Nuts cereal
1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon
Pinch of ground cloves
1 package (10 oz) frozen strawberries
3 cups fat free strawberry yogurt (I prefer Chobani) 


Measure 1 cup of sweetened condensed milk; set aside. Line 8x8 baking pan with aluminum foil so that it overlaps the pan. Spray with non-stick cooking spray. In a medium sized bowl, combine cereal, cinnamon, cloves, and remainder of sweetened condensed milk. Stir until well mixed and spread evenly onto the bottom of the baking pan. Place in freezer.

Place strawberries and yogurt into blender. Cover and blend. Add 1 cup of sweetened condensed milk and blend until smooth. Pour this mixture over the chilled cereal crust. Smooth to the edge of the pan. Freeze 8 hours or until firm.

To serve, use edges of the foil to remove from the pan. Let thaw 5-10 minutes. Cut into squares and serve.


My co-workers and I also discussed ways to make these treats into something a little less breakfast like. The consensus on the Orange Cream Chiller was to add either 1 oz of light rum, peach schnapps (do they still make that?), or 4 oz of champagne. For the Strawberry Frozen Yogurt Squares, the thought was to serve with a drizzle of strawberry-rhubarb compote and a dollop of whipped cream.

For those of you who insist on partaking in the spirits of beach and backyard celebrations over this unGodly hot Independence Day, please remember that hydration is your friend. Alcohol and water sports don't mix well. Booze and fireworks might be a 4th of July tradition, but you look better with a face and all of your digits and limbs. Play safe and get a designated driver if you plan to be driving.

Enjoy the mid-week break and Happy Independence Day to all my US friends here and abroad.

Monday, July 2, 2012

Things are going to be otay...

Ah Monday, you old bitch you! I don't know if it's my new outlook on life or what, but I will say that 2 months ago I would have been bawling right about now. I'd have been face down in a pillow crying my eyes out and asking God why he punishes me so. Fortunately, I neither have PMS right now nor the energy to fuss much. It's too damned hot out.

So this is how it went down. The day started out wonderfully. I made it to work early, finished up my reports, did my little "Let's pretend I'm the HR lady" speech for the new folks at work, and managed to wrap up just in time to go to the dentist. SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEECH. That's when the good times stopped rolling.

I'm a good brusher. I managed to go 35 years and only get two cavities, so I think I did okay. I floss. I do the right things and follow the damned dental rules. Candy is not high on my priority list. My intake of sugary beverages, which the dentist deems unholy, is minimal. There's even a tooth brush in my purse that isn't there in the event that I have an all nighter with a random stranger and need to brush before I do the walk of shame.   Still, bad things sometimes happen to good teeth.

Some of you may recall that I was almost killed by a Tic Tac last month. For those who missed it... I was almost killed by a Tic Tac last month. The little bastard shattered a tooth that my previous dentist said he'd fixed. The tooth was extracted and today I headed back to the new dentist for a full check up and cleaning. There, now you're caught up. Perhaps I chew Tic Tacs like the dentist tells me not to... let's move on.

As the hygienist started to put the bite wing xray in my mouth she said, "Oh, you have wisdom teeth. Let's do the panoramic xray instead." Not realizing that it was actually a doomsday device, I readily agreed. I removed my earrings, nose ring, and necklace and stepped up to the machine. Just what I always wanted, full on brain xray to prove it's there! When we finished I settled back in the chair and waited for Dr. Johnson. I'm not kidding. That's his name. For those of you who don't get it... never mind.

Doc flipped me upside down in the chair, poked at my teeth and gums, made all sorts of "that's good' sounds, and then raised the chair back up. "The wisdom teeth are going to have to come out. They are putting pressure on your back molars and it weakens them and makes it difficult to properly floss between the back teeth. They aren't doing anything but you can see what it did to your tooth we removed. So before we do anything, we need to schedule you for two extractions." he said with a really pleasant look on his face. "Then, we'll take care of the two cavities on the teeth next to them. After that we'll talk about the bridge for the tooth we extracted."

He looked so nonplussed by the whole thing that I didn't expect it to be that bad. I have dental insurance. How bad could it be? Pretty freaking bad as it turns out; $3500 bad to be exact. Of course only about $1000 of that is going to happen anytime soon, but still, holy balls! I took the paperwork and walked out the door.

Maybe I'm still in a daze, but I feel like I should be sad or angry. I am a little pissed off at my last dentist who told me my wisdom teeth didn't need to be removed. It sure would have been nice to have had this done when I had employer sponsored insurance that paid 80% with no waiting periods instead of my private insurance that has a 1 year waiting period on some things and only covers 50% thereafter.

Any damned way, I am not sad. I am heading to Vegas for the weekend and I refuse to let this get me down. I am going to have some fun dammit. After that I will be coming home and selling plasma, hooking on the corner, taking side gigs as a paid assassin, and possibly renting out my back yard as a camp ground. Either way it's all good. Things are going to be otay, Buckwheat. It's going to be otay.
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