After over a year of procrastinating to find a new dentist, I finally found one.
Let me just start by saying that typically, I love going to the dentist, and that typically I go every six months. But if things become atypical, and say I get tired of going to my old dentist and having to pay a lot because she is not in my network, and say I have to find a new dentist, and say I get lazy about it, and say I don't find a dentist in time to make my next six month appointment, then seven months becomes, eight months, and eight months becomes well over a year since my last cleaning. Such is the way I run my life, everything is nice and orderly, until something becomes un-nice and disorderly, and then I let it all unravel because in my little brain it becomes easier to let chaos take over than to handle the one little thing and get back to nice and orderly. And this is why, Internets, my e-mail inbox is hovering around 1,000 messages.
But why am I talking about that, when I could be talking about my new dentist. My new dentist, who is the official dentist of the local NFL team (and just because I have the fear that the official dentist of the local NFL team may have some crazy search bot that goes out and combs through the Internets, including tiny insignificant little blogs, for the phrase "official dentist of the blankity blankhawks," I'm going to keep her title cryptic. Because THAT'S WHAT I DO! But seriously, she might have an evil search bot, she's pretty freaking high tech. I guess that's what happens, not when you're the official dentist of the local NFL team, but when your dentist office is located across the street from the galaxy's largest software company).
And now that I've yet again sufficiently proven that I am crazy with my self-inflicted overflowing inbox and fear of search bots, I have a little more crazy to share. But first a little more about the official dentist of the local NFL team. Mr. McMichael has been going to her for over 10 years (and boy howdy does the official dentist of the local NFL team sure luh-uh-uh-uve Mr. McMichael, but something tells me that she luh-uh-uh-uves all of her patients. I seriously had to out-gush her as we were talking about MY boyfriend. I'm not worried or anything, but it was everything I had not to crack up and say to her, um, isn't this the part where we talk about ME and what's going on in MY mouth?), so when I mentioned that I was looking for a dentist he highly recommended her. And I can't complain; it was a good experience. Very unlike any other dental experience I've ever had, it was essentially a mash-up of a spa/night club/Nordstrom's Brass Plum/sorority chapter meeting. All things that of course would make a local NFL team, get down on one knee and pop the question every dentist dreams about hearing ever since they were a precious little dentist, "will you be ours, officially?"
And let's stay there for a moment. When I first heard that she was the official dentist of the local NFL team I was actually listening to the broadcast of the local NFL team on the radio, and I thought, "Hey, that's my new dentist." And then I thought, "Better an NFL team than an NHL team." But then I thought more about it and I thought that having the official dentist of the local NHL team would probably be kind of good, I mean they have a lot of experience with very drastic dental needs. But, we don't have a local NHL team, so I guess I'll have to settle for what can be done to improve the pearly grins of the blankity blankhawks.
So, I'm sitting in the chair, with a high tech camera in my mouth taking several pictures of my teeth, rocking out to Beyonce, when the hygienist comments on my low root to gum ratio. My what to what whatio? And then she's all surprised that no body's ever mentioned it before, and I wanted to say, no body's had a camera in my mouth at that angle before, but I didn't because I had a camera in my mouth. She let me know that because of this low ratio, Doctor (that's what they all call her, no surname, it's just Doctor--maybe they don't use her surname because it's emblazoned on all of their chests with rhinestones? Not joking) will want to see me for cleanings every four months.
Hold up. Every four months?
Now let's go back to the beginning. The part where I said I love going to the dentist. I do. There's something so reassuring about getting everything scraped out and deeply cleaned, but every four months? This is where I channeled my 90-year-old grandpa. My grandpa who believes that the entire medical field is out to gauge the heck out of all of us. My grandpa, who a few Christmases ago, had a tooth die, fall out of his mouth, and then SUPER GLUED IT BACK INTO PLACE all between opening presents and the big family dinner. And the thing is, my grandpa is a self-made multi-millionaire, so it's not that he can't afford it. Internets, Krazy Glue is NOT his only option here, it's that he distrusts the medical profession. He chooses the glue.
But I have a low root to gum ratio, and while cleanings every four months will not improve my ratio (because I asked), it will allow the official dentist of the local NFL team to keep a closer eye on that ratio. And were I my grandpa, I would think that is also what allows them to get paid more. But that certainly couldn't be the motivation. Certainly not when you know that your patient works for said software company with incredible insurance coverage. Only, when I asked Mr. McMichael how often he goes in, he said every four months, but they told him he needed to do that because his gums were recessed and the regular cleaning might help counteract that.
All I know is that I have some work that I need to get done that insurance will mostly cover. And it took me a year to settle on a new dentist. So I'll stick with the official dentist of the local NFL team, but I will not be huffing any of her nitrous oxide lest I get coerced to get myself a nice new set of veneers.
Note to self: Just to be safe, start stocking up on Krazy Glue.
11.25.2009
11.15.2009
Recurring dreams and rubber sheets
Why am I about to tell you this, Internets? I think it may be because my posting has been light and my Catholic guilt is getting the best of me. My penance? To give you a post that might be a little embarrassing. Okay, or a lot embarrassing.
Note to self: Do not chug a full water bottle before you go to bed.
The very sad truth about this note is it's a lesson I seem bound to keep learning and relearning.
Last weekend I did something I never thought I would do. I learned to knit. And, in typical LMNT fashion, I became absolutely obsessed with knitting that day. My friend AP came over at 8:00 AM. Yes, 8:00 AM. And after we inhaled my signature dark chocolate chip, walnut, banana pancakes, she taught me to knit. Three hours and one bloody mary each later, I was on my way to creating the world's widest scarf. Six hours after that, I called her in a panic because I had a fear I didn't have enough yarn, or a giraffe around whose neck I could wrap this scarf--seriously it was almost a foot wide. So with her coaching, I unraveled the whole thing and started over. Nine hours after that (for those of you less-than-advanced time-telling folks out there, that means it was 2:00 AM. Yes, 2:00 AM.), I stopped knitting.
I knitted the entire time, except for an hour when I scrounged together a meager meal and updated Facebook with a status about my inability to STOP KNITTING. With singular focus on not dropping stitches, I pretty much didn't do anything I should have that day--especially the really important stuff, like drink any water. So what did I do? That's right, I chugged a full water bottle and then went directly to bed.
About six years ago, when I was training for my first marathon, I did a similar thing. I was all anxious for a long run the next morning, I think it may have been the first time I was running 16 miles, and was especially worried that I had not drunk enough water that day. So what did I do? That's right, I chugged a full water bottle and then went directly to bed.
And just like that night oh so long ago, with a bladder so full it's a wonder my abdomen didn't explode, I had a dream that I was actually in the bathroom. So there I am, sleeping, in my not-the-bathroom bed, thinking I'm in the bathroom and thinking it's time to relieve my bursting bladder.
As a kid, I wasn't one to wet the bed, so I'm not sure what that's like, but I can tell you that when you're a grown up, and you have a dream that makes you think you're sitting on a toilet, and you start to make use of that toilet, you don't stay asleep for very long. In fact, I think I even tried to wake myself up from my dream thinking, "LMNT, NO! You're in bed sleeping, you're not in your bathroom. DO NOT DO WHAT YOU'RE ABOUT TO--oh geez, too late!"
And let me set the record straight--I did NOT wet the bed. I was able to wake up and stop myself before anything got anywhere near the bed. But as a girl in her 30s that is just way too close a call.
Yep, I was right. That's a lot embarrassing.
Note to self: Do not chug a full water bottle before you go to bed.
The very sad truth about this note is it's a lesson I seem bound to keep learning and relearning.
Last weekend I did something I never thought I would do. I learned to knit. And, in typical LMNT fashion, I became absolutely obsessed with knitting that day. My friend AP came over at 8:00 AM. Yes, 8:00 AM. And after we inhaled my signature dark chocolate chip, walnut, banana pancakes, she taught me to knit. Three hours and one bloody mary each later, I was on my way to creating the world's widest scarf. Six hours after that, I called her in a panic because I had a fear I didn't have enough yarn, or a giraffe around whose neck I could wrap this scarf--seriously it was almost a foot wide. So with her coaching, I unraveled the whole thing and started over. Nine hours after that (for those of you less-than-advanced time-telling folks out there, that means it was 2:00 AM. Yes, 2:00 AM.), I stopped knitting.
I knitted the entire time, except for an hour when I scrounged together a meager meal and updated Facebook with a status about my inability to STOP KNITTING. With singular focus on not dropping stitches, I pretty much didn't do anything I should have that day--especially the really important stuff, like drink any water. So what did I do? That's right, I chugged a full water bottle and then went directly to bed.
About six years ago, when I was training for my first marathon, I did a similar thing. I was all anxious for a long run the next morning, I think it may have been the first time I was running 16 miles, and was especially worried that I had not drunk enough water that day. So what did I do? That's right, I chugged a full water bottle and then went directly to bed.
And just like that night oh so long ago, with a bladder so full it's a wonder my abdomen didn't explode, I had a dream that I was actually in the bathroom. So there I am, sleeping, in my not-the-bathroom bed, thinking I'm in the bathroom and thinking it's time to relieve my bursting bladder.
As a kid, I wasn't one to wet the bed, so I'm not sure what that's like, but I can tell you that when you're a grown up, and you have a dream that makes you think you're sitting on a toilet, and you start to make use of that toilet, you don't stay asleep for very long. In fact, I think I even tried to wake myself up from my dream thinking, "LMNT, NO! You're in bed sleeping, you're not in your bathroom. DO NOT DO WHAT YOU'RE ABOUT TO--oh geez, too late!"
And let me set the record straight--I did NOT wet the bed. I was able to wake up and stop myself before anything got anywhere near the bed. But as a girl in her 30s that is just way too close a call.
Yep, I was right. That's a lot embarrassing.
Stocking up on hard candy
This week I became Little Aunt Notetaker. My little brother and my sister-in-law--who interestingly enough also happens to be a somewhat distant cousin which is something they randomly found out after they had already been married... ooh, I just let our crazy family skeleton out of the closet, sorry guys--welcomed their first child into the world. And because that last revelation may have just caused a panicked frenzy, not to worry, Internets, the cousinship we share is by marriage, so my little nephew Notetaker did not come out with two heads or sixteen toes. Phew!
More than a few people have asked me how I'm handling the fact that my little brother has a baby, and how I don't. Well, I have houseplants. And really, this is not surprising to me as little brother has been married since he was like 14. Okay not really 14, he may have married a cousin, but we didn't grow up in the back woods and he waited until he graduated from college. So I think that makes it seven seven years which is essentially a lifetime, so it was pretty much a given that he'd have a kid at some point, and that point would likely be way before I had one.
I'm so thrilled for them and I can't wait to meet the little guy. And admittedly, when I got the call from little brother from the hospital just after they welcomed their son into the world, I cried a little. They were partly tears of happiness, but mostly tears because I'm so far away and I miss little brother, and I'm likely going to miss a lot of this little guy's life--holiday concerts, sporting events, and the time he takes up the electric guitar in elementary school and has a "recital" sitting in with his teacher's band in a dive bar.
But I'm going to do my best to be his long-distance Little Aunt Notetaker. I'll start by sending the kajillion onesies I've been collecting since I heard the news there was a bun in the oven. Next up, Christmas.
11.04.2009
Down for the count
Internets. I have returned from Ireland, my favorite place, and have brought back plenty of woolen products, half of the Guinness storehouse, Paddy's Whiskey (that one's for you ChrisPiss), and best of all, the flu.
Note to self: You are not superhuman. Get the flu shot.
Five years ago, I went for a lunchtime run with a friend and halfway through I had to stop because I had suddenly developed the chills and started coughing up phlegm, out of nowhere. Turns out it was a spontaneous case of pneumonia. That was the most miserable I have ever been in my entire life--this flu episode is a close second. I was out of work for ten days. TEN DAYS! At the time I was living in a 425 square foot studio apartment. TEN DAYS. I was a little stir crazy to say the least. I remember near the end of my sickness, I wanted to walk to Blockbuster to return some movies I rented and it took me 45 minutes to walk five blocks. Me. A healthy 27-year-old marathon runner was taking a breather after each block. I think I was even shuffling my feet as I labored down the street.
As a kid I got sick with the same intensity. Usually I'd end up with strep throat, but when most kids have strep throat, they get a sore throat. Not me. I'd end up violently throwing up for 16-18 hours. Anything that went in, would come right back out. I remember waking up one time after I had sleep walked into the bathroom and missed the toilet, sorry mom. And to this day, the thought of Pepto Bismol induces my gag reflex. Unable to stomach even water, my mom would corner me with a spoonful of the pink ooze hoping it would settle my stomach and work some magic. I would clench my teeth so tightly knowing that the only magic it was going to work was setting a record for time from stomach back to toilet--it was usually instantaneous.
My super intense sicknesses were a point of pride for me as a kid. A declaration of sorts: People, I have been to the edge and back averaging 1.4 trips to the bathroom per hour along the way.
So here I am, sick as a dog. But at least I'm on the mend. And with my mom and her Pepto Bismol thousands of miles away, Mr. McMichael has been an excellent stand-in. He's put up with my moaning and whining and my crazy anal-retention about cleaning bathtubs which apparently is heightened when my temperature soars. In thinking about what I could do to express my thanks and gratitude for the TLC, it turns out I've already given him a gift. Ah, yes, the flu. The gift that keeps on giving.
Note to self: You are not superhuman. Get the flu shot.
I've never gotten the flu shot because I never believed I needed it. Funny how you realize you need it after you get the flu. I very rarely get sick, but when I do get sick it knocks me out. I'm on day four of the flu and am finally able to sit-up, eat, and use my brain. Hooray for small victories.
Five years ago, I went for a lunchtime run with a friend and halfway through I had to stop because I had suddenly developed the chills and started coughing up phlegm, out of nowhere. Turns out it was a spontaneous case of pneumonia. That was the most miserable I have ever been in my entire life--this flu episode is a close second. I was out of work for ten days. TEN DAYS! At the time I was living in a 425 square foot studio apartment. TEN DAYS. I was a little stir crazy to say the least. I remember near the end of my sickness, I wanted to walk to Blockbuster to return some movies I rented and it took me 45 minutes to walk five blocks. Me. A healthy 27-year-old marathon runner was taking a breather after each block. I think I was even shuffling my feet as I labored down the street.
As a kid I got sick with the same intensity. Usually I'd end up with strep throat, but when most kids have strep throat, they get a sore throat. Not me. I'd end up violently throwing up for 16-18 hours. Anything that went in, would come right back out. I remember waking up one time after I had sleep walked into the bathroom and missed the toilet, sorry mom. And to this day, the thought of Pepto Bismol induces my gag reflex. Unable to stomach even water, my mom would corner me with a spoonful of the pink ooze hoping it would settle my stomach and work some magic. I would clench my teeth so tightly knowing that the only magic it was going to work was setting a record for time from stomach back to toilet--it was usually instantaneous.
My super intense sicknesses were a point of pride for me as a kid. A declaration of sorts: People, I have been to the edge and back averaging 1.4 trips to the bathroom per hour along the way.
So here I am, sick as a dog. But at least I'm on the mend. And with my mom and her Pepto Bismol thousands of miles away, Mr. McMichael has been an excellent stand-in. He's put up with my moaning and whining and my crazy anal-retention about cleaning bathtubs which apparently is heightened when my temperature soars. In thinking about what I could do to express my thanks and gratitude for the TLC, it turns out I've already given him a gift. Ah, yes, the flu. The gift that keeps on giving.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)