The Southern sayin' backstory:
I know the overriding characteristic of my writing here is sophistication, so this may come as a surprise to friends of the blog, but I come from a rural background. I grew up living eight miles outside of a town of roughly 1700 people. We had one county school, and I graduated in a class of about fifty-two. Not only is my hometown as podunk as they come, I come from an ancestry that is a mixture of Kentucky hill people and Tennessee dirt farmers. Because education has been a fairly high priority in my family for two or three generations now, I can largely pass for a mostly normal, non-hick person. Much of the time I'm even allowed to forget about this ridiculously country accent I have. But every so often, I find myself in a situation that can only be summed up in the dialect of my youth; some quaint, down home saying comes out of my mouth, and I embrace my true self. Today is one of those days:
oh bless my heart
I know this should actually be "bless his/her heart" or "bless your heart," but what will follow is a story of how I am the sad and pathetic entity requiring all the heart-blessing. Perhaps, imaginary reader, you're unfamiliar with this expression, so you don't yet grasp just how deserving of your sympathy I should be. There are two common usages: Primarily bless (appropriate third-person possessive pronoun) heart is Southern-girl code for "that poor, unfortunate soul . . . let me use my seeming concern to gossip about problems faced and dramas encountered in the life of said individual." Southern girls could make an Olympic sport out of gossip, but their momas raised them better than to do it overtly--avoiding tackiness being a required course at SEC schools. So bless whomever's heart is the magic word, the get out of tacky-gossip-jail free card. For the record the malicious spirit is optional. Sometimes Southern girl gossip isn't as bad as I'm making it sound . . . I think. Bless your heart is a slightly different thing . . . when you're blessing someone's heart to his/her face, it's not gossip, but it's still a mild put-down in the vein of "oh you poor, dumb thing." It's that sort of condescending sympathy of which I am in need today.
I normally don't leave work at midday. Even if I don't bring my lunch, I eat at one of the many fine downtown dining establishments. Because I have to park in a parking deck more than half a block away, it's just sort of inconvenient (and for most of the year uncomfortably hot or cold), but sometimes I have to deal with the inconvenience. The problem with leaving at midday is that I typically don't pack up all my stuff if I'm not leaving for the day, so it's not altogether uncommon for me to arrive at my car and realize that I've left my keys in their designated pocket of my bag which is sitting under my desk. I always feel beyond stupid when this happens, and as luck would have it, I am almost always caught walking in circles to retrieve them by someone who's only too happy to give me crap about it. So when that happened to me this afternoon as I was trying to leave, it was scarcely noteworthy. Sure I wasted ten minutes round trip due to my own frustrating stupidity, but it certainly wasn't breaking news.
Lucky for you and blog fodder, my key drama continued. Tonight at closing, we had a couple of underagers who were waiting for a ride, so I ended up waiting with a couple of my security buddies for the parents to arrive, so it was already 8:15ish when we hiked over to the parking deck. Just as the elevator was nearing the third floor, I began to dig fruitlessly through the key pocket and the rest of my bag for my keys. Marquis, the best security guard in the history of security guards, walked me back over to the library to get the forgotten keys. I foraged through the upper strata of my desk with no luck. I retraced all the steps I made in our department after my return. By this point, I was not only moderately frantic but also painfully aware that I was keeping my pal Marquis from going home thanks to my ridiculous inability to keep track of my possessions. So I gave up. I called in the cavalry, and when allegedly helpful roommate Jess screened me in my hour of need, my superhero of a brother came to my rescue to pick me up. Lots of cuss words ensued (mine, not Shane's--he was nothing but pleasant and patient). I got home for the first time at nine, and rather than follow the original plan of getting copies made of Jess's house keys (which was likely impossible at that time of night), I finally confirmed that the extra key that's been hanging out at our house for the past fifteen months does indeed unlock the knob of the kitchen door, so I can enter and leave my house at will. My run of improved luck held when I realized that I hadn't yet lost the spare key (and extra clicker) to my car. So a penitent Jess took me to liberate my car from the parking deck, and after a quick stop back at the house to pick up my wallet (because of course, I'd left that at home), I tracked down some dinner and made it home before ten, but not by much.
So bless my heart . . .
It did sort of end up better than it began, and I've calmed down considerably about how my life will play out if I don't find them, but I was deserving of the most sincerely contemptuous bless your hearts ever just a few hours ago. Lucky for me, Jess isn't a real Southern girl, so I didn't actually have to endure any.
Showing posts with label Southern sayin's. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Southern sayin's. Show all posts
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
i couldn't find my butt with both hands
The Southern sayin' backstory:
I know the overriding characteristic of my writing here is sophistication, so this may come as a surprise to friends of the blog, but I come from a rural background. I grew up living eight miles outside of a town of roughly 1700 people. We had one county school, and I graduated in a class of about fifty-two. Not only is my hometown as podunk as they come, I come from an ancestry that is a mixture of Kentucky hill people and Tennessee dirt farmers. Because education has been a fairly high priority in my family for two or three generations now, I can largely pass for a mostly normal, non-hick person. Much of the time I'm even allowed to forget about this ridiculously country accent I have. But every so often, I find myself in a situation that can only be summed up in the dialect of my youth; some quaint, down home saying comes out of my mouth, and I embrace my true self. Today is one of those days:
I couldn't find my butt with both hands.
Perhaps, imaginary readers, you'll recall that I have from time to time used this forum to enumerate the many talents and virtues of my dear moma. It's no secret that I'm a fan. But today I've been forcibly reminded of one of her skills that has thus far gone unacknowledged here at the opinions. My moma can find anything, anywhere. She's the best finder I know. It's impressive, but an unintended consequence of her mad locating skills (skillz?) is that I'm one of the worst finders ever, and it just so happens that there's a sayin' we have back home for just such an occasion. I couldn't find my butt with both hands. This means just what you think it means, friends. The sayin' is used to desribe a person who is so poor at observing the world around him or her that he or she is literally incapable of locating his or her own backside even with the aid of both hands.
I lose things like it's my job, and for most of my formative years, I never made much effort to find them because my bloodhound of a moma could sniff out missing toys, shoes, and books in about a quarter of the time it would take me to wander around aimlessly "looking."
The most famous couldn't find my butt with both hands moment occurred when I was in college. I used to carry my student ID and driver's license and cash (when I had it) in a holder that was attached to my keychain. In my day, Harding girls didn't carry purses, so anything I deemed important got shoved into this holder and carried around with me. It made for bulky keys, but it fit easily into the front pocket of my backpack and could also fit into a jacket or pants pocket as needed. Unfortunately, I didn't like it in my pocket, so I usually took it out and set it on a table or my cafeteria tray or the songbook rack in the Benson, and as you might have imagined, I often left this important little bundle--my life on a keyring--in places all over campus. On one such occasion, when I discovered my keys were missing, I retraced my steps all over the place, emptied out my backpack, and turned out the pockets of anything I'd worn for days. Feeling sorry for myself and deeply embarrassed by my own stupidity, I called my moma to whine. True to form, she began to suggest all the things I could do and places I could look. I petulantly answered each of her suggestions. (Of course, I looked in my backpack. No, they weren't under the bed. Yes, I'd retraced my steps.) Then she suggested looking on the closet shelf. That got my most contemptuous response yet. (No, they weren't on the closet shelf. Why would I put them there? My keys are never on the closet shelf.) She very patiently suggested I look anyway. I flounced over to the closet confident that I'd get to be even more scathing in my reply once I'd looked there, and guess what was lying in plain sight on the closet shelf: my stupid missing keys. So it's not exaggeration when I say my moma can find anything. She once found my keys from 300 miles away. "Did you check the closet shelf?" has become an oft-repeated reminder in our family of just how good she is (and just how bad I am) at finding things. [Insider's note: it was "behind the rollers" before we had behind the rollers.] So seeing as how I'm one of those folks who couldn't find their butt with both hands, I find myself on the horns of a dilemma.
I've been in denial about this for a few days, but it's time I face the truth. My phone charger is missing. The facts (with a bit of editorializing because I can't help myself) of the case are these:
I know the overriding characteristic of my writing here is sophistication, so this may come as a surprise to friends of the blog, but I come from a rural background. I grew up living eight miles outside of a town of roughly 1700 people. We had one county school, and I graduated in a class of about fifty-two. Not only is my hometown as podunk as they come, I come from an ancestry that is a mixture of Kentucky hill people and Tennessee dirt farmers. Because education has been a fairly high priority in my family for two or three generations now, I can largely pass for a mostly normal, non-hick person. Much of the time I'm even allowed to forget about this ridiculously country accent I have. But every so often, I find myself in a situation that can only be summed up in the dialect of my youth; some quaint, down home saying comes out of my mouth, and I embrace my true self. Today is one of those days:
I couldn't find my butt with both hands.
Perhaps, imaginary readers, you'll recall that I have from time to time used this forum to enumerate the many talents and virtues of my dear moma. It's no secret that I'm a fan. But today I've been forcibly reminded of one of her skills that has thus far gone unacknowledged here at the opinions. My moma can find anything, anywhere. She's the best finder I know. It's impressive, but an unintended consequence of her mad locating skills (skillz?) is that I'm one of the worst finders ever, and it just so happens that there's a sayin' we have back home for just such an occasion. I couldn't find my butt with both hands. This means just what you think it means, friends. The sayin' is used to desribe a person who is so poor at observing the world around him or her that he or she is literally incapable of locating his or her own backside even with the aid of both hands.
I lose things like it's my job, and for most of my formative years, I never made much effort to find them because my bloodhound of a moma could sniff out missing toys, shoes, and books in about a quarter of the time it would take me to wander around aimlessly "looking."
The most famous couldn't find my butt with both hands moment occurred when I was in college. I used to carry my student ID and driver's license and cash (when I had it) in a holder that was attached to my keychain. In my day, Harding girls didn't carry purses, so anything I deemed important got shoved into this holder and carried around with me. It made for bulky keys, but it fit easily into the front pocket of my backpack and could also fit into a jacket or pants pocket as needed. Unfortunately, I didn't like it in my pocket, so I usually took it out and set it on a table or my cafeteria tray or the songbook rack in the Benson, and as you might have imagined, I often left this important little bundle--my life on a keyring--in places all over campus. On one such occasion, when I discovered my keys were missing, I retraced my steps all over the place, emptied out my backpack, and turned out the pockets of anything I'd worn for days. Feeling sorry for myself and deeply embarrassed by my own stupidity, I called my moma to whine. True to form, she began to suggest all the things I could do and places I could look. I petulantly answered each of her suggestions. (Of course, I looked in my backpack. No, they weren't under the bed. Yes, I'd retraced my steps.) Then she suggested looking on the closet shelf. That got my most contemptuous response yet. (No, they weren't on the closet shelf. Why would I put them there? My keys are never on the closet shelf.) She very patiently suggested I look anyway. I flounced over to the closet confident that I'd get to be even more scathing in my reply once I'd looked there, and guess what was lying in plain sight on the closet shelf: my stupid missing keys. So it's not exaggeration when I say my moma can find anything. She once found my keys from 300 miles away. "Did you check the closet shelf?" has become an oft-repeated reminder in our family of just how good she is (and just how bad I am) at finding things. [Insider's note: it was "behind the rollers" before we had behind the rollers.] So seeing as how I'm one of those folks who couldn't find their butt with both hands, I find myself on the horns of a dilemma.
I've been in denial about this for a few days, but it's time I face the truth. My phone charger is missing. The facts (with a bit of editorializing because I can't help myself) of the case are these:
- I "know" I had it during our snow days two weeks ago. I can "remember" being inconvenienced by the need to be plugged in (or maybe I'm remember that about my laptop but it feels like my phone), but I can't remember using it since.
- I definitely didn't take it to Kentucky for Pinkie's birthday because I realized I hadn't packed it and used my car charger instead.
- When I got home, I actively looked for it a couple times, but couldn't find it in any of the usual places--my work bag, plugged in to the outlet strip by my bed-side table, or lying in the floor near the couch outlet in the living room (yes, those are the places where my charger lives).
- I expanded my search to include unusual places because even though I can "remember" using it since Christmas, I can't shake the nagging feeling that I never unpacked it from my Christmas travels. So I've fruitlessly looked in every bag/luggage/container that made that trip.
- On Sunday when my phone was desperately low on battery, I convinced myself that I had taken it to work and left it plugged in there and once again used my car charger.
- On Monday thanks to a timely reminder from my favorite blogging brother, I remembered to look around for the charger at work. No joy there.
- Last night I double-checked all the places I think it could be at home, and it still hasn't turned up.
Monday, November 15, 2010
finer than frog hair
The Southern sayin' backstory:
I know the overriding characteristic of my writing here is sophistication, so this may come as a surprise to friends of the blog, but I come from a rural background. I grew up living eight miles outside of a town of roughly 1700 people. We had one county school, and I graduated in a class of about fifty-two. Not only is my hometown as podunk as they come, I come from an ancestry that is a mixture of Kentucky hill people and Tennessee dirt farmers. Because education has been a fairly high priority in my family for two or three generations now, I can largely pass for a mostly normal, non-hick person. Most of the time I'm even allowed to forget about this ridiculously country accent I have. But every so often, I find myself in a situation that can only be summed up in the dialect of my youth; some quaint, down home saying comes out of my mouth, and I embrace my true self. Today was one of those days:
I don't want to turn this site into a cataloging of my dental adventures, but I felt called to update friends of the blog about what's going on in my mouth today. In addition, last week, thanks to the most harrowing dental experience of my life, I instructed my faithful readers on a quaint sayin' from my rural past, so I thought I could do the same today.
I'm finer than frog hair.
I know you may be thinking to yourself right now that frogs don't have hair, and of course, you're right about that. I'm only speculating here, but I believe the idea behind this expression is that since frog hair is so fine as to be nonexistent, it is quite fine indeed. I've also heard "finer than frog hair split four ways," which takes this concept of ultra-fineness and intensifies it. But I'm not that fine.
I believe I mentioned that I had one more cavity to fill before my dental saga could end, and I went to get that done this morning. All week I'd been rehearsing a little speech for my dentist about walking out with the job half-finished if he hurt me again, but I ended up not using it. The assistant who took me back today was not the same girl as last week, so when she asked me how I was doing and I said I was scared, I got to fill her in on how badly things went last week. She acted properly horrified, which got her on my good side and then she cemented her place in my heart by suggesting that I might want to try the laughing gas. She offered it to me, free of charge, and after a few deep breaths, I was already much more relaxed. By the time Dr. Lee came in to give me my shots, I felt right on the edge of falling asleep, but I could still open my eyes and talk to him normally without feeling groggy at all. He had planned a different plan of attack in the numbing department already, and whatever he did worked great. I should have asked about what he did differently, but I was so relaxed, I really didn't care. He did say that he definitely had my numbing procedure figured out for next time, though we both agreed we don't want to have a next time anytime soon.
My one regret is that no one said anything funny while I was on the gas--I really wanted to see if I would laugh more than usual. I did feel like my default facial expression was a smile instead of my usual furrowed brow, droopy-mouthed frown.
When I called my moma (because of course I called my moma) and described how much better the world was with nitrous oxide, she suggested I might check on the pricing by the tankful. She thinks my coworkers might want to chip in for a Christmas present. And that would be fine with me--finer than frog hair, in fact.
I know the overriding characteristic of my writing here is sophistication, so this may come as a surprise to friends of the blog, but I come from a rural background. I grew up living eight miles outside of a town of roughly 1700 people. We had one county school, and I graduated in a class of about fifty-two. Not only is my hometown as podunk as they come, I come from an ancestry that is a mixture of Kentucky hill people and Tennessee dirt farmers. Because education has been a fairly high priority in my family for two or three generations now, I can largely pass for a mostly normal, non-hick person. Most of the time I'm even allowed to forget about this ridiculously country accent I have. But every so often, I find myself in a situation that can only be summed up in the dialect of my youth; some quaint, down home saying comes out of my mouth, and I embrace my true self. Today was one of those days:
I don't want to turn this site into a cataloging of my dental adventures, but I felt called to update friends of the blog about what's going on in my mouth today. In addition, last week, thanks to the most harrowing dental experience of my life, I instructed my faithful readers on a quaint sayin' from my rural past, so I thought I could do the same today.
I'm finer than frog hair.
I know you may be thinking to yourself right now that frogs don't have hair, and of course, you're right about that. I'm only speculating here, but I believe the idea behind this expression is that since frog hair is so fine as to be nonexistent, it is quite fine indeed. I've also heard "finer than frog hair split four ways," which takes this concept of ultra-fineness and intensifies it. But I'm not that fine.
I believe I mentioned that I had one more cavity to fill before my dental saga could end, and I went to get that done this morning. All week I'd been rehearsing a little speech for my dentist about walking out with the job half-finished if he hurt me again, but I ended up not using it. The assistant who took me back today was not the same girl as last week, so when she asked me how I was doing and I said I was scared, I got to fill her in on how badly things went last week. She acted properly horrified, which got her on my good side and then she cemented her place in my heart by suggesting that I might want to try the laughing gas. She offered it to me, free of charge, and after a few deep breaths, I was already much more relaxed. By the time Dr. Lee came in to give me my shots, I felt right on the edge of falling asleep, but I could still open my eyes and talk to him normally without feeling groggy at all. He had planned a different plan of attack in the numbing department already, and whatever he did worked great. I should have asked about what he did differently, but I was so relaxed, I really didn't care. He did say that he definitely had my numbing procedure figured out for next time, though we both agreed we don't want to have a next time anytime soon.
My one regret is that no one said anything funny while I was on the gas--I really wanted to see if I would laugh more than usual. I did feel like my default facial expression was a smile instead of my usual furrowed brow, droopy-mouthed frown.
When I called my moma (because of course I called my moma) and described how much better the world was with nitrous oxide, she suggested I might check on the pricing by the tankful. She thinks my coworkers might want to chip in for a Christmas present. And that would be fine with me--finer than frog hair, in fact.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
trying to have a come apart
I know the overriding characteristic of my writing here is sophistication, so this may come as a surprise to friends of the blog, but I come from a rural background. I grew up living eight miles outside of a town of roughly 1700 people. We had one county school, and I graduated in a class of about fifty-two. Not only is my hometown as podunk as they come, I come from an ancestry that is a mixture of Kentucky hill people and Tennessee dirt farmers. Because education has been a fairly high priority in my family for two or three generations now, I can largely pass for a mostly normal, non-hick person. Most of the time I'm even allowed to forget about this ridiculously country accent I have. But every so often, I find myself in a situation that can only be summed up in the dialect of my youth; some quaint, down home saying comes out of my mouth, and I embrace my true self. Yesterday was one of those days:
I'm trying to have a come apart.
My moma says this, and I have no idea where she learned it, but it basically means that someone is losing it or falling all to pieces. Typically when she says it, she means that the person is overreacting to whatever particular circumstances are causing the "come apart." It's the sort of behavior that Jess would describe as being dramatic. One who is "trying to have a come apart" is upset or frustrated or tired or sick or feeling put upon and wants everyone to know about it and feel sorry. There is nothing shy or retiring or unassuming about trying to have a come apart. In short, I was made for trying to have a come apart.
But yesterday's come apart was so big that it was in my head all day. I've been completely aware through the whole ordeal that I'm overreacting, but that seemed to have absolutely no bearing on the come apart. And now I want to relive the whole mess so you all can sympathize with me, imaginary readers. It's just the sort of thing we come-aparters like to do. Bear with me in my attention-starved, persecuted existence.
You know those people who have managed to make it to adulthood with no major dental work: they get their check-ups every six months, have never had a cavity, never wore braces, and can leap tall buildings in a single bound? Well, I'm not one of those people. The six to eight teeth you can see when I smile are the best I've got and worth at least half of what my long-suffering moma paid my orthodontist, but the rest of my mouth is big ol' mess. My bottom teeth stayed straight until I lost my second set of retainers at about the same time my lower wisdom teeth began pushing diagonally through my gums. I've got fillings galore, and one crown that replaced a cracked tooth. I've never had a root canal, but I suspect it's just a matter of time. So going to the dentist to have two small cavities filled as I did first thing Monday morning is barely a blip on my radar. A couple of weeks ago, I had to go to the dentist to get a filling replaced because I had an old one that just fell out. They discovered these two new cavities then and a third on the other side that we'll deal with next week. (Apparently I hadn't been to the dentist in nearly three years. Oops). When I was there for that, he had to drill just a tiny bit to smooth things out where he was going to put the new filling. He gave me the shot, which is always a little unpleasant and left me to go numb for a few minutes. When he came back to drill, I wasn't deadened enough, but by the time I could communicate that, he was done with the drilling.
So fast forward to today when he gives me one shot on top and one on bottom that makes my eyes water like a faucet. He goes away for a few minutes, and comes back to start drilling. Again, I can feel what's going on, and it's not pleasant. He stops pretty quickly this time and remembers that he's had to give me extra shots before and gives me another shot up top and another in the bottom for good measure. Then he starts back to drilling immediately without giving them any time to take affect. I'm no expert, so maybe that's not necessary for everyone, but I think it would have helped because I could still feel it. By the time I get him stopped the second time, he's done drilling on top. So I take a deep breath and get myself under control while he does the filling up top.
Then he starts drilling on the bottom, and surprise! I can feel it too. So he gives me shot #3 on the bottom (#5 overall). I try to toughen up a little, but by this point my whole body is clenched, and once he starts drilling, the ongoing pain causes me to start sobbing, not crying. The fact that I've got tears streaming down my face and I'm snubbing like a newborn doesn't get him to stop all at once, but when I start kicking my feet against the chair, he finally realizes that I'm serious. I can't guarantee that I didn't reflexively bite him during this part either. We had to stop for a minute while I mopped myself up with a tissue, and that's when I actually apologize for falling apart. I was so embarrassed by myself. So then he assures me that we're almost done, gives me shot #4 on the bottom and starts right back to drilling. It was better at that point, but I could still feel way more than I think I should have. Luckily, we were almost finished with drilling by that point, and I was able to keep my breathing under control though I continued to cry mostly silently until he was almost finished putting in the filling. And of course, with six doses of numbing medicine in me, I had serious stroke victim face going on for several hours after.
Of course, as soon as I left I called my moma because I'm a giant baby--and because she too is no stranger to needing time for dental numbing shots to take effect. When I'm trying to explain to her what happened, the horror of it comes back on me, and I cry like the giant baby I am in the Kroger parking lot (where I'd gone to buy ponytail holders because I left the house without one, and there was no way I was going to make it until eight p.m. with my hair just hanging around being annoying). So I let Kroger soothe me until I realized that it was making me hungry, and I was afraid if I ate anything I'd bit my tongue off and not feel it because of how numb I finally was. So after an errand at the bank, I went to work. I gave Lisa only the very briefest summation of my dental trauma (you're jealous that she got the short version, aren't ya?) and went to my desk to start work and take my mind off the whole ordeal.
And that's when I had my third meltdown of the day. I had an email waiting on me where a person in another department chastised me for something that I still maintain wasn't wrong, and she copied the email to my entire department, my two most immediate supervisors and two other unrelated departments, in effect scolding me in front of a couple dozen colleagues and blowing a very minor joke out of proportion. Now on a normal day this might have been worthy of a couple minutes stewing and complaining about the misunderstanding to my lovely supportive coworkers who were all mad on my behalf, but if you'll recall, I'm trying to have a come apart. So I was completely mortified. I'm still embarrassed when I think about it these many hours later. And thanks to the remaining built-up dental tension, I called a work friend, cussed at him a little for the stupidity of the whole mess, and had my third crying jag.
The remainder of the day was tear-free, but it was still touch and go at a few odd moments along the way. For those keeping score, my mouth started aching as soon as feeling started coming back, and it's still store on Tuesday morning as I put the finishing touches on my completely self-indulgent rant.
But that, my friends, is what's known as trying to have a come apart. While I don't wish a similar situation on you, I hope you get the chance to use it in a sentence one day soon.
I'm trying to have a come apart.
My moma says this, and I have no idea where she learned it, but it basically means that someone is losing it or falling all to pieces. Typically when she says it, she means that the person is overreacting to whatever particular circumstances are causing the "come apart." It's the sort of behavior that Jess would describe as being dramatic. One who is "trying to have a come apart" is upset or frustrated or tired or sick or feeling put upon and wants everyone to know about it and feel sorry. There is nothing shy or retiring or unassuming about trying to have a come apart. In short, I was made for trying to have a come apart.
But yesterday's come apart was so big that it was in my head all day. I've been completely aware through the whole ordeal that I'm overreacting, but that seemed to have absolutely no bearing on the come apart. And now I want to relive the whole mess so you all can sympathize with me, imaginary readers. It's just the sort of thing we come-aparters like to do. Bear with me in my attention-starved, persecuted existence.
You know those people who have managed to make it to adulthood with no major dental work: they get their check-ups every six months, have never had a cavity, never wore braces, and can leap tall buildings in a single bound? Well, I'm not one of those people. The six to eight teeth you can see when I smile are the best I've got and worth at least half of what my long-suffering moma paid my orthodontist, but the rest of my mouth is big ol' mess. My bottom teeth stayed straight until I lost my second set of retainers at about the same time my lower wisdom teeth began pushing diagonally through my gums. I've got fillings galore, and one crown that replaced a cracked tooth. I've never had a root canal, but I suspect it's just a matter of time. So going to the dentist to have two small cavities filled as I did first thing Monday morning is barely a blip on my radar. A couple of weeks ago, I had to go to the dentist to get a filling replaced because I had an old one that just fell out. They discovered these two new cavities then and a third on the other side that we'll deal with next week. (Apparently I hadn't been to the dentist in nearly three years. Oops). When I was there for that, he had to drill just a tiny bit to smooth things out where he was going to put the new filling. He gave me the shot, which is always a little unpleasant and left me to go numb for a few minutes. When he came back to drill, I wasn't deadened enough, but by the time I could communicate that, he was done with the drilling.
So fast forward to today when he gives me one shot on top and one on bottom that makes my eyes water like a faucet. He goes away for a few minutes, and comes back to start drilling. Again, I can feel what's going on, and it's not pleasant. He stops pretty quickly this time and remembers that he's had to give me extra shots before and gives me another shot up top and another in the bottom for good measure. Then he starts back to drilling immediately without giving them any time to take affect. I'm no expert, so maybe that's not necessary for everyone, but I think it would have helped because I could still feel it. By the time I get him stopped the second time, he's done drilling on top. So I take a deep breath and get myself under control while he does the filling up top.
Then he starts drilling on the bottom, and surprise! I can feel it too. So he gives me shot #3 on the bottom (#5 overall). I try to toughen up a little, but by this point my whole body is clenched, and once he starts drilling, the ongoing pain causes me to start sobbing, not crying. The fact that I've got tears streaming down my face and I'm snubbing like a newborn doesn't get him to stop all at once, but when I start kicking my feet against the chair, he finally realizes that I'm serious. I can't guarantee that I didn't reflexively bite him during this part either. We had to stop for a minute while I mopped myself up with a tissue, and that's when I actually apologize for falling apart. I was so embarrassed by myself. So then he assures me that we're almost done, gives me shot #4 on the bottom and starts right back to drilling. It was better at that point, but I could still feel way more than I think I should have. Luckily, we were almost finished with drilling by that point, and I was able to keep my breathing under control though I continued to cry mostly silently until he was almost finished putting in the filling. And of course, with six doses of numbing medicine in me, I had serious stroke victim face going on for several hours after.
Of course, as soon as I left I called my moma because I'm a giant baby--and because she too is no stranger to needing time for dental numbing shots to take effect. When I'm trying to explain to her what happened, the horror of it comes back on me, and I cry like the giant baby I am in the Kroger parking lot (where I'd gone to buy ponytail holders because I left the house without one, and there was no way I was going to make it until eight p.m. with my hair just hanging around being annoying). So I let Kroger soothe me until I realized that it was making me hungry, and I was afraid if I ate anything I'd bit my tongue off and not feel it because of how numb I finally was. So after an errand at the bank, I went to work. I gave Lisa only the very briefest summation of my dental trauma (you're jealous that she got the short version, aren't ya?) and went to my desk to start work and take my mind off the whole ordeal.
And that's when I had my third meltdown of the day. I had an email waiting on me where a person in another department chastised me for something that I still maintain wasn't wrong, and she copied the email to my entire department, my two most immediate supervisors and two other unrelated departments, in effect scolding me in front of a couple dozen colleagues and blowing a very minor joke out of proportion. Now on a normal day this might have been worthy of a couple minutes stewing and complaining about the misunderstanding to my lovely supportive coworkers who were all mad on my behalf, but if you'll recall, I'm trying to have a come apart. So I was completely mortified. I'm still embarrassed when I think about it these many hours later. And thanks to the remaining built-up dental tension, I called a work friend, cussed at him a little for the stupidity of the whole mess, and had my third crying jag.
The remainder of the day was tear-free, but it was still touch and go at a few odd moments along the way. For those keeping score, my mouth started aching as soon as feeling started coming back, and it's still store on Tuesday morning as I put the finishing touches on my completely self-indulgent rant.
But that, my friends, is what's known as trying to have a come apart. While I don't wish a similar situation on you, I hope you get the chance to use it in a sentence one day soon.
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