It's been a day fraught with emotional upset, but none so great as what happened to me this afternoon.
Once upon a time, when I worked at Borders, Harry Potter books were still being released. I worked several of the midnight release parties (always super fun!) and during the first one I was the Cafe Manager, and thus dressed up as "Sortia O'Simmer, Syltherin Potions Mistress". That was my first inkling of my future greatness.
A few years later, Pottermore was released to potential beta users. I was super lucky, and managed to get in- and was promptly sorted into Slytherin. I wasn't surprised, exactly- I knew I'd come out either Ravenclaw or Slytherin- but I was a little saddened by the lack of Positive Slytherin Representation in the world. I vowed to show the world that Slytherins were basically the best of Ravenclaw and Griffindor- we're incredibly clever (some might say "sly") when it comes to getting our way, but we also have deep, powerful bonds loyalty (to those who deserve it).
I've been bleeding green and silver ever since (we even did Neeps's birth announcements with me in Slytherin robes and Nathan in Ravenclaw robes), although I've never been super active on Pottermore. I'll pop over every once in a while, when JK Rowling updates with something cool.
As she did today.
So of course I wanted to know which of the American houses I'd be sorted in to! But... I couldn't remember my password. And they couldn't email it to me, apparently, because I'd originally signed up under the old Pottermore: I'd have to sign up again.
So I did.
And lo! They told me that if I entered my old username, I could recover all my old stuff- house, wand, etc etc. Well that was cool- except I couldn't remember my randomly generated username. I knew I could dig it up if I looked hard enough, but I figured what the heck- I'd just re-sort myself into Slytherin and would be fiiiiiiine.
Except that's not what happened.
The test- a test which was noticeably different from the one I took seven years ago- sorted me into freaking Ravenclaw. I was aghast. I may have literally howled, "Nooooo!"
Almost immediately thereafter, I found my old username. "Okay," I told myself, trying to calm my breathing. "We can fix this. I'll just... delete this new account, sign up for a new new one, and use my recently recovered username to grab my old info!"
Except that's not what happened.
I went to go delete my account- and was informed that if I did so, I 'd lose access to all the Harry Potter books I'd purchased several years back.
There was definitely some very vulgar swearing at this point.
And so I've sent Pottermore a letter, laying out my situation and begging for mercy. We'll see what they say. I'm sure they can help me out, with the power of friendship and magic...
(But don't think the Slytherin in me isn't shrieking, "I will burn shit to the ground!")
EDITED TO ADD:
After a second, pleading-intensified missive, they finally took pity on me! I'm back in the snake's den where I belong. Thanks, Pottermore!
Showing posts with label bad experiences. Show all posts
Showing posts with label bad experiences. Show all posts
6.28.2016
3.12.2016
Misadventures of the Past Twenty-Four Hours
I woke up because Nathan had burned some popcorn.
That's what I thought, anyway, as I lay there in the dark, gagging on the stench. I peered bleerily at my phone- not quite midnight. I'd been asleep for about three hours. And the reek was getting worse.
It's nothing. It's just popcorn, I thought to myself, trying not to be That Paranoid Woman. But then-
That's not nothing- the smell is too strong... and... chemical? Oh shit what if Nathan is passed out! Thus did I come flying out of the bed and down the stairs, to a living room hung with greasy gray tendrils of smoke.
Why isn't the fire alarm going off? I thought, rushing into the kitchen to find the source of the smell. There on the stove, on a burner that was theoretically turned off, were the charred remnants of what had once been chicken and vegetable soup, and a heavy plastic ladle that was melting and burning in the thoroughly ruined pot.
By this point Nathan emerged from his office to see why I was stampeding around the house: the closed door had cut him off completely from the odor (not dead from smoke inhalation- yay!).
We got it taken care of, of course, but the house... the smell is literally nauseating. Even now, after a full day of open windows, it still smells like an ashtray. It's horrific. ::sigh:: Tomorrow's activities will likely include me washing walls...
After that adventure I had a hard time getting back to sleep- my brain wouldn't shut up with the "But what if I hadn't woken up?!" scenarios. And then of course Neeps woke up for his night-feed, which kept me up even longer.
All of this to say, I did not get a lot of sleep last night, which perhaps explains the events of this morning.
I was scheduled to be part of a photo-shoot for a feature on working moms today (a joint effort by the dynamic women behind A Well Crafted Party and Momma Bear Magazine), something I was very, very excited about. Since the shoot was taking place a good half hour from where I live, I had Neeps packed up and ready to go early enough that we wouldn't just be on time, we'd be a little early. We'd been instructed to wear what we'd normally wear for work, but I, in my Motherly Wisdom, was bringing it with me rather than wearing it, because we all know that wrangling infants whilst wearing Office Apparel is a recipe for disaster.
Except (I realized just in time to miss the last exit on our side of the river) I forgot the damn outfit. (also the damn makeup, jewelry, shoes, and hairbrush, all of which were neatly assembled in a bag so that I could grab it on my way out the door.) And so I had to cross the river, exit, turn around, get back on the interstate to recross the river to get back home and retrieve the bag, and then start out again. Normally this wouldn't have been so terrible- an extra 15 minutes, max- but traffic had been really heavy and slow on the way south the first time, and on the way south the second time it was at a literal standstill because of course they raised the bridge.
In the end it took me over an hour from the time I left the house (the first time) to the time I actually made it to the photo shoot. Not my finest hour. Although to tell the truth I couldn't help but laugh that me having a child didn't actually have anything whatsoever to do with my tardiness to the "working moms" event.
The day went a great deal more smoothly from that point onward- I loved hanging out and chatting with other working mothers- those ladies were inspiring as hell! And of course I never get tired of hearing people admire my baby. I'm really excited to see the results of the shoot, and you can be certain I'll link you guys to the feature when it comes out!
That's what I thought, anyway, as I lay there in the dark, gagging on the stench. I peered bleerily at my phone- not quite midnight. I'd been asleep for about three hours. And the reek was getting worse.
It's nothing. It's just popcorn, I thought to myself, trying not to be That Paranoid Woman. But then-
That's not nothing- the smell is too strong... and... chemical? Oh shit what if Nathan is passed out! Thus did I come flying out of the bed and down the stairs, to a living room hung with greasy gray tendrils of smoke.
Why isn't the fire alarm going off? I thought, rushing into the kitchen to find the source of the smell. There on the stove, on a burner that was theoretically turned off, were the charred remnants of what had once been chicken and vegetable soup, and a heavy plastic ladle that was melting and burning in the thoroughly ruined pot.
By this point Nathan emerged from his office to see why I was stampeding around the house: the closed door had cut him off completely from the odor (not dead from smoke inhalation- yay!).
We got it taken care of, of course, but the house... the smell is literally nauseating. Even now, after a full day of open windows, it still smells like an ashtray. It's horrific. ::sigh:: Tomorrow's activities will likely include me washing walls...
After that adventure I had a hard time getting back to sleep- my brain wouldn't shut up with the "But what if I hadn't woken up?!" scenarios. And then of course Neeps woke up for his night-feed, which kept me up even longer.
All of this to say, I did not get a lot of sleep last night, which perhaps explains the events of this morning.
I was scheduled to be part of a photo-shoot for a feature on working moms today (a joint effort by the dynamic women behind A Well Crafted Party and Momma Bear Magazine), something I was very, very excited about. Since the shoot was taking place a good half hour from where I live, I had Neeps packed up and ready to go early enough that we wouldn't just be on time, we'd be a little early. We'd been instructed to wear what we'd normally wear for work, but I, in my Motherly Wisdom, was bringing it with me rather than wearing it, because we all know that wrangling infants whilst wearing Office Apparel is a recipe for disaster.
Except (I realized just in time to miss the last exit on our side of the river) I forgot the damn outfit. (also the damn makeup, jewelry, shoes, and hairbrush, all of which were neatly assembled in a bag so that I could grab it on my way out the door.) And so I had to cross the river, exit, turn around, get back on the interstate to recross the river to get back home and retrieve the bag, and then start out again. Normally this wouldn't have been so terrible- an extra 15 minutes, max- but traffic had been really heavy and slow on the way south the first time, and on the way south the second time it was at a literal standstill because of course they raised the bridge.
In the end it took me over an hour from the time I left the house (the first time) to the time I actually made it to the photo shoot. Not my finest hour. Although to tell the truth I couldn't help but laugh that me having a child didn't actually have anything whatsoever to do with my tardiness to the "working moms" event.
The day went a great deal more smoothly from that point onward- I loved hanging out and chatting with other working mothers- those ladies were inspiring as hell! And of course I never get tired of hearing people admire my baby. I'm really excited to see the results of the shoot, and you can be certain I'll link you guys to the feature when it comes out!
8.21.2014
Release Me
I have a headache today, but so far I haven't had any luck getting its claws out of my skull.
Of course, I know what will actually make the headache go away- it's just that I can't seem to do it. Stop clenching my jaw, I mean. I am so ridiculously stressed our right now, and it manifests in me gritting my teeth and getting on with things. ::sigh::
 |
| Naproxen Sodium |
Of course, I know what will actually make the headache go away- it's just that I can't seem to do it. Stop clenching my jaw, I mean. I am so ridiculously stressed our right now, and it manifests in me gritting my teeth and getting on with things. ::sigh::
6.22.2014
The Facts
I miscarried two weeks ago. Hopefully this post will answer most of the common questions people might have about the whole experience.
I was 14 weeks, three days into my pregnancy (that's a little over three months, for those of you confused by the whole pregnancy-in-weeks thing) which means I was in the second trimester, which means what happened is termed a "late miscarriage". It is not common. We had a 2% chance of it happening.
We'd nick-named the fetus "the Koopa" due to its striking resemblance to such in an early ultrasound.
I had what is referred to as a "natural miscarriage", which means I essentially gave birth. I did it at home. This was by far a better choice for me personally than going to the ER. Your mileage may vary.
We were not expecting it. We'd last seen the Koopa's heartbeat on an ultrasound that Friday morning. I miscarried in the first dark hours of Sunday. I didn't even fully understand/accept that it was happening until I was actively "giving birth", because I'd gone through similar contractions that Thursday night and again- everything appeared fine. From start to finish the whole thing took perhaps three hours.
We went to the doctor the following Monday, and I gave the Koopa and parts of my placenta to pathology. I appeared to be perfectly healthy, with no obvious reason for me to have miscarried.
As it turned out, unfortunately, I was not "perfectly healthy". Less than a week later, on a Thursday night, I began hemorrhaging. This resulted in a trip to the ER, an approximate 30% blood loss, and an emergency D&C, which revealed that I had a rather large portion of placenta still in my uterus. Thanks to modern medicine, I came out the other side of things, and spent an additional five days recovering at home.
Since that nerve-wracking Thursday night we have gotten the pathology report back: the Koopa was in perfect physical condition, and there was no sign of infection, so again- no obvious reason to have miscarried. Chromosomal results will take longer, and they may or may not have more answers for us. I have a follow-up appointment with my doctor this week, which I expect will lead to further tests to try and discover "Why did this happen?" But I am fully aware that sometimes the only answer is, "It just did."
We did not choose to bury Koopa. In my imagination, after pathology was done with her she went on to help new doctors learn about miscarriage. If you happen to know differently, I'd appreciate you letting me keep my illusions. They're pretty and they give me comfort.
This was my second miscarriage, which increases my chances for miscarriage in the future to 18%. Of course, we haven't decided yet if we're going to try again. Only time will tell.
Nathan and I are doing reasonably well, all things considered. We have been surrounded with love and support by our family and friends, and we know we will be okay in the long run.
If you would like to read about my first miscarriage, you can go here and follow the rabbit hole.
If you'd like to read a more visceral description of what happened two weeks ago, that's here. But I totally get it if you don't.
I was 14 weeks, three days into my pregnancy (that's a little over three months, for those of you confused by the whole pregnancy-in-weeks thing) which means I was in the second trimester, which means what happened is termed a "late miscarriage". It is not common. We had a 2% chance of it happening.
We'd nick-named the fetus "the Koopa" due to its striking resemblance to such in an early ultrasound.
I had what is referred to as a "natural miscarriage", which means I essentially gave birth. I did it at home. This was by far a better choice for me personally than going to the ER. Your mileage may vary.
We were not expecting it. We'd last seen the Koopa's heartbeat on an ultrasound that Friday morning. I miscarried in the first dark hours of Sunday. I didn't even fully understand/accept that it was happening until I was actively "giving birth", because I'd gone through similar contractions that Thursday night and again- everything appeared fine. From start to finish the whole thing took perhaps three hours.
We went to the doctor the following Monday, and I gave the Koopa and parts of my placenta to pathology. I appeared to be perfectly healthy, with no obvious reason for me to have miscarried.
As it turned out, unfortunately, I was not "perfectly healthy". Less than a week later, on a Thursday night, I began hemorrhaging. This resulted in a trip to the ER, an approximate 30% blood loss, and an emergency D&C, which revealed that I had a rather large portion of placenta still in my uterus. Thanks to modern medicine, I came out the other side of things, and spent an additional five days recovering at home.
Since that nerve-wracking Thursday night we have gotten the pathology report back: the Koopa was in perfect physical condition, and there was no sign of infection, so again- no obvious reason to have miscarried. Chromosomal results will take longer, and they may or may not have more answers for us. I have a follow-up appointment with my doctor this week, which I expect will lead to further tests to try and discover "Why did this happen?" But I am fully aware that sometimes the only answer is, "It just did."
We did not choose to bury Koopa. In my imagination, after pathology was done with her she went on to help new doctors learn about miscarriage. If you happen to know differently, I'd appreciate you letting me keep my illusions. They're pretty and they give me comfort.
This was my second miscarriage, which increases my chances for miscarriage in the future to 18%. Of course, we haven't decided yet if we're going to try again. Only time will tell.
Nathan and I are doing reasonably well, all things considered. We have been surrounded with love and support by our family and friends, and we know we will be okay in the long run.
If you would like to read about my first miscarriage, you can go here and follow the rabbit hole.
If you'd like to read a more visceral description of what happened two weeks ago, that's here. But I totally get it if you don't.
Breaking
This is a narrative about an unexpected, natural miscarriage in the second trimester.
It's graphic.
Only you can decide if you're comfortable reading it. If you'd rather have just the cold facts, go here. If you don't want to know anything about it at all, that's okay, too.
***
The contractions start about half an hour before midnight.
I'm not pleased, obviously. There shouldn't be any contractions at all, and I'm not in the mood for another sleepless night. But it's not like there's anything I can do about it.
Well, there are a few things. I take some acetaminophen, and I let myself express my displeasure (and pain) verbally, something I didn't do the other night while Nathan was sleeping. Deep breaths, grunting out "Okay, okay, okay, okay," as the pain rises up to a peak, then slowly subsides. Waves, waves... so much of a woman's life is tied to the ocean...
After about an hour of this I decide to get into the shower. The pain isn't so bad as it was the other night- at their peak these contractions are hitting a 6 rather than an 8- but it's plenty bad enough that I know I have no chance of sleeping through them. It's shower time. Hot water helped last time, I'm sure it will help this time. Another one hits me as I'm getting under the water, and I make unhappy noises with no real words involved- Nathan hears me from downstairs, and comes rushing in.
I don't want him to see me like this, to see me in pain and be unable to do anything, but at the same time it's a relief not to keep silent like I was before, to be able to yell "Fuck!" and hit the wall with my hand whenever I feel the need. Which I do often. The contractions are getting worse, and coming more frequently. Whatever helps me through one is not guaranteed to help me through the next- in fact it's pretty much guaranteed not to.
I ask Nathan to look up how to breathe through contractions- he finds me a few tips, but they're written in such smug, calm voices that I cannot help but feel highly annoyed by them, and certain that the people who wrote those instructions have never actually experienced a contraction.
There's no thinking during contractions, not really. There's no talking, beyond perhaps the word, "Fuck," or "Ow". Plenty of inarticulate growls and grunts. But in between contractions I can think, and what I keep thinking, as if on a loop, is,
"This is fucking bullshit. Unfair, god damn bullshit."
At one point I say to Nathan, "Know what? One baby is good. One perfect baby. No need to go through this again."
For real. This is not what pregnancy is supposed to be like.
Another contractions hits, and I twist and howl and wish desperately to escape my body. Maybe this would be easier, if I knew I would get a live baby at the end of it. But I don't know that. The best I can hope for is for it to just stop, to fade away like it did the other night. But it doesn't stop.
I've told Nathan over and over that I don't want to go to the hospital- we went for the first miscarriage, and it was sheer misery. They can't do anything to stop a miscarriage, all they can do is charge you a couple thousand bucks to ignore you for six hours.
"If I miscarry again," I've said, "I want to do it in the comfort and dignity of my own home."
But now Nathan is looking at me and he saying, "Baby I'm worried about you. I'm afraid if we don't go then something will go wrong with you,"
"Pain can't... hurt me," I say, fully aware of the irony. "Pain won't kill me. The only danger I'm in is of bleeding out, and we'll keep an eye on it and I promise I'll let you take me to the hospital if it comes to that."
Shortly thereafter a contraction hits that blows right through my anger, and instead makes me whimper like an injured animal, and cry. I am literally crying, tears leaking from my eyes, and that's when I know shit is real, because I have no choice about it. Normally I can choose whether or not to "let" myself cry, but this? This is happening because it is the only possible response to the pain that I'm in. Even when the contraction passes I'm still curled in a ball in the tub, crying, bewildered, broken.
This is wrong.
Normally I don't like to be touched when I'm in pain, but for this I've let Nathan put his hand on me. Suddenly, I have to go to the bathroom.
"Let me up," I say, and I can hear the desperation in my voice. He does, and I scramble to the toilet. A very small, distant part of my brain knows what this is.
The desire to push feels exactly like the desire to poop,
More than one woman has told me that, but it's one thing to know something intellectually, and another thing to actually believe it.
The pain comes to a crescendo and thank the gods Nathan is still holding me because I'm not just crying, it's like the sobs are being ripped from my body in great gasping sorrowful shrieks because I do push, and I feel my body passing something, and I know what that something is. And I'm afraid of it, afraid afraid afraid...
The pain subsides almost immediately.
"It's okay," I say to Nathan, strangely calm through my tears. "It's over now. It's over."
And then he understands, and we cry together, his rage boiling up and over and serving to make me calmer and calmer. Now I have to pass the placenta. I have to collect the samples. I have to be very cold, and logical about this. I don't have time to break down. I can do that later.
I send Nathan away so I can collect the fetus. At first I don't want to. I'd give anything not to look and see the premature horror I've birthed. But more than that, I don't want Nathan to have to see. So I send him away, because I know that I have seen worse things in my life, and I will probably see things worse still in the future.
I send up a silent prayer that I never have to see anything worse.
But then I look and... it's not terrible. It's not terrible at all. There she is, perfectly formed, so perfect perfect perfect in her unbroken sack. Fourteen weeks, three days. I saw her heartbeat less than 48 hours ago. I scoop her up, and I don't feel disgust, or horror- just sorrow. And relief. She is not a monster. She just... is.
It's graphic.
Only you can decide if you're comfortable reading it. If you'd rather have just the cold facts, go here. If you don't want to know anything about it at all, that's okay, too.
***
The contractions start about half an hour before midnight.
I'm not pleased, obviously. There shouldn't be any contractions at all, and I'm not in the mood for another sleepless night. But it's not like there's anything I can do about it.
Well, there are a few things. I take some acetaminophen, and I let myself express my displeasure (and pain) verbally, something I didn't do the other night while Nathan was sleeping. Deep breaths, grunting out "Okay, okay, okay, okay," as the pain rises up to a peak, then slowly subsides. Waves, waves... so much of a woman's life is tied to the ocean...
After about an hour of this I decide to get into the shower. The pain isn't so bad as it was the other night- at their peak these contractions are hitting a 6 rather than an 8- but it's plenty bad enough that I know I have no chance of sleeping through them. It's shower time. Hot water helped last time, I'm sure it will help this time. Another one hits me as I'm getting under the water, and I make unhappy noises with no real words involved- Nathan hears me from downstairs, and comes rushing in.
I don't want him to see me like this, to see me in pain and be unable to do anything, but at the same time it's a relief not to keep silent like I was before, to be able to yell "Fuck!" and hit the wall with my hand whenever I feel the need. Which I do often. The contractions are getting worse, and coming more frequently. Whatever helps me through one is not guaranteed to help me through the next- in fact it's pretty much guaranteed not to.
I ask Nathan to look up how to breathe through contractions- he finds me a few tips, but they're written in such smug, calm voices that I cannot help but feel highly annoyed by them, and certain that the people who wrote those instructions have never actually experienced a contraction.
There's no thinking during contractions, not really. There's no talking, beyond perhaps the word, "Fuck," or "Ow". Plenty of inarticulate growls and grunts. But in between contractions I can think, and what I keep thinking, as if on a loop, is,
"This is fucking bullshit. Unfair, god damn bullshit."
At one point I say to Nathan, "Know what? One baby is good. One perfect baby. No need to go through this again."
For real. This is not what pregnancy is supposed to be like.
Another contractions hits, and I twist and howl and wish desperately to escape my body. Maybe this would be easier, if I knew I would get a live baby at the end of it. But I don't know that. The best I can hope for is for it to just stop, to fade away like it did the other night. But it doesn't stop.
I've told Nathan over and over that I don't want to go to the hospital- we went for the first miscarriage, and it was sheer misery. They can't do anything to stop a miscarriage, all they can do is charge you a couple thousand bucks to ignore you for six hours.
"If I miscarry again," I've said, "I want to do it in the comfort and dignity of my own home."
But now Nathan is looking at me and he saying, "Baby I'm worried about you. I'm afraid if we don't go then something will go wrong with you,"
"Pain can't... hurt me," I say, fully aware of the irony. "Pain won't kill me. The only danger I'm in is of bleeding out, and we'll keep an eye on it and I promise I'll let you take me to the hospital if it comes to that."
Shortly thereafter a contraction hits that blows right through my anger, and instead makes me whimper like an injured animal, and cry. I am literally crying, tears leaking from my eyes, and that's when I know shit is real, because I have no choice about it. Normally I can choose whether or not to "let" myself cry, but this? This is happening because it is the only possible response to the pain that I'm in. Even when the contraction passes I'm still curled in a ball in the tub, crying, bewildered, broken.
This is wrong.
Normally I don't like to be touched when I'm in pain, but for this I've let Nathan put his hand on me. Suddenly, I have to go to the bathroom.
"Let me up," I say, and I can hear the desperation in my voice. He does, and I scramble to the toilet. A very small, distant part of my brain knows what this is.
The desire to push feels exactly like the desire to poop,
More than one woman has told me that, but it's one thing to know something intellectually, and another thing to actually believe it.
The pain comes to a crescendo and thank the gods Nathan is still holding me because I'm not just crying, it's like the sobs are being ripped from my body in great gasping sorrowful shrieks because I do push, and I feel my body passing something, and I know what that something is. And I'm afraid of it, afraid afraid afraid...
The pain subsides almost immediately.
"It's okay," I say to Nathan, strangely calm through my tears. "It's over now. It's over."
And then he understands, and we cry together, his rage boiling up and over and serving to make me calmer and calmer. Now I have to pass the placenta. I have to collect the samples. I have to be very cold, and logical about this. I don't have time to break down. I can do that later.
I send Nathan away so I can collect the fetus. At first I don't want to. I'd give anything not to look and see the premature horror I've birthed. But more than that, I don't want Nathan to have to see. So I send him away, because I know that I have seen worse things in my life, and I will probably see things worse still in the future.
I send up a silent prayer that I never have to see anything worse.
But then I look and... it's not terrible. It's not terrible at all. There she is, perfectly formed, so perfect perfect perfect in her unbroken sack. Fourteen weeks, three days. I saw her heartbeat less than 48 hours ago. I scoop her up, and I don't feel disgust, or horror- just sorrow. And relief. She is not a monster. She just... is.
9.11.2013
Speaking Up at the Dentist
There are certain days that I know I'm going to have an experience that will be at least moderately entertaining: entertaining enough for me to twist into a story for the blog, anyway. And I was pretty sure that today was one of those days- I mean, come on, the dentist! To get drilled and filled! It practically writes itself!
What I did not realize, however, was just how "entertaining" (for lack of a better word) today's visit would be.
***
I'm sitting in the chair, listening to my music via my earbuds, and texting Nathan.
[Topical anesthetic. Weeeeeeeiiiird.]
I carefully plug my non-numb nostril, so that I can prove to myself that I am so getting air through the other one, and there is no need for the panic that is trying to claw its way up my throat.
[A little freaky. Guess I'm not as cool as a cucumber as I'd thought...]
The truth is that I am having mini-flashbacks to times when drugs have gone wrong for me. Like the time they gave me epinephrine before a surgery, and my body went into a very scary over-drive, arching up and off the table, completely out of my control. So yeah, I'm trying not to think about that. Trying to be subjectively amazed at how quickly this topical took effect.
The doc comes in and I crack a joke that it's a good thing he's here, since the numbness is wearing off. Except it's not really a joke, because it is wearing off.
"Oh, it'll still be numb where it counts," he says. "I promise."
"Awesome. I reserve the right to scream and hit you, then."
"Fair enough."
Banter, see? Banter is good. But just in case, I add,
"I promise not to hit you. But I may scream."
And then he gives me the first of two shots, and you know what? Not fucking numb. A little numb, yeah, but I am definitely feeling the needle go in, and the subsequent flow of liquid. I make grunty pain-noises, because MythBusters has taught me that's a good way to manage pain.
And then he gives me the second shot, in my lower jaw, and you know how before I was all, "not fucking numb"? Well now I'm really not numb, not even a little bit, and I actually make the effort to more fully articulate the swear words I'd been grunting, and this shot just keeps going and going in spite of the nails I am digging into my palms. But hey- better than the alternative, which is getting drilled with no drugs.
They leave me for a bit, while the numbness starts to creep into place. Through my jaw, into my tongue- and then into my eye. It's... not pleasant. But hell- it's the dentist. It's not supposed to be pleasant.
They return, and he starts working, and at first everything is fine. I've turned my music down to very soft, because when it's loud I can't hear him telling me what to do, and I figure me obeying his directions probably trumps my desire to dampen the drill-sound. And then the assistant (who has already proven herself to be not the sharpest crayon in the box by repeating, "It's topical," when I'd asked what sort of drug they'd used to act so quickly) says,
"So what do you think will happen with Syria?"
And the doctor replies,
"Well, we all know Obama is a closest Muslim..."
::mental record scratch::
What? I think. Oh, ha hah, he must be setting up a joke okay no, he's still talking... aaaaany minute now, he's going to roll his eyes and no? Still... still talking. About... Obama supporting the Brotherhood of Muslims to ensure as many Christians die as possible. Wow. He said that. This... this conversation is happening. Across my head. Right now. And... I can't argue. Or correct any of their misconceptions about the implications of Syria using chemical weapons. How is it possible that an educated person genuinely holds beliefs like this? And what kind of judgement calls does this guy make that he thinks it's appropriate to talk about this in a professional environment, and... holy shit, he keeps harping on about how they're killing Christians. Did he- yes he did just imply that Christian babies being killed is a bigger deal than non-Christian babies getting killed. Isn't it pretty much horrific no matter what kind of baby gets killed? Also, preeeeetty sure babies aren't religious. Wow, I'm so uncomfortable right now, and I don't mean just physically. I can't believe how unprofessional this is. I can't believe how angry I am, but I don't dare move, because he's got all sorts of very dangerous tools in my mouth, plus I'm drugged. Fuck I'm glad he doesn't know I'm not a Christian. And fuck, it pisses me off that I'm seriously in a position right now where I just had to have that thought. How long are they going to keep talking about- oh, awesome. Now we're on to Obama causing the next World War. The draft? Really? Do these people not know anything about the military at all? Okay, stupid question, obviously, man how long can this possibly did he just make a sexist joke?! Did I seriously just hear him say something about "How to tell a woman not to wag her tongue so much?" I must have misheard that. There's no way- who am I kidding. He totally said that, just like he totally said all that other bat-shit insane crap. Please let this be over soon...
...at least I'll get a good blog entry out of this.
I was shaking by the end of it. He left, and the assistant brought me to a seated position and asked if I had any questions.
"No," I said, in the best icy-calm voice I could manage with half my face numb. "But I do want to say that it is extremely unprofessional for you to be discussing politics over a patient like that. The things... it's not even about my personal beliefs, it was unprofessional, and I was extremely uncomfortable."
She looked as though I'd struck her, and in a way I guess I had. I wouldn't be surprised if I was the first patient to call them out on that bullshit. Which only my made me angrier, because I am a very assertive person, very sure of myself, very capable of stepping up and saying, "This is wrong", and if I felt threatened in that experience, how much worse for someone whose inner core isn't so bolstered? The thought of anyone meeker or gentler than I am being put in that situation just made me even more livid.
So I told the people at the desk, too. And changed my follow-up appointments to a different doctor. And then lodged a written complaint. Because, as a wise man once said, the standard you walk past is the standard you accept.
In a way I find the whole experience funny- funny in that, "This is so surreally inappropriate, any moment now Ashton Kutcher is going to step out from behind the pillar," way. You know, funny in the, "If I don't laugh about this I'm going to punch someone in the nuts via their throat," way.
Funny in the, "At least I got a blog entry out of this," way.
What I did not realize, however, was just how "entertaining" (for lack of a better word) today's visit would be.
***
I'm sitting in the chair, listening to my music via my earbuds, and texting Nathan.
[Topical anesthetic. Weeeeeeeiiiird.]
I carefully plug my non-numb nostril, so that I can prove to myself that I am so getting air through the other one, and there is no need for the panic that is trying to claw its way up my throat.
[A little freaky. Guess I'm not as cool as a cucumber as I'd thought...]
The truth is that I am having mini-flashbacks to times when drugs have gone wrong for me. Like the time they gave me epinephrine before a surgery, and my body went into a very scary over-drive, arching up and off the table, completely out of my control. So yeah, I'm trying not to think about that. Trying to be subjectively amazed at how quickly this topical took effect.
The doc comes in and I crack a joke that it's a good thing he's here, since the numbness is wearing off. Except it's not really a joke, because it is wearing off.
"Oh, it'll still be numb where it counts," he says. "I promise."
"Awesome. I reserve the right to scream and hit you, then."
"Fair enough."
Banter, see? Banter is good. But just in case, I add,
"I promise not to hit you. But I may scream."
And then he gives me the first of two shots, and you know what? Not fucking numb. A little numb, yeah, but I am definitely feeling the needle go in, and the subsequent flow of liquid. I make grunty pain-noises, because MythBusters has taught me that's a good way to manage pain.
And then he gives me the second shot, in my lower jaw, and you know how before I was all, "not fucking numb"? Well now I'm really not numb, not even a little bit, and I actually make the effort to more fully articulate the swear words I'd been grunting, and this shot just keeps going and going in spite of the nails I am digging into my palms. But hey- better than the alternative, which is getting drilled with no drugs.
They leave me for a bit, while the numbness starts to creep into place. Through my jaw, into my tongue- and then into my eye. It's... not pleasant. But hell- it's the dentist. It's not supposed to be pleasant.
They return, and he starts working, and at first everything is fine. I've turned my music down to very soft, because when it's loud I can't hear him telling me what to do, and I figure me obeying his directions probably trumps my desire to dampen the drill-sound. And then the assistant (who has already proven herself to be not the sharpest crayon in the box by repeating, "It's topical," when I'd asked what sort of drug they'd used to act so quickly) says,
"So what do you think will happen with Syria?"
And the doctor replies,
"Well, we all know Obama is a closest Muslim..."
::mental record scratch::
What? I think. Oh, ha hah, he must be setting up a joke okay no, he's still talking... aaaaany minute now, he's going to roll his eyes and no? Still... still talking. About... Obama supporting the Brotherhood of Muslims to ensure as many Christians die as possible. Wow. He said that. This... this conversation is happening. Across my head. Right now. And... I can't argue. Or correct any of their misconceptions about the implications of Syria using chemical weapons. How is it possible that an educated person genuinely holds beliefs like this? And what kind of judgement calls does this guy make that he thinks it's appropriate to talk about this in a professional environment, and... holy shit, he keeps harping on about how they're killing Christians. Did he- yes he did just imply that Christian babies being killed is a bigger deal than non-Christian babies getting killed. Isn't it pretty much horrific no matter what kind of baby gets killed? Also, preeeeetty sure babies aren't religious. Wow, I'm so uncomfortable right now, and I don't mean just physically. I can't believe how unprofessional this is. I can't believe how angry I am, but I don't dare move, because he's got all sorts of very dangerous tools in my mouth, plus I'm drugged. Fuck I'm glad he doesn't know I'm not a Christian. And fuck, it pisses me off that I'm seriously in a position right now where I just had to have that thought. How long are they going to keep talking about- oh, awesome. Now we're on to Obama causing the next World War. The draft? Really? Do these people not know anything about the military at all? Okay, stupid question, obviously, man how long can this possibly did he just make a sexist joke?! Did I seriously just hear him say something about "How to tell a woman not to wag her tongue so much?" I must have misheard that. There's no way- who am I kidding. He totally said that, just like he totally said all that other bat-shit insane crap. Please let this be over soon...
...at least I'll get a good blog entry out of this.
I was shaking by the end of it. He left, and the assistant brought me to a seated position and asked if I had any questions.
"No," I said, in the best icy-calm voice I could manage with half my face numb. "But I do want to say that it is extremely unprofessional for you to be discussing politics over a patient like that. The things... it's not even about my personal beliefs, it was unprofessional, and I was extremely uncomfortable."
She looked as though I'd struck her, and in a way I guess I had. I wouldn't be surprised if I was the first patient to call them out on that bullshit. Which only my made me angrier, because I am a very assertive person, very sure of myself, very capable of stepping up and saying, "This is wrong", and if I felt threatened in that experience, how much worse for someone whose inner core isn't so bolstered? The thought of anyone meeker or gentler than I am being put in that situation just made me even more livid.
So I told the people at the desk, too. And changed my follow-up appointments to a different doctor. And then lodged a written complaint. Because, as a wise man once said, the standard you walk past is the standard you accept.
In a way I find the whole experience funny- funny in that, "This is so surreally inappropriate, any moment now Ashton Kutcher is going to step out from behind the pillar," way. You know, funny in the, "If I don't laugh about this I'm going to punch someone in the nuts via their throat," way.
Funny in the, "At least I got a blog entry out of this," way.
7.08.2013
So Sorry
The funny thing about
miscarriage is my unrelenting desire to apologize
to everyone.
“I’m sorry,” is
constantly on the tip of my tongue, just waiting to preface every interaction I
have. It’s not logical- I know it’s not logical, but it’s there.
I’m sorry I bled on that.
I’m sorry to bother you.
I’m sorry I lost our baby.
I’m sorry you’re hurting.
I’m sorry I can’t make it better.
I’m sorry I woke you.
I’m sorry I’m telling you such awful news.
I’m sorry I won’t be in to work for the next few days.
I’m sorry I can’t go climbing for a while.
I’m sorry I’m hiding.
I’m sorry I made you sad.
I’m sorry I keep crying.
I’m sorry.
I’m sorry.
I'm sorry.
I know that some of you
might read those phrases in a sarcastic tone, but the truth is I really mean
it- I am sorry, for all of it. That it’s happened and is happening and will
go on happening. I know, logically, that
none of it is my fault or anything for me to feel sorry about.
Emotions don’t care
about logic.
My biggest regret is
that we only told one couple about the pregnancy. There are only two people in the world, aside
from us, who got to know the unadulterated joy of my being pregnant. Everyone else only knows that I was pregnant, but now I’m not. No joy in the association, only sorrow. And all because I wanted to wait until after
my first ultrasound, which was going to be on Wednesday, to tell our families.
The spotting started
late Friday night- pale pink and nothing to worry about. That’s what I kept telling myself, anyway, as
I lay in bed thinking about what I’d forbidden myself to think about until that
point- that miscarriage is quite common in the first twelve weeks. And I was only about seven weeks along.
The next morning I
confessed to Nathan about the spotting, and that I was scared. But it still wasn’t much, so I went hiking
with some friends. They were the couple
that I chose to tell, and I’ll be honest- it was motivated by my desire to have
an untainted moment of happiness, just in case something went wrong. Because by that time, tiny little cramps had
started.
On the drive home I
called the on-call doctor. She told me
to take a warm bath and some Tylenol, and to come in for an ultrasound on
Monday, just in case. She also said that
if the bleeding or pain got worse, to go ahead and go to the ER.
At about 2330, Nathan
and I went to the ER. We were there for six
hours before the doctor finally confirmed what we already knew. Three of those hours were us sitting alone in
a small room after the ultrasound, not being told anything. They’d hooked me up to an IV, and it hurt,
and all I wanted was to take the damn thing out and go home, because I am not stupid and I knew what they were
carefully avoiding telling us.
The only heartbeat I’d heard on the monitor had been my own.
The only heartbeat I’d heard on the monitor had been my own.
6.08.2013
Threes
They say bad things happen in threes.
On Thursday, Isis was bitten at the dog park. We didn't realize it until we got home and took off her harness, and saw the blood flow. I cleaned the wound (my first encounter with a dog bite) and discovered that the puncture was about the size of the final digit on my pinkie. We decided we'd take her to the vet in the morning, and in the meantime I put antibiotic cream in the wound (which she did not like, but put up with, poor puppy).
Friday morning, Nathan took Isis to the vet, and I went to work. After work, I went to the acupuncturist, and after that I saw I had an email from my credit card company, questioning a charge. I called them up and told them that no, in fact I had not tried to purchase $400 worth of Abercrombie & Fitch. In New York. So of course they cancelled my cards and because it was Friday evening, my new ones won't be here until Wendesday.
Did I mention we're traveling today? And that it was my main household card? That all my auto-pays are connected to?
This morning we woke up and I started the carefully-balanced process of getting ready for my ten year college reunion (looking cute without trying to hard, right?). I brushed my teeth and thought to myself, Oh, I should brush my engagement ring, too, so that it will be extra shiny when I show it off to my friends!
Grabbed the ring... and dropped it. Stone down. At just the wrong angle.
So. Bad things happen in threes.
But.
Good things also happen in threes.
Isis got staples from the vet and they told us we did exactly the right thing in cleaning and treating it the night before. She's none the worse for wear, and will have a new, roguish scar to impress the other puppies.
My credit card company denied the attempted A&F charge (and the subsequent PetCo attempt) because they felt pretty positive it wasn't us. So the thief didn't actually benefit from our loss.
My engagement ring is insured. We can replace the stone. But even if we couldn't, it wouldn't matter- because my marriage is not based on a piece of jewelry.
Our puppy is safe.
Our finances are safe.
We are safe.
Good, good things.
On Thursday, Isis was bitten at the dog park. We didn't realize it until we got home and took off her harness, and saw the blood flow. I cleaned the wound (my first encounter with a dog bite) and discovered that the puncture was about the size of the final digit on my pinkie. We decided we'd take her to the vet in the morning, and in the meantime I put antibiotic cream in the wound (which she did not like, but put up with, poor puppy).
Friday morning, Nathan took Isis to the vet, and I went to work. After work, I went to the acupuncturist, and after that I saw I had an email from my credit card company, questioning a charge. I called them up and told them that no, in fact I had not tried to purchase $400 worth of Abercrombie & Fitch. In New York. So of course they cancelled my cards and because it was Friday evening, my new ones won't be here until Wendesday.
 |
| Here, have a worthless credit card number. |
Did I mention we're traveling today? And that it was my main household card? That all my auto-pays are connected to?
This morning we woke up and I started the carefully-balanced process of getting ready for my ten year college reunion (looking cute without trying to hard, right?). I brushed my teeth and thought to myself, Oh, I should brush my engagement ring, too, so that it will be extra shiny when I show it off to my friends!
Grabbed the ring... and dropped it. Stone down. At just the wrong angle.
 |
| Feldspar is considerably softer than diamond. |
So. Bad things happen in threes.
But.
Good things also happen in threes.
Isis got staples from the vet and they told us we did exactly the right thing in cleaning and treating it the night before. She's none the worse for wear, and will have a new, roguish scar to impress the other puppies.
 |
| Also it turns out she's 70lbs now. |
My engagement ring is insured. We can replace the stone. But even if we couldn't, it wouldn't matter- because my marriage is not based on a piece of jewelry.
Our puppy is safe.
Our finances are safe.
We are safe.
Good, good things.
11.07.2012
10.01.2012
You Know It's a Rough Morning...
...when you cry your lipstick off.
 |
(Fortunately the day did get better.) |
8.20.2012
Frothy Rage and Also Dresses
I'd done a beautifully intricate drawing of a steam-punk winged-elf lady, complete with lots of fancy gears and costume and hair and tattoos and tiny adorable baby, and just as I was ready to start laying in colors my expletive deleted computer shut down with no warning, and I lost everything.
I was, to put it mildly, full of rage.
And then when I tried to draw a stick figure me flipping off the computer, I discovered my Cintique pen had stopped working.
It is possible I was on the verge of frustrated rage tears, because I've sort of reached my limit for letting shit roll off my back this week. Yes, rolling-off-back limit had been achieved, and I could not let go.
So I got out my nail polish remover and began woefully cleaning up my toenails on the stairs that I'd so laboriously climbed for what turned out to be no purpose, which is where Nathan found me. I asked what color I should paint them and he said green, so I did (with sparkles!), while he did what he could to salvage the situation (not much, but at least he got the Cintique working again and hooked up to my non-senile machine).
And then I came down stairs and had a long conversation with my brother about happy things, which helped to soothe the rage, and then I did a doodle which is not so awesome as the my earlier drawing, but it will do.
And maybe someday I will attempt to recreate my awesome drawing from earlier, but not today. Today I am just tired and still a little sad.
I was, to put it mildly, full of rage.
And then when I tried to draw a stick figure me flipping off the computer, I discovered my Cintique pen had stopped working.
It is possible I was on the verge of frustrated rage tears, because I've sort of reached my limit for letting shit roll off my back this week. Yes, rolling-off-back limit had been achieved, and I could not let go.
So I got out my nail polish remover and began woefully cleaning up my toenails on the stairs that I'd so laboriously climbed for what turned out to be no purpose, which is where Nathan found me. I asked what color I should paint them and he said green, so I did (with sparkles!), while he did what he could to salvage the situation (not much, but at least he got the Cintique working again and hooked up to my non-senile machine).
And then I came down stairs and had a long conversation with my brother about happy things, which helped to soothe the rage, and then I did a doodle which is not so awesome as the my earlier drawing, but it will do.
 |
| I'm pretty sure my scanner settings are all wonky now. Sigh. |
And maybe someday I will attempt to recreate my awesome drawing from earlier, but not today. Today I am just tired and still a little sad.
7.24.2012
On the Quality of My Melons
Let's be blunt here: when you look like I do, you get used to Unsolicited Comments Upon Your Physical Qualities. Most of the time they do not bother me- I choose to take them in the flattering manner they are most often intended. Wolf-whistles or appreciative stares don't get my back up- on the contrary, often times they please me. I may not have had anything to do with my genetic makeup or the symmetry of my features, but I have plenty to do with my physical fitness, clothing, makeup, and hairstyle. So it's nice for my efforts to be appreciated.
However.
As I was riding home from work today, a cluster of boys (I'd say they ranged in age from about 14 to 17) who were conversing in Spanish (a language which I have a tentative grasp on) deliberately switched to English long enough to comment on my "huge melons" as I zipped past.
Readers, it pissed me off.
And I spent the rest of the ride home trying to figure out why. Why did that particular remark make me so angry, when other incidents have not? I mean, I understand and appreciate the culture of piropos (goes back to that whole, "studied Spanish" thing) but this- this was not that. But why wasn't it? Was it just the crude phrasing? (Piropos ought to be poetic, and I'll admit there was a tinge of insult to my anger- a sort of, "Screw you, my breasts are worthy of far better compliments than that!") After much thought and furious pedaling, however, I think I figured it out.
The incident pissed me off because those boys weren't trying to show their appreciation, or make me feel beautiful or good about myself- they were expressing their power over me by intimidating me. A group large enough that I certainly didn't feel comfortable stopping and confronting them (as I have been known to do if just one or two males are being inappropriate), deliberately switching to a language they figured was my native tongue, to make absolutely certain that I understood the rude thing they were saying about my body.
Melons, indeed.
However.
As I was riding home from work today, a cluster of boys (I'd say they ranged in age from about 14 to 17) who were conversing in Spanish (a language which I have a tentative grasp on) deliberately switched to English long enough to comment on my "huge melons" as I zipped past.
Readers, it pissed me off.
 |
| Those are supposed to be cantaloupes, in case you were wondering. |
The incident pissed me off because those boys weren't trying to show their appreciation, or make me feel beautiful or good about myself- they were expressing their power over me by intimidating me. A group large enough that I certainly didn't feel comfortable stopping and confronting them (as I have been known to do if just one or two males are being inappropriate), deliberately switching to a language they figured was my native tongue, to make absolutely certain that I understood the rude thing they were saying about my body.
Melons, indeed.
6.24.2011
An Open Letter to Delta, Whom I Hate
In response to the laughable question, "How can we help?" on Delta's complaint form:
"You know what? You can't help. Or perhaps I should say, you WON'T help. You never have in the past, and I don't know why you even bother to use that term on your website, or anywhere else in your literature. Nor do I understand your insistence on using the phrase “customer care”, when it’s so obvious you DON’T. I chose to stop VOLUNTARILY flying Delta over three years ago, in large part because of how bad your “customer service” had become (also because at least 25% of the time- and I’m being GENEROUS- you seem to be incapable of getting a flight to any given destination on schedule) but there are times when I, or my family members, MUST fly, and Delta is unfortunately the only option. Such is the current scenario, wherein my husband, who had to go to the east coast for work, is currently stuck in Columbus, Georgia. Now don't get me wrong- I understand that it's not your fault Atlanta closed due to weather. I get that. What I do NOT get is why, even though his flight was diverted and landed in Columbus FIRST, the other two flights that arrived AFTER him were gotten out of there before him (his flight is still trapped there, over three hours later). Even more than that, I don't understand why you had over 100 people milling around the airport (with only ONE agent) for OVER AN HOUR before ANY sort of announcement was made. Furthermore, I don't understand why, when a Delta agent FINALLY called my husband back after an hour, the man told him that his system was "locked up" and then HUNG UP ON HIM. Weather happens, and you have no control over it- but the fact that you tolerate such unprofessional and callous behavior amongst your employees is INEXCUSABLE.
Would you like to hear more?
I expressed my displeasure via a post on FaceBook, and a friend responded by sharing her most recent experience (also from today). She was flying in to New York from Tennessee: her travel time should have been three hours, according to her tickets, but it turned into eight. First they sat on the runway for a long, inexplicable while, only to find out there was electric generator failure. So they taxied back to the tarmac and deplaned, waited on another plane, and once it arrived proceeded to wait on the crew. Finally she had the pleasure of circling three turbulent holding patterns. Again- we understand that mechanical failures aren't REALLY your fault. But the way you treat passengers while they wait IS.
Another story that was shared with me today was about Delta shafting my 70+ year old grandparents. I did not hear this from them, of course; they’re too old school to complain about that sort of thing. I heard this from my mother, who related to me that AFTER she had paid for FIRST CLASS TICKETS for her parents, you guys decided to bump them off their flight, and then pressure them to take coach seats on another flight. The agent told them that if they took the coach then they'd be reimbursed the difference in price, and since my mother was the one who had paid they went ahead and took the coach seats (the promise of reimbursement is the ONLY reason they even mentioned this heinous treatment to my mother). Well after three months of your "help", my mother finally gave up trying to get her money back. And you know what? It's not even about the money. It's about the fact that you bullied a pair of senior citizens (one of whom is a WAR VETERAN, if that means anything to you) because YOU overbooked a flight, and then refused to take responsibility for it. I guess it’s good to know that not even paying more can make you care about your customers. At least you’re egalitarian in your abuse.
If you want to be the great company you USED to be twenty or more years ago, you need to re-evaluate the kinds of people you let work for you. These bullies, cowards, and unfeeling louts are representing your brand, and they're doing it poorly. People HATE your company. The phrase “I’ve been Delta’d” is commonly understood amongst my social set to mean “I’ve been screwed over.” Go ahead and google "I hate Delta" or "Delta sucks" or "Delta is evil". Go on, do it- see how many hits you get. Why? Not because of weather delays, I assure you. It's because of the way your employees are allowed treat people. Maybe you should take some lessons from SouthWest or Chick-fil-A, two companies I NEVER hesitate to do business with: they treat people not just well but RIGHT. They have their share of mistakes and delays as well, but they actually APOLOGIZE, and try to MAKE IT RIGHT. They treat people like PEOPLE, and not like dumb sheep to be herded from one location to the next with kicks and scorn. It's called taking responsibility for (and pride in) what you do, and maybe it's about time Delta remembered how to do that.
But you know what? You probably stopped reading this about seven hundred words ago, and I'll probably just get a form letter response saying, "Delta apologizes for you unfortunate experience. We hope to see you soon!" and that will be the end of it. If there's still a human being reading this, prove me wrong. Prove to me that Delta hires more than just bullies, thugs, and sociopaths. Prove to me that SOMEONE in this company actually gives a damn at how much they’re hated. I dare you."
EDIT: I got my auto-reply telling me they try to respond within seven business days. We'll see.
EDIT: I got my auto-reply telling me they try to respond within seven business days. We'll see.
10.02.2010
Jet Plane Related Verbs
This has been a supremely crappy week.
Nathan left early Sunday morning for Seattle, and less than four hours later I was hit by another car while I was merging onto the highway. Obviously I am fine, but it just made everything about this week rotten (dealing with insurance and police reports, etc), especially since I opted not to further stress him out by telling him about it. You may have noticed that I am not a secret-keeper by nature, and keeping this little incident under wraps until he was home and could see for himself that I'm fine was just... well, one of the hardest things I've ever done.
But he came home this morning, and it's been a pretty great day. We get almost twenty hours together before he takes off again (this time for Chicago), and we've been doing our best to spend as much of it touching as possible. We both are very aware of the fact that love is like a drug addiction (and NPR totally agrees with us) and we are trying to store up as much of our chemical fix as we can.
That being said... end of entry.
(Returning to Leave)
Nathan left early Sunday morning for Seattle, and less than four hours later I was hit by another car while I was merging onto the highway. Obviously I am fine, but it just made everything about this week rotten (dealing with insurance and police reports, etc), especially since I opted not to further stress him out by telling him about it. You may have noticed that I am not a secret-keeper by nature, and keeping this little incident under wraps until he was home and could see for himself that I'm fine was just... well, one of the hardest things I've ever done.
But he came home this morning, and it's been a pretty great day. We get almost twenty hours together before he takes off again (this time for Chicago), and we've been doing our best to spend as much of it touching as possible. We both are very aware of the fact that love is like a drug addiction (and NPR totally agrees with us) and we are trying to store up as much of our chemical fix as we can.
That being said... end of entry.
(Returning to Leave)
8.23.2010
Copping Rattitude
Okay, here it is: I'm tired of people hating on my rats.
Now, the vast majority of people who may or may not be reading this blog probably don't have any problems whatsoever with my rats. But there are people who do. And this is addressed to them.
When we are at a party and I happen to mention that I have rats, it's totally cool if you want to say something along the lines of, "Ooo, rats. I'm not really down with rats." I mean it would possibly be more polite for you to smile and say, "That's nice," before quickly changing the subject, but it's cool- I get it. Rats are not for everyone. But here's the thing- there is no need for you to go on a long diatribe about how much you are not down with rats. I could quite probably do without the theatrical facial expressions, the repetition of the words "hate" "disgusting" and "bleaugh", and to be frank the pretty dang offensive stories of you having to call the big strong man next door over to discard of the tiny mouse you killed with your stupid trap. And then you made him put it in his garbage can instead of yours, because apparently you're not just skeezed out by rodents, you also fear rodent zombies. I would probably call antics of these sorts "insensitive", to say the least.
It's especially annoying when you act this way even after I've carefully explained that I do not keep New York sewer rats as pets, but rather domesticated fancy rats. Seriously, lady- it's like the difference between a wolf and a particularly good-natured dachshund. Most people would not like to be in the same room with a wolf, no matter how well-behaved. But few of those people would put a dachshund on the same level of Uh-Oh.
And it's not like I'm whipping out pictures of my little darlings, demanding that you admire them- they just came up in passing conversation. Because come on. I cannot tell you how many times I have refrained from using the words "bug-ugly" "disgusting" or "bleaugh" in regards to people's hideous human offspring. And I have never told stories about inhumanely killing them when they stumbled onto my property. So why can't you show me the same consideration when I happen to mention the small creatures in my care? At least mine are cute, well-mannered, and clean.*
(Zelda Ratkins)
(Camilla Ratkins)
*Of course this entire paragraph in no way relates to the children of any of the people I know and love... I'm only friends with people who have superior genes, so they necessarily breed superior kids.
Now, the vast majority of people who may or may not be reading this blog probably don't have any problems whatsoever with my rats. But there are people who do. And this is addressed to them.
When we are at a party and I happen to mention that I have rats, it's totally cool if you want to say something along the lines of, "Ooo, rats. I'm not really down with rats." I mean it would possibly be more polite for you to smile and say, "That's nice," before quickly changing the subject, but it's cool- I get it. Rats are not for everyone. But here's the thing- there is no need for you to go on a long diatribe about how much you are not down with rats. I could quite probably do without the theatrical facial expressions, the repetition of the words "hate" "disgusting" and "bleaugh", and to be frank the pretty dang offensive stories of you having to call the big strong man next door over to discard of the tiny mouse you killed with your stupid trap. And then you made him put it in his garbage can instead of yours, because apparently you're not just skeezed out by rodents, you also fear rodent zombies. I would probably call antics of these sorts "insensitive", to say the least.
It's especially annoying when you act this way even after I've carefully explained that I do not keep New York sewer rats as pets, but rather domesticated fancy rats. Seriously, lady- it's like the difference between a wolf and a particularly good-natured dachshund. Most people would not like to be in the same room with a wolf, no matter how well-behaved. But few of those people would put a dachshund on the same level of Uh-Oh.
And it's not like I'm whipping out pictures of my little darlings, demanding that you admire them- they just came up in passing conversation. Because come on. I cannot tell you how many times I have refrained from using the words "bug-ugly" "disgusting" or "bleaugh" in regards to people's hideous human offspring. And I have never told stories about inhumanely killing them when they stumbled onto my property. So why can't you show me the same consideration when I happen to mention the small creatures in my care? At least mine are cute, well-mannered, and clean.*
Oh wait I lied- admire my thoroughly superior rats!
(Zelda Ratkins)
(Camilla Ratkins)
*Of course this entire paragraph in no way relates to the children of any of the people I know and love... I'm only friends with people who have superior genes, so they necessarily breed superior kids.
7.07.2010
When Exactly Did I Develop Problems With Authority?
::sigh::
So I actually have a plethora of topics to pick from for this evening's post. In fact I had already begun crafting an excellent one inspired by my friend Tavish (he of the endless ideas). But in light of this afternoon's Events, I think I'll table that one for another day and instead talk about Me Bobbling My Temper. Not losing it entirely, mind you- but not having the best grip in the world, either.
The long and short of it is that I told off a doctor today. Yes, you read that correctly. Little Miss Goody-Two-Shoes gave a medical professional a tongue lashing. Let's not get into how or why (or even the specific words used)... I'd rather address the fact that it happened it all, and the subsequent emotional fallout.
The worst part about it is that I don't feel better. I'm not proud of what I did, and I really want to be. It ought to make an awesome story- "That doctor thought she could just keep steamrolling me, but I gave her what-for!". And while yes, that is what happened... I'm not proud. I'm ashamed. Ashamed that I seem to be back-sliding in my spiritual development. Yes, the doctor needed to be told that her demeanor/words/actions were unacceptable- but I probably could have found a better way to do it. In fact, I shouldn't even have let it escalate to the point that it did- I should have stopped seeing her after my initial confrontation with her. I knew nine months ago that I did not like her- but for some reason I didn't feel I could change doctors. I will admit that the civilian medical world makes me feel timid- it's very confusing after you've grown up on military bases. But that's no excuse- I'm a big girl, and I should have just sucked it up and found a different specialist, rather than letting it get out of hand.
Again I say, ::sigh::
And like I said- I don't feel better. And if you don't feel better after telling someone off, then what's the point? If I thought my words might have had an impact- that she would suddenly realize she can't treat people that way- then maybe I could feel righteous. But the fact of the matter is that I don't think that. I think that she is the sort of arrogant person to whom the opinion of others (let alone their feelings) makes no difference.
So once again I'm feeling lost and disillusioned with the world. Growing up we're taught to respect the men and women in fields like law enforcement and medicine- that they are good and just people who will use their power, knowledge, and authority to take care of us. But that's not true... at least, it's not universally true. Many of them are bullies, and I don't know why it continues to break my heart, but it does. I feel so frustrated, so helpless, when confronted by people who abuse their power. I don't know what to do about it. They say you have to stand up to bullies, and I do, but in the end... what difference does it make? I have no power, I have no influence. That doctor doesn't care what I think about her- she didn't even care enough about medicine to do her job properly. So I stood up to her, told her off- but so what? It doesn't change anything, except making me sick to my stomach for sinking to her level.
That being said, the best part of my day became coming home to Nathan, and having him be 100% on my side. Being able to let everything come tumbling out- all the rage, and the shame, and the frustration, and the despair... and having it be okay. Having him think I'm a worthwhile human being, anyway. I put the entire rotten experience out there (and here) and now I'm going to let it go- and he's helping me do that. So yeah, there are shitty people in the world- but there are also good people. And for that I'm grateful.
(PS I guess the answer to the subject of this post is- "When people started abusing it.")
So I actually have a plethora of topics to pick from for this evening's post. In fact I had already begun crafting an excellent one inspired by my friend Tavish (he of the endless ideas). But in light of this afternoon's Events, I think I'll table that one for another day and instead talk about Me Bobbling My Temper. Not losing it entirely, mind you- but not having the best grip in the world, either.
The long and short of it is that I told off a doctor today. Yes, you read that correctly. Little Miss Goody-Two-Shoes gave a medical professional a tongue lashing. Let's not get into how or why (or even the specific words used)... I'd rather address the fact that it happened it all, and the subsequent emotional fallout.
The worst part about it is that I don't feel better. I'm not proud of what I did, and I really want to be. It ought to make an awesome story- "That doctor thought she could just keep steamrolling me, but I gave her what-for!". And while yes, that is what happened... I'm not proud. I'm ashamed. Ashamed that I seem to be back-sliding in my spiritual development. Yes, the doctor needed to be told that her demeanor/words/actions were unacceptable- but I probably could have found a better way to do it. In fact, I shouldn't even have let it escalate to the point that it did- I should have stopped seeing her after my initial confrontation with her. I knew nine months ago that I did not like her- but for some reason I didn't feel I could change doctors. I will admit that the civilian medical world makes me feel timid- it's very confusing after you've grown up on military bases. But that's no excuse- I'm a big girl, and I should have just sucked it up and found a different specialist, rather than letting it get out of hand.
Again I say, ::sigh::
And like I said- I don't feel better. And if you don't feel better after telling someone off, then what's the point? If I thought my words might have had an impact- that she would suddenly realize she can't treat people that way- then maybe I could feel righteous. But the fact of the matter is that I don't think that. I think that she is the sort of arrogant person to whom the opinion of others (let alone their feelings) makes no difference.
So once again I'm feeling lost and disillusioned with the world. Growing up we're taught to respect the men and women in fields like law enforcement and medicine- that they are good and just people who will use their power, knowledge, and authority to take care of us. But that's not true... at least, it's not universally true. Many of them are bullies, and I don't know why it continues to break my heart, but it does. I feel so frustrated, so helpless, when confronted by people who abuse their power. I don't know what to do about it. They say you have to stand up to bullies, and I do, but in the end... what difference does it make? I have no power, I have no influence. That doctor doesn't care what I think about her- she didn't even care enough about medicine to do her job properly. So I stood up to her, told her off- but so what? It doesn't change anything, except making me sick to my stomach for sinking to her level.
That being said, the best part of my day became coming home to Nathan, and having him be 100% on my side. Being able to let everything come tumbling out- all the rage, and the shame, and the frustration, and the despair... and having it be okay. Having him think I'm a worthwhile human being, anyway. I put the entire rotten experience out there (and here) and now I'm going to let it go- and he's helping me do that. So yeah, there are shitty people in the world- but there are also good people. And for that I'm grateful.
(PS I guess the answer to the subject of this post is- "When people started abusing it.")
5.23.2010
We'll Take the High Road (and Also the Low Road)
The day started out so promising, yet ended up so infuriating.
Our cat-herd left the city around 0800, heading for the rugged beauty of the Highlands. Our first destination was Loch Lomond, which necessarily led to endless repetitions of a certain folk-song. After stopping to take some photos (and in my case, dip my toes in its frigid waters) we followed it up, up, up to the North, with several more photo-stops (and one long stint in a tiny town for half of A Team while Don and Barbara returned to the previous stop in search of a misplaced camcorder).
(Toe dip!)
(The banks really were quite bonny...)
(Nathan got quite a few lovely shots.)
(Doesn't it look inviting?)
(I repeat: bonny.)
(This is not part of Loch Lomond- this is from a waterfall we pulled over to get a good look at.)
Finally we made our way around and back down to the Lowlands, and Stirling, home of the absolutely breathtaking Stirling Castle (itself once home to Robert the Bruce).
(He's kind of a big deal.)
Nathan was busy taking photos, so I made a break for it, and had a good hour or so of solitary wandering about the castle.
(One of the photos he took while I was wandering.)
I eventually found myself in the tapestry-restoration room, which was beyond cool. If I’d been thinking I’d have drawn the women at work (photography is forbidden, as flashes are highly distracting and their work is quite painstaking) but to tell the truth I was so captivated by watching them work that it didn’t even occur to me until later. It was as I was making my way back to the main courtyard that Nathan found me, so we continued our exploration of the castle in a companionable manner. He even re-visited the Great Hall so that I could see the already-finished unicorn tapestries. Good man, that.
(Uuuuunicorn!)
I had really hoped that the gift shop would have a piece of jewelry with the castle’s unicorn logo (preferably like a pendant in silver), but alas it did not (edit: nor was I able to find good unicorn jewelry anywhere in Scotland, which is kind of weird…) It was getting to be about That Time for moving on, so Nathan and I got some ice cream and headed out to the car, where Don, Curt and I noticed that the B Team van seemed to have sprung a flat. So rather than go check out the Wallace Monument (as planned), the three of us got down, dirty, and greasy, and changed that bad boy (my main contribution was figuring out where the spare tire and accessories were, and then how the hell to get at them- also I finagled the original tire back into the spare tire’s spot. Behold my clever problem-solving skills!) By the time we finished it was time to get on the road again, so we bid Stirling a fond fairwell and headed to the Edinburgh airport to return the vans.
Vehicles returned, we humped it over to the bus station, got yelled at by one worker for following the directions of another, and hopped on a double-decker bus that took us into Edinburgh proper, just blocks from the very nice townhouse we are renting for the next few days. Nathan and I (being under fifty, sans child, and un-pregnant) have been relegated to the very top floor, but that’s alright; the amount of meat and fat I’ve been eating over this past week and a half definitely calls for a little extra cardio.
(Our staircase. We went allll the way up.)
He and I were seriously craving some Thai food, so we headed out to a nearby place (recommended by both Lonely Planet and our landlord) called Songkran. It was closed on Sundays, (much to our chagrin) but we made the best of it by walking a little further in search of an Indian place (also recommended by LP) called Omar Khayyam.
Now, normally LP is incredibly reliable. Hell, the restaurant they recommended in Montego Bay was the only thing that salvaged our brief stint in Jamaica. But in this case?
Fail. And I mean epically.
We got there and were seated without much trouble, but after they took our drink orders (water for both of us) it was like we ceased to exist. Finally someone brought us some dipping sauce… but nothing to dip in it. Eventually a different waiter came over and took our food order, and I asked again for our drinks, which we finally got. And then we waited some more. And some more. And our water was gone, and we were still waiting, and I discovered that there was food encrusted on my fork, and we were still waiting. Our food came and I asked politely for another fork and more water. Neither appeared, so I just started eating my curry and rice with my knife. Finally I got up, walked halfway across the restaurant, and asked one of our waiters for a second fork and more water. He brought the fork (still no water), but as I was raising my fork to my mouth for a bite I saw something moving.
Oh yeah, there was a giant ant on my fork.
So, shaking with the famed Jenny O Rage, I marched all the way across the restaurant to the bar (where the waiter, who apparently saw me coming, started putting water onto his tray) held out my fork and said, “I need a new fork.” It took him a moment, but he finally realized what I was showing him. “Also, I think I’ll just take these,” I said, and snatched the waters. I started to head back to the table when a little old man waiter insisted that he carry the waters for me. I wanted to tell him to fuck off, but after all, it wasn’t his fault, so I let him.
My third fork arrived. We finished our mediocre food, and began the long wait for our check. I found myself entertaining vicious thoughts about walking out on it, and had just decided not to (out of sympathy for the cooks who had nothing to do with the service) when Nathan commented that we ought to just leave. I pointed out my cooks argument, and he reluctantly agreed.
It eventually did come, and I noted with anger but no real surprise that there was no sort of apology discount for the bullshit we’d put up with, and I found myself wishing that the UK had a tipping culture so that they would understand the insult I was making by not leaving them a tip. As it is I’ll have to salve my wound by getting on the LP forums and putting up a more recent review.
My current opinion of Edinburg is not good at all.
Our cat-herd left the city around 0800, heading for the rugged beauty of the Highlands. Our first destination was Loch Lomond, which necessarily led to endless repetitions of a certain folk-song. After stopping to take some photos (and in my case, dip my toes in its frigid waters) we followed it up, up, up to the North, with several more photo-stops (and one long stint in a tiny town for half of A Team while Don and Barbara returned to the previous stop in search of a misplaced camcorder).
(Toe dip!)
(The banks really were quite bonny...)
(Nathan got quite a few lovely shots.)
(Doesn't it look inviting?)
(I repeat: bonny.)
(This is not part of Loch Lomond- this is from a waterfall we pulled over to get a good look at.)
Finally we made our way around and back down to the Lowlands, and Stirling, home of the absolutely breathtaking Stirling Castle (itself once home to Robert the Bruce).
(He's kind of a big deal.)
Nathan was busy taking photos, so I made a break for it, and had a good hour or so of solitary wandering about the castle.
(One of the photos he took while I was wandering.)
I eventually found myself in the tapestry-restoration room, which was beyond cool. If I’d been thinking I’d have drawn the women at work (photography is forbidden, as flashes are highly distracting and their work is quite painstaking) but to tell the truth I was so captivated by watching them work that it didn’t even occur to me until later. It was as I was making my way back to the main courtyard that Nathan found me, so we continued our exploration of the castle in a companionable manner. He even re-visited the Great Hall so that I could see the already-finished unicorn tapestries. Good man, that.
(Uuuuunicorn!)
I had really hoped that the gift shop would have a piece of jewelry with the castle’s unicorn logo (preferably like a pendant in silver), but alas it did not (edit: nor was I able to find good unicorn jewelry anywhere in Scotland, which is kind of weird…) It was getting to be about That Time for moving on, so Nathan and I got some ice cream and headed out to the car, where Don, Curt and I noticed that the B Team van seemed to have sprung a flat. So rather than go check out the Wallace Monument (as planned), the three of us got down, dirty, and greasy, and changed that bad boy (my main contribution was figuring out where the spare tire and accessories were, and then how the hell to get at them- also I finagled the original tire back into the spare tire’s spot. Behold my clever problem-solving skills!) By the time we finished it was time to get on the road again, so we bid Stirling a fond fairwell and headed to the Edinburgh airport to return the vans.
Vehicles returned, we humped it over to the bus station, got yelled at by one worker for following the directions of another, and hopped on a double-decker bus that took us into Edinburgh proper, just blocks from the very nice townhouse we are renting for the next few days. Nathan and I (being under fifty, sans child, and un-pregnant) have been relegated to the very top floor, but that’s alright; the amount of meat and fat I’ve been eating over this past week and a half definitely calls for a little extra cardio.
(Our staircase. We went allll the way up.)
He and I were seriously craving some Thai food, so we headed out to a nearby place (recommended by both Lonely Planet and our landlord) called Songkran. It was closed on Sundays, (much to our chagrin) but we made the best of it by walking a little further in search of an Indian place (also recommended by LP) called Omar Khayyam.
Now, normally LP is incredibly reliable. Hell, the restaurant they recommended in Montego Bay was the only thing that salvaged our brief stint in Jamaica. But in this case?
Fail. And I mean epically.
We got there and were seated without much trouble, but after they took our drink orders (water for both of us) it was like we ceased to exist. Finally someone brought us some dipping sauce… but nothing to dip in it. Eventually a different waiter came over and took our food order, and I asked again for our drinks, which we finally got. And then we waited some more. And some more. And our water was gone, and we were still waiting, and I discovered that there was food encrusted on my fork, and we were still waiting. Our food came and I asked politely for another fork and more water. Neither appeared, so I just started eating my curry and rice with my knife. Finally I got up, walked halfway across the restaurant, and asked one of our waiters for a second fork and more water. He brought the fork (still no water), but as I was raising my fork to my mouth for a bite I saw something moving.
Oh yeah, there was a giant ant on my fork.
So, shaking with the famed Jenny O Rage, I marched all the way across the restaurant to the bar (where the waiter, who apparently saw me coming, started putting water onto his tray) held out my fork and said, “I need a new fork.” It took him a moment, but he finally realized what I was showing him. “Also, I think I’ll just take these,” I said, and snatched the waters. I started to head back to the table when a little old man waiter insisted that he carry the waters for me. I wanted to tell him to fuck off, but after all, it wasn’t his fault, so I let him.
My third fork arrived. We finished our mediocre food, and began the long wait for our check. I found myself entertaining vicious thoughts about walking out on it, and had just decided not to (out of sympathy for the cooks who had nothing to do with the service) when Nathan commented that we ought to just leave. I pointed out my cooks argument, and he reluctantly agreed.
It eventually did come, and I noted with anger but no real surprise that there was no sort of apology discount for the bullshit we’d put up with, and I found myself wishing that the UK had a tipping culture so that they would understand the insult I was making by not leaving them a tip. As it is I’ll have to salve my wound by getting on the LP forums and putting up a more recent review.
My current opinion of Edinburg is not good at all.
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