So this morning, it was a whopping 18 degrees out when I went to warm up my car. In my opinion, there is no reason Missouri needs to be this cold. We don't have snow ergo there is no need for the ridiculously cold weather. This put me in a grouchy mood the entire 30 minute drive to work and once I parked in my parking spot, I realized that the ice guy hadn't gotten to my area of the parking lot yet, so I had to be super careful not to slip and crack my head on the ice, which surely would have resulted in death with how my luck was going that morning.
Once I got inside I realized I had failed to bring any oatmeal or fruit for breakfast, so I made an emergency breakfast run to good ol Mickey D's, thus resulting in another trip out of doors into the freezing wasteland that Missouri has become recently. This spurned my idea of gaining enough political power to enact a law in which you are not required to leave your house if it is below 30 degrees outside unless you absolutely have to or if you're the snow and ice guys. One of my coworkers pointed out that by being president (which was my first idea) that my "law" would mostly likely be vetoed. This brought me great despair until I remembered that hey! We used to have all powerful monarchies before, why not again? Thus the idea of Queen Angie of the United States of America came about.
Some of my better ideas:
*Siesta from noon to four. That way you don't miss the best parts of the afternoon.
*No requirement to leave your house for work when it is under 30 degrees outside.
*Taco Tuesday! (That one speaks for itself, don't you think?)
*Pet a baby animal Thursday. I hate Thursdays and the only thing that seems to make it better is snuggling with my kittens, and I am sure I am not the only one who thinks this way.
*Automatic four weeks paid vacation with every job, as long as you have worked there for one year or longer. Anything less than a year, no vacation. Maybe (but maybe not) that will help the high turnover of a lot of jobs.
* Birthday weeks for all! If it's the week of your birthday, you get honored with balloons and singing and the dessert of your choice. Also, costume parties.
*Drama queen island. We send all the drama queens and self absorbed no good rotten people to an island to bicker amongst themselves and fight to the death. Last one standing can have the island to herself/himself until the next round of Drama queen island. I can think of a certain "i'm so crafty my life is so perfect oh em gee!" queen that would be on my short list for that island.
*Intelligence test for baby making. You have to be of a certain intelligence level and succefulness to procreate. If you don't meet these standards, you're not allowed to procreate and are forced to be chemically "barren" for lack of a better word.
*Funding for personal libraries. You want a personal library but don't have the means to build one? No problem! We will get someone to do it for you. Of course, you would have to fill it yourself though...
Those are just a few. I know that some of you won't agree with a couple of them, but that's why this is a monarchy and not a democracy. Also, this is my fake queendom. Get your own.
It should be noted that when I ran this idea by my coworkers they were vehemently against the idea of me (or anyone) being Queen or King. So no worries of me taking over, guys....
...this time. Muhahahahahahahaa!
Tuesday, January 15, 2013
Friday, January 11, 2013
This one's for the girl with the closet complex: A story of sisterly love
So lately I have been thinking a lot about my sister Kasey, who is due to give birth very very soon (yay new nephew!) and how grown up she is now. It makes me remember all the wonderful, and not so wonderful times we had together growing up. And of course, by wonderful, I mean mostly wonderful for me. I kept her and Brianna in a fairly constant state of fear of my all knowing older sister powers. The main memory I keep coming back to, however, is the day I convinced her that we had a homicidal little girl ghost living in her closet.
A little backstory: When we lived in Ness City, KS, my parents had bought this really huge old house to remodel. In my sister's room, there was a door to a closet, and above the door, I had found a skeleton key while investigating all the nooks and crannies of their room for hidden treats. The key actually fit in the door, and I thought it was the coolest. thing. ever. I didn't share this little fact with my sisters and my parents, after inspecting the key, didn't really care what I did with it, so I hid it in my Little Mermaid jewelry box for a long time. Usually when we would play dolls, or house, we would do it outside or in the girls' room because it was larger than mine since they shared. They also had the majority of the toys in their room because while I still played with them, it wasn't cool to look like I still played with them. (I was around 9 or 10 at this point) One summer afternoon, Kasey and I were playing "ghost story" dolls, which is a much more demented and horrific version of the regular game, where dolls are murderers and ghosts and vampires. Remember, I had a very vivid imagination and was fed a regular diet of Tim Burton and the original Grimms fairytales, so this game was inevitable. While playing this game, I remember my key and a horrible, amazing, idea hatched in my brain. Now because this was around 14-15 years ago, I don't remember the exact conversation, but I am sure it went something like this.
Me: Kase, guess what?
Kasey: what?
Me: No, guess!
Kasey: Nooooo, tell me. tell me tell me tell me tell me.
Me: *huge sigh* FINE.
K:....
Me:....
K:........
Me:...
K: Just tell me already!
Me: Well, I am scared to tell you, because I am scared she will hurt me.
K: Who?! Who will hurt you? Mom?
Me: No.
K:Bri?
Me: No.
K:Grandma Popsicle? Grandma Edmonds? Grandma Goodell? Aunt Ann? Mrs Nicamore (my fourth grade teacher)?
Me: No.
K: well, there aren't any other girls.
Me: Yeah huh.
K:not uh.
Me: Uh huh.
K: no there isn't!
Me: Yes there is. She lives in your closet.
K: who lives in my closet?
Me: The little girl with the bloody dress.
K: *freaking out now* What little girl? No one lives in my closet! Why can't I see her? Is she dead? You're lying to me!
Me: No, I am serious! She comes down to my room at night and talks to me. She was killed in your closet, but not before she murdered her whole family. Then they turned into ghosts and murdered her!
K: Why does she live in my closet?? Does she want to kill me?
(At this point, the dolls are completely forgotten, and we are both staring at the closed closet door, and Kasey is almost in tears)
Me: She doesn't want to kill you, she likes you. She actually wants to talk to you.
K: About what? I'm scared. Let's go outside. (That's where mum, dad, and Tay were)
Me: Well, if you don't talk to her now, you might make her mad. And remember, she lives in your closet.
K: Do I have to go in the closet?
Me: Well yeah. Duh. Here, how about this. I will let you hold my stuffed animal for protection?
K: okay
I went and got my bear and the key and went back upstairs to Kasey's room. I handed her the bear and coaxed her into the closet. I also convinced her not to turn on the closet light because it might scare the ghost away. She freaked out a little when I closed the door, but I told her it had to happen for the magic to work. My poor sister, both terrified but trusting, let me close the door. And lock it. I told her she had to stay in there about five minutes and that I would let her out. Then I went downstairs and went to the restroom, and when I came out, mum told me I had a couple chores I needed to do outside.
And I completely forgot about my poor five year old sister locked in her closet, terrified of the "ghost" in there with her. I didn't remember for about 30 minutes and I rushed inside and unlocked the closet and Kasey flew out, bawling her eyes out and ran downstairs and outside, screaming that a ghost had touched her. In reality, it was probably one of her dresses shifting on the hanger, but the damage was done and she ran straight to mum and told her everything, who gave me a very disapproving look and took my key away. It was a very sad day in my summer. Poor Kasey, though, lived in utter fear of that closet for the next couple years until my parents built them a new closet and turned theirs into a bathroom.
I am sure that Kasey is over whatever psychological damage I probably caused her by locking her in the closet for half a hour, but she still doesn't trust me when I tell her to go into a room by herself. And she sure as heck doesn't trust me when I say that something menacing is friendly and she should go talk to it/pet it/be its friend. I realize I was a terror when I was younger. But being a terror was so much more fun that playing dolls. Or house. Or doing chores.
Love you Kaseydea!
A little backstory: When we lived in Ness City, KS, my parents had bought this really huge old house to remodel. In my sister's room, there was a door to a closet, and above the door, I had found a skeleton key while investigating all the nooks and crannies of their room for hidden treats. The key actually fit in the door, and I thought it was the coolest. thing. ever. I didn't share this little fact with my sisters and my parents, after inspecting the key, didn't really care what I did with it, so I hid it in my Little Mermaid jewelry box for a long time. Usually when we would play dolls, or house, we would do it outside or in the girls' room because it was larger than mine since they shared. They also had the majority of the toys in their room because while I still played with them, it wasn't cool to look like I still played with them. (I was around 9 or 10 at this point) One summer afternoon, Kasey and I were playing "ghost story" dolls, which is a much more demented and horrific version of the regular game, where dolls are murderers and ghosts and vampires. Remember, I had a very vivid imagination and was fed a regular diet of Tim Burton and the original Grimms fairytales, so this game was inevitable. While playing this game, I remember my key and a horrible, amazing, idea hatched in my brain. Now because this was around 14-15 years ago, I don't remember the exact conversation, but I am sure it went something like this.
Me: Kase, guess what?
Kasey: what?
Me: No, guess!
Kasey: Nooooo, tell me. tell me tell me tell me tell me.
Me: *huge sigh* FINE.
K:....
Me:....
K:........
Me:...
K: Just tell me already!
Me: Well, I am scared to tell you, because I am scared she will hurt me.
K: Who?! Who will hurt you? Mom?
Me: No.
K:Bri?
Me: No.
K:Grandma Popsicle? Grandma Edmonds? Grandma Goodell? Aunt Ann? Mrs Nicamore (my fourth grade teacher)?
Me: No.
K: well, there aren't any other girls.
Me: Yeah huh.
K:not uh.
Me: Uh huh.
K: no there isn't!
Me: Yes there is. She lives in your closet.
K: who lives in my closet?
Me: The little girl with the bloody dress.
K: *freaking out now* What little girl? No one lives in my closet! Why can't I see her? Is she dead? You're lying to me!
Me: No, I am serious! She comes down to my room at night and talks to me. She was killed in your closet, but not before she murdered her whole family. Then they turned into ghosts and murdered her!
K: Why does she live in my closet?? Does she want to kill me?
(At this point, the dolls are completely forgotten, and we are both staring at the closed closet door, and Kasey is almost in tears)
Me: She doesn't want to kill you, she likes you. She actually wants to talk to you.
K: About what? I'm scared. Let's go outside. (That's where mum, dad, and Tay were)
Me: Well, if you don't talk to her now, you might make her mad. And remember, she lives in your closet.
K: Do I have to go in the closet?
Me: Well yeah. Duh. Here, how about this. I will let you hold my stuffed animal for protection?
K: okay
I went and got my bear and the key and went back upstairs to Kasey's room. I handed her the bear and coaxed her into the closet. I also convinced her not to turn on the closet light because it might scare the ghost away. She freaked out a little when I closed the door, but I told her it had to happen for the magic to work. My poor sister, both terrified but trusting, let me close the door. And lock it. I told her she had to stay in there about five minutes and that I would let her out. Then I went downstairs and went to the restroom, and when I came out, mum told me I had a couple chores I needed to do outside.
And I completely forgot about my poor five year old sister locked in her closet, terrified of the "ghost" in there with her. I didn't remember for about 30 minutes and I rushed inside and unlocked the closet and Kasey flew out, bawling her eyes out and ran downstairs and outside, screaming that a ghost had touched her. In reality, it was probably one of her dresses shifting on the hanger, but the damage was done and she ran straight to mum and told her everything, who gave me a very disapproving look and took my key away. It was a very sad day in my summer. Poor Kasey, though, lived in utter fear of that closet for the next couple years until my parents built them a new closet and turned theirs into a bathroom.
I am sure that Kasey is over whatever psychological damage I probably caused her by locking her in the closet for half a hour, but she still doesn't trust me when I tell her to go into a room by herself. And she sure as heck doesn't trust me when I say that something menacing is friendly and she should go talk to it/pet it/be its friend. I realize I was a terror when I was younger. But being a terror was so much more fun that playing dolls. Or house. Or doing chores.
Love you Kaseydea!
Monday, December 31, 2012
Happy New Years: Here's an Angie Rant.
About 30 minutes ago, I posted a super friendly generic version of my new year's eve post. But since this is the last post I will have in 2012, and I have been fairly nice in all of the rest of them, let me get real in this one.
My one huge wish for 2013 is to become a mom. I want the whole shebang. I want to be pregnant, I want to decorate a nursery and bicker lightly with Ian over the final details of baby names. I want to bawl my eyes out when I hear my baby's heartbeat for the first time, when I see the first ultrasound, when I find out the gender. I even want the hours of grueling labor because that will mean that I HAVE DONE IT. I am a mom, I have done what millions of women before me have done.
I was going through old schoolwork of mine that my mum kept for me and I found my kindergarten stats sheet. Listed under "what I want to be when I grow up?" A mom. (Actually mine says "my mum" but you get the point). So for at least 19 years of my life, this is what I have wanted. That's 19 years of solid dedication to this wish.
What I don't want is useless advice or "funny" anecdotes. What is useless advice you ask? Well let me enlighten you. I don't want to be told that it would take me a while (trust me, no one realizes this more than me), or that I will get pregnant when I stop trying to get pregnant. I don't want to continuously hear about how easy it was for you to get pregnant or how it was a total oops moment, hahahaha! I am happy for those who get pregnant quickly, I really am! There are just a few people on my social media who like to throw it in my face all the time. I hate that. And don't get me wrong. I love people's updates about their pregnancies and their babies. I really do. It's a super exciting time in your life, you're growing a baby! It's when it's multiple times (read 5 or more) a day that it starts to grate on my nerves. Or when they say "If you're not a parent, you don't know what true love is." I hate that saying, I really do. I truly love my husband. Unconditionally. For better or worse.
But the biggest thing I do NOT want to hear from anyone EVER again? "In my personal opinion, because I have been there, I would wait. You never regret waiting." I am sure I don't, but I will never regret having my child either. And I haven't had anyone who is actually in my situation say that to me. My situation is as follows: I am in my mid twenties, I have been married to my high school sweetheart for four years, and we dated for three years before that. That is seven years with the same man. I have a great job that I love doing, and my husband has an awesome job that could support both of us should I decide to be a stay at home mom (which is what both Ian and I want). We both have running vehicles, even if they aren't brand new or gorgeous. Neither of us owes any debt on either of our cars. We own our home, which is not a dump, and we live in a safe and quiet neighborhood that would be great to raise kids in. We are both in stellar health, and the most addictive substance that has me in its vices is Wild Cherry Pepsi. I know, I know, I should attend a Sodaholics Anonymous meeting or something, right?
I don't mean to offend the kind and supportive people in my life at all. And if you're reading this and thinking "I have never-!" Then you probably haven't and this isn't for you. This is for the people who have ever made me feel like I am not a real woman because I am not a mom yet, or that I am doing something wrong if I am not pregnant yet. This is for anyone who has ever uttered the words "Even if you're never a mom..." to me. Don't even go there. Don't put that negativity on me. I don't need it.
And for those of you who read this whole thing and don't think I am the scum of the earth, thank you. Thank you for understanding that sometimes I need to be able to rant about things that upset me.
Now after I get off of work, I am going to go home, get into pjs and park my butt on my couch with a book and season five of Bones. I am not a party girl or even a regular drinker. It's a big deal that I am even contemplating staying up until midnight, and I will do that on my terms. My terms include captain america sleep pants, a doctor who nightshirt, fuzzy socks, and my TARDIS blanket.
Happy New Years my lovely readers!!
My one huge wish for 2013 is to become a mom. I want the whole shebang. I want to be pregnant, I want to decorate a nursery and bicker lightly with Ian over the final details of baby names. I want to bawl my eyes out when I hear my baby's heartbeat for the first time, when I see the first ultrasound, when I find out the gender. I even want the hours of grueling labor because that will mean that I HAVE DONE IT. I am a mom, I have done what millions of women before me have done.
I was going through old schoolwork of mine that my mum kept for me and I found my kindergarten stats sheet. Listed under "what I want to be when I grow up?" A mom. (Actually mine says "my mum" but you get the point). So for at least 19 years of my life, this is what I have wanted. That's 19 years of solid dedication to this wish.
What I don't want is useless advice or "funny" anecdotes. What is useless advice you ask? Well let me enlighten you. I don't want to be told that it would take me a while (trust me, no one realizes this more than me), or that I will get pregnant when I stop trying to get pregnant. I don't want to continuously hear about how easy it was for you to get pregnant or how it was a total oops moment, hahahaha! I am happy for those who get pregnant quickly, I really am! There are just a few people on my social media who like to throw it in my face all the time. I hate that. And don't get me wrong. I love people's updates about their pregnancies and their babies. I really do. It's a super exciting time in your life, you're growing a baby! It's when it's multiple times (read 5 or more) a day that it starts to grate on my nerves. Or when they say "If you're not a parent, you don't know what true love is." I hate that saying, I really do. I truly love my husband. Unconditionally. For better or worse.
But the biggest thing I do NOT want to hear from anyone EVER again? "In my personal opinion, because I have been there, I would wait. You never regret waiting." I am sure I don't, but I will never regret having my child either. And I haven't had anyone who is actually in my situation say that to me. My situation is as follows: I am in my mid twenties, I have been married to my high school sweetheart for four years, and we dated for three years before that. That is seven years with the same man. I have a great job that I love doing, and my husband has an awesome job that could support both of us should I decide to be a stay at home mom (which is what both Ian and I want). We both have running vehicles, even if they aren't brand new or gorgeous. Neither of us owes any debt on either of our cars. We own our home, which is not a dump, and we live in a safe and quiet neighborhood that would be great to raise kids in. We are both in stellar health, and the most addictive substance that has me in its vices is Wild Cherry Pepsi. I know, I know, I should attend a Sodaholics Anonymous meeting or something, right?
I don't mean to offend the kind and supportive people in my life at all. And if you're reading this and thinking "I have never-!" Then you probably haven't and this isn't for you. This is for the people who have ever made me feel like I am not a real woman because I am not a mom yet, or that I am doing something wrong if I am not pregnant yet. This is for anyone who has ever uttered the words "Even if you're never a mom..." to me. Don't even go there. Don't put that negativity on me. I don't need it.
And for those of you who read this whole thing and don't think I am the scum of the earth, thank you. Thank you for understanding that sometimes I need to be able to rant about things that upset me.
Now after I get off of work, I am going to go home, get into pjs and park my butt on my couch with a book and season five of Bones. I am not a party girl or even a regular drinker. It's a big deal that I am even contemplating staying up until midnight, and I will do that on my terms. My terms include captain america sleep pants, a doctor who nightshirt, fuzzy socks, and my TARDIS blanket.
Happy New Years my lovely readers!!
Thursday, December 27, 2012
I haven't forgotten you, my lovelies...
I hope everyone had a happy Christmas! I sure did. There was a small drama bloop on the sunday morning before christmas where I ended up in tears because people should be more considerate of the difficulties of other people...but I am not going there because I don't want to end up upset again.
Ian, the furbabies and I were very blessed to be into our new house (if not settled all the way) by Christmas. We had taken down the tree at the apartment, and never put it back up, nor did we put up any Christmas decorations, but it was festive nonetheless. We began the day by watching the Queen's christmas message and ended it with the Doctor Who christmas special, and in between was full of little naps, presents, and food! Lots of food!
This is just a short little blip of a post to let you know I am still here and alive, but busy with unpacking and organizing and getting ready for the new year. I hope to post a new year's eve blog of monday, so fingers crossed that I get time!
TTFN! Tata for now!
Ian, the furbabies and I were very blessed to be into our new house (if not settled all the way) by Christmas. We had taken down the tree at the apartment, and never put it back up, nor did we put up any Christmas decorations, but it was festive nonetheless. We began the day by watching the Queen's christmas message and ended it with the Doctor Who christmas special, and in between was full of little naps, presents, and food! Lots of food!
This is just a short little blip of a post to let you know I am still here and alive, but busy with unpacking and organizing and getting ready for the new year. I hope to post a new year's eve blog of monday, so fingers crossed that I get time!
TTFN! Tata for now!
Tuesday, December 11, 2012
My tooth has left the union and an equally ridiculous story of oral surgery
When I was 16, I made the trek back to Dodge City to attend my wisdom tooth removal surgery. Unfortunate events occurred (read: stomach flu) and, in fear of me throwing up on my surgeon, my surgery was canceled. This did not appear to be a huge deal because over the next few years, all four of my wisdom teeth grew in miraculously straight and it appeared to be a sign from God that I should never have oral surgery again. More on that in a minute.
Over the past week, my lower right wisdom tooth has been aching a little. Now you need to understand that I am very OCD when it comes to the health of my mouth and teeth. You don't go through surgery and four years of braces and expect to come through without a little PTSD. I brush my teeth twice a day, every day and on days my teeth feel a little grimy, three times a day. I floss, I use mouthwash. I inspect my teeth for possible cavities often. I am very very careful with my teeth. So to have a sore mouth caused by a tooth is a major freak out moment for me. The first day I inspected it, it looked like my gums were a little swollen back there, so I lightly massaged them with my brush a few times that day and for the following day. It got a little better, so I stopped worrying about it. Then yesterday, I woke up with the whole right side of my face lightly swollen and I was again worried. This time when I looked in my mouth, the impossible appeared to have happened. My gums are not swollen, my wisdom tooth is receding! And it's receding crookedly, pushing the side of it into my jawline and cheek. On my lunch break yesterday I called a dental office and asked if this was, indeed, possible. Apparently it is because wisdom teeth are wicked little creatures with minds of their own. So now I have to go get all my wisdom teeth thoroughly examined and quite possibly removed. And if the crazy tooth doesn't come up back up, that will require oral surgery. Which I HATE. And here's why.
When I was preparing to get braces, Dr Ackerman realized that my mouth (much like the rest of my body) was tiny. Too small, in fact, to fit all the teeth that were growing in. So I had to set an appointment to have two bottom teeth removed and two top teeth removed. That would have been no big deal, but my top teeth were indignant. They stood their ground and refused to move, stating "we are too cool to leave this mouth." In normal person speak, this means that the roots of my teeth were actually hooked into my sinus and to merely pull them would resort in more surgeries than needed because then they would need to repair my sinus region. It was ultimately decided that I would need to have surgery to remove these teeth, no big deal, right? Wrong. I was terrified of surgery. What if I never woke up? Nonetheless, mum's final word was law in our house, and she said my teeth were being removed surgically.
The day of the surgery, I got to skip school (yay!) and on the way to the clinic, I asked mum if we could go to the library and sonic afterwards. She kind of did this little half laugh, and said sure, if I felt up to it after the surgery. I took this as a yes, because why wouldn't I feel like it?
Skipping all the boring details of signing in and getting to the good stuff, they hooked me up to all the tubes and a nurse took a nasty looking long needle and inserted it into my IV and asked me to count backwards from 10. The last number I remember was 9, so that was probably a sign of the future issues I had.
I am assuming (and would not like to hear otherwise) that the surgery itself went fine. It was the waking me afterwards that caused problems. As in, I wouldn't wake up. They went out and got my mum, and from what I am told, it even took her some time to get me conscious.
The first thing I remember was the clouds on the ceiling, with the cowboys and indians chasing each other. I tried to tell my mum about them, but there was so much gauze in my mouth, and it just kind of hung upen and wouldn't close and the drugs were definitely prohibiting any real human speak. Also I might mention there were no cowboys or indians on the ceiling. Or clouds. I am pretty sure it was just a plain white ceiling when I was put under and I seriously doubted they painted all of that in the hour I was down for the count.
Me: Mum, look, the cowboys are chasing the indians in the sky
Mum: umm...un huh, sweetie, you need to wake up. Can you open your eyes a little more?
Me: No, my eyes are fine. Do you see the cowboys?
Mum: That's nice, honey. Now we are going to get you home, okay? I have to leave for a second. I am going to get the car. I will be right back. (my drug addled brain did not recognize this sentence as actual words so I had no idea what my mum was doing)
Me: But the indians! And the clouds!
At this point, my mother had left the room to pull the van around to the side of the building so that I didn't freak out the rest of the patients in the waiting room with my crazy mouth face. The two nice male dental assistants helped me walk (read: basically carried me) to the side door, where my mother was waiting. Unfortunately for them, they also had a supplies van waiting there as well, and I couldn't see my mum's van at first, so I freaked out on them as much as a ninety pound pre-teen girl could freak out on two physically fit mid twenties men. I was sure they were kidnapping me for ransom and I just couldn't allow that. My mum hurried over to calm me down and with a little bit of struggle, we got me safely loaded into the waiting vehicle and on my way home.
Everything was fine until we passed the library.
Me: Mum! Where are you going? The library, you said, I feel fine!
Mum: No, Angie, you don't. You don't make any sense, your entire face is swollen and you can't even walk on your own. We are just going home.
Me: But you said! You said, you said you said you said..." (This was like a whine sob word mix)
Mum: No.
And again, mum's final word was law, so I shut up except for some halfhearted sniffles. She did, however, take me to Sonic and get me a sprite and also a chocolate shake with fries so I could mush them around in my mouth. Later we would find out that they gave me too much anethesia for my weight, which is why I was so unfunctional and hard to wake up, but the whole experience traumatized me.
And this has been the long winded reason why I do NOT want to have another surgery, yet I am afraid I will have to. Stupid teeth.
Over the past week, my lower right wisdom tooth has been aching a little. Now you need to understand that I am very OCD when it comes to the health of my mouth and teeth. You don't go through surgery and four years of braces and expect to come through without a little PTSD. I brush my teeth twice a day, every day and on days my teeth feel a little grimy, three times a day. I floss, I use mouthwash. I inspect my teeth for possible cavities often. I am very very careful with my teeth. So to have a sore mouth caused by a tooth is a major freak out moment for me. The first day I inspected it, it looked like my gums were a little swollen back there, so I lightly massaged them with my brush a few times that day and for the following day. It got a little better, so I stopped worrying about it. Then yesterday, I woke up with the whole right side of my face lightly swollen and I was again worried. This time when I looked in my mouth, the impossible appeared to have happened. My gums are not swollen, my wisdom tooth is receding! And it's receding crookedly, pushing the side of it into my jawline and cheek. On my lunch break yesterday I called a dental office and asked if this was, indeed, possible. Apparently it is because wisdom teeth are wicked little creatures with minds of their own. So now I have to go get all my wisdom teeth thoroughly examined and quite possibly removed. And if the crazy tooth doesn't come up back up, that will require oral surgery. Which I HATE. And here's why.
When I was preparing to get braces, Dr Ackerman realized that my mouth (much like the rest of my body) was tiny. Too small, in fact, to fit all the teeth that were growing in. So I had to set an appointment to have two bottom teeth removed and two top teeth removed. That would have been no big deal, but my top teeth were indignant. They stood their ground and refused to move, stating "we are too cool to leave this mouth." In normal person speak, this means that the roots of my teeth were actually hooked into my sinus and to merely pull them would resort in more surgeries than needed because then they would need to repair my sinus region. It was ultimately decided that I would need to have surgery to remove these teeth, no big deal, right? Wrong. I was terrified of surgery. What if I never woke up? Nonetheless, mum's final word was law in our house, and she said my teeth were being removed surgically.
The day of the surgery, I got to skip school (yay!) and on the way to the clinic, I asked mum if we could go to the library and sonic afterwards. She kind of did this little half laugh, and said sure, if I felt up to it after the surgery. I took this as a yes, because why wouldn't I feel like it?
Skipping all the boring details of signing in and getting to the good stuff, they hooked me up to all the tubes and a nurse took a nasty looking long needle and inserted it into my IV and asked me to count backwards from 10. The last number I remember was 9, so that was probably a sign of the future issues I had.
I am assuming (and would not like to hear otherwise) that the surgery itself went fine. It was the waking me afterwards that caused problems. As in, I wouldn't wake up. They went out and got my mum, and from what I am told, it even took her some time to get me conscious.
The first thing I remember was the clouds on the ceiling, with the cowboys and indians chasing each other. I tried to tell my mum about them, but there was so much gauze in my mouth, and it just kind of hung upen and wouldn't close and the drugs were definitely prohibiting any real human speak. Also I might mention there were no cowboys or indians on the ceiling. Or clouds. I am pretty sure it was just a plain white ceiling when I was put under and I seriously doubted they painted all of that in the hour I was down for the count.
Me: Mum, look, the cowboys are chasing the indians in the sky
Mum: umm...un huh, sweetie, you need to wake up. Can you open your eyes a little more?
Me: No, my eyes are fine. Do you see the cowboys?
Mum: That's nice, honey. Now we are going to get you home, okay? I have to leave for a second. I am going to get the car. I will be right back. (my drug addled brain did not recognize this sentence as actual words so I had no idea what my mum was doing)
Me: But the indians! And the clouds!
At this point, my mother had left the room to pull the van around to the side of the building so that I didn't freak out the rest of the patients in the waiting room with my crazy mouth face. The two nice male dental assistants helped me walk (read: basically carried me) to the side door, where my mother was waiting. Unfortunately for them, they also had a supplies van waiting there as well, and I couldn't see my mum's van at first, so I freaked out on them as much as a ninety pound pre-teen girl could freak out on two physically fit mid twenties men. I was sure they were kidnapping me for ransom and I just couldn't allow that. My mum hurried over to calm me down and with a little bit of struggle, we got me safely loaded into the waiting vehicle and on my way home.
Everything was fine until we passed the library.
Me: Mum! Where are you going? The library, you said, I feel fine!
Mum: No, Angie, you don't. You don't make any sense, your entire face is swollen and you can't even walk on your own. We are just going home.
Me: But you said! You said, you said you said you said..." (This was like a whine sob word mix)
Mum: No.
And again, mum's final word was law, so I shut up except for some halfhearted sniffles. She did, however, take me to Sonic and get me a sprite and also a chocolate shake with fries so I could mush them around in my mouth. Later we would find out that they gave me too much anethesia for my weight, which is why I was so unfunctional and hard to wake up, but the whole experience traumatized me.
And this has been the long winded reason why I do NOT want to have another surgery, yet I am afraid I will have to. Stupid teeth.
Friday, December 7, 2012
My mother is a thief of joy- The tale of a poor sick girl.
Sorry I haven't posted in a bit! Ian and I have just purchased a home, and it's requiring a bit of TLC, plus packing, and getting ready for Christmas, I just haven't had time to breathe. Then yesterday, I had an evil stomach bug and so I laid on the couch and read and moaned of how I was on my deathbed, but no one would take of me. This, of course, was a complete lie as Ian was a very good caretaker but it reminded me of a conversation I had with my mum on the phone a week ago.
She called for some odd and random reason (read: Taylor's christmas box so no details will be provided here) and then I teased her about being a negligent mother for not remembering his birthday.
Mum: I know! I know! All my children tell me I am a terrible mother. I'm the worst. Over it. Moving on.
Me: Well, not the worst...but you know...you haven't exactly been attentive to my needs lately.
Mum: What do you mean?
Me: I didn't want to mention it, bbuutt for, like, the past four years, you haven't been at my beck and call when I was sick...
Mum: ...oh Lord...
Me: (continuing on throughout mum's mumblings) ...and so I haven't had anyone to bring me orange juice and cold rags for my head or make me couch nests to lay in and read, sleep, and watch Harry Potter...
Mum:...might I mention that you're married...
Me:...and so I really don't think that I have been getting as well as quickly as I used to.
Mum: Does Ian not take care of you?
Me: He does, but that's besides the point. You're my mum. You're supposed to take of me forever, especially when I am sick.
Mum: This entire conversation has taken a turn for the ridiculous.
Me: You just wait. I am probably going to be ill soon, and you won't take care of me.
Mum: You're right. Because your husband will and you're being a child.
Me: *blows raspberry in her ear*
AND what would you know, I was sick yesterday, and Ian did take care of me. But I had to make my own couch nest, and I didn't get to watch any Harry Potter, there was no orange juice or cold rags for my head. Not that I was that sick, just a little tummy bug probably caused my dinner the night before, and I have already packed away my Harry Potter movies to be moved over to the new house. I am also not a huge fan of orange juice. But this is all besides the point. The point is when I am sick, I need a certain routine followed, and I don't care that I am in my mid-twenties, if I don't feel well, my body thinks its five again. And when you're five, you need your mum.
And also probably some "Soft Kitty."
She called for some odd and random reason (read: Taylor's christmas box so no details will be provided here) and then I teased her about being a negligent mother for not remembering his birthday.
Mum: I know! I know! All my children tell me I am a terrible mother. I'm the worst. Over it. Moving on.
Me: Well, not the worst...but you know...you haven't exactly been attentive to my needs lately.
Mum: What do you mean?
Me: I didn't want to mention it, bbuutt for, like, the past four years, you haven't been at my beck and call when I was sick...
Mum: ...oh Lord...
Me: (continuing on throughout mum's mumblings) ...and so I haven't had anyone to bring me orange juice and cold rags for my head or make me couch nests to lay in and read, sleep, and watch Harry Potter...
Mum:...might I mention that you're married...
Me:...and so I really don't think that I have been getting as well as quickly as I used to.
Mum: Does Ian not take care of you?
Me: He does, but that's besides the point. You're my mum. You're supposed to take of me forever, especially when I am sick.
Mum: This entire conversation has taken a turn for the ridiculous.
Me: You just wait. I am probably going to be ill soon, and you won't take care of me.
Mum: You're right. Because your husband will and you're being a child.
Me: *blows raspberry in her ear*
AND what would you know, I was sick yesterday, and Ian did take care of me. But I had to make my own couch nest, and I didn't get to watch any Harry Potter, there was no orange juice or cold rags for my head. Not that I was that sick, just a little tummy bug probably caused my dinner the night before, and I have already packed away my Harry Potter movies to be moved over to the new house. I am also not a huge fan of orange juice. But this is all besides the point. The point is when I am sick, I need a certain routine followed, and I don't care that I am in my mid-twenties, if I don't feel well, my body thinks its five again. And when you're five, you need your mum.
And also probably some "Soft Kitty."
Monday, November 26, 2012
"Presents! Everywhere!"
Ian and I have put up our christmas tree on Thanksgiving night every year since we got married. I don't participate in Black Friday, so I don't have to go to bed early and he does, but he just pulls an allnighter, so it's the perfect time to put it up. We don't have to worry about how late we are up, and we watch a christmas movie, we get into PJs, I usually drink hot cocoa and it's the "Ross Christmas Tree Ceremony." It's one of my very favorite nights throughout the whole year.
This year, however, was different. This year we have two kittens who are in the destruction to everything stage. I was a little worried about this, but they seem to respond fairly well to disciplinary action, so I tried not to dwell on it too much. BIG MISTAKE.
1. Getting the tree out of the holiday closet: I walk to the library, open door. Kittens with supersonic hearing hear the door open. They come running. They both shoot into holiday closet and immediately disappear among boxes. I pull tree out and drag it to the living room, then go back to get kittens out of holiday closet. They aren't there. I search everywhere, get irritated, decide to lock them in there to teach them a lesson. I walk back to the living room to find christmas tree container moving. The kittens managed to crawl into the one container I was pulling out anyway. Get kittens out of box, and shoo them away. Ian distracts them with shiny stuff.
2. Assembling the christmas tree: I do my super important job of putting the tree base into the perfect position while Ian pulls the heavier part of the tree out and places it into said base. So far, so good, kittens still distracting with shiny stuff. I pull out the second part of the christmas tree. For some reason unknown to man, this action attracts kittens. Now intrigued, they run full force into the bottom part of the already assembled tree and scoot it out of perfect position. I distract them with a ball of yarn (yes this is cliche, but it totally works on my kittens) and they are sufficiently distracted. We manage to get the rest of the tree put up with relative ease.
3. Lighting the christmas tree: We do have a pre-strung christmas tree, but the order in which the lights connect to each other have absolutely no rhyme or reason and I tossed the instructions three years ago (because who really needs them??) so we just plug them together randoming until all the lights are on. As soon as the first set of lights came on, they had the kittens' attention again. Doctor tried to gnaw on a light only to burn his tongue, Olive just sat and stare wide-eyed for about 30 second and then went batpoop crazy and tried to destroy the tree. The problem was that now that the lights were on, there was no way to distract them from the tree, and we needed the lights on to tell when they were all connected properly. We slid the cats away, we lightly swatted them, I tried holding them while Ian desperately attempted to get everything connected. We finally decided to let them lay near, but not touch, the tree. It seemed to work best. I only had to swat their paws a couple times a piece before they realized they could look but not touch.
4. Decorating the christmas tree: This is when all hell broke loose. Most of our ornaments are plastic anyway, thank the Lord, so it was mostly chasing down cats with ornaments in tow, or to replace the ornaments they swatted off. Ian used mean voice on them and they kept the swatting to a minimum a.k.a. when Ian wasn't looking only. This part took the longest as it normally does, but it was ungodly long this time because of all the interference from the two cat demons from hell.
5. Finishing the rest of the house decorations: piece of cake. Kittens liked the tree, didn't give two hoots about anything else.
After the tree was assembled, everything calmed down, cats lost interest, we forgot that they were unholy creatures sent to torment us during the Christmas season. Until Saturday. Saturday night Ian took me on a spontaneous late night Palace movie date night, and all was well. Ian had decided to put my presents under the tree already to taunt my with their wrappedupness and I was NOT appreciating it. I just wanted to rip them apart and have them already.
When we got back from the movies, Ian was dallying behind in his car messing with something so I was the first into the house. As soon as I flipped on the hallway light, I saw two flashes, white and black, shoot into the library. Immediately suspicious I hurried to the living room, knowing that Olive and Doctor only willingly went into their room if they were hungry, thirsty, or about to be in huge trouble. In this case, I was absolutely sure they were about to be in trouble. Once I turned on the light to the living room, I saw that they had apparently played some form of "present hockey" or soccer or basketball. SOMETHING. My presents (wrapped as much as I could see) were EVERYWHERE.
Me: PRESENTS! EVERYWHERE! OH, IT IS CHRISTMAS! (doctor who quote)
Ian: What do you mean, presents everywhere?
Me: My presents are all over! Maybe some are opened!
Ian: Don't you lay a single finger on any of those presents or I will send them all back! Don't move a muscle.
I was immediately shunned to the closest room (the laundry room) to sit and wait for Ian to inspect all the presents for any damage. Satisfied there were none, he let me out and went into the library with the kittens. I heard a lot of mean voice (no raised volume, just harsher tone). Then he came out of the room with a kitten in each arm, both looking sheepish. We spent the rest of the night curled up on the couch, watching "How I Met Your Mother" and cuddling with the apparently apologetic, suddenly cuddly kittens.
This year, however, was different. This year we have two kittens who are in the destruction to everything stage. I was a little worried about this, but they seem to respond fairly well to disciplinary action, so I tried not to dwell on it too much. BIG MISTAKE.
1. Getting the tree out of the holiday closet: I walk to the library, open door. Kittens with supersonic hearing hear the door open. They come running. They both shoot into holiday closet and immediately disappear among boxes. I pull tree out and drag it to the living room, then go back to get kittens out of holiday closet. They aren't there. I search everywhere, get irritated, decide to lock them in there to teach them a lesson. I walk back to the living room to find christmas tree container moving. The kittens managed to crawl into the one container I was pulling out anyway. Get kittens out of box, and shoo them away. Ian distracts them with shiny stuff.
2. Assembling the christmas tree: I do my super important job of putting the tree base into the perfect position while Ian pulls the heavier part of the tree out and places it into said base. So far, so good, kittens still distracting with shiny stuff. I pull out the second part of the christmas tree. For some reason unknown to man, this action attracts kittens. Now intrigued, they run full force into the bottom part of the already assembled tree and scoot it out of perfect position. I distract them with a ball of yarn (yes this is cliche, but it totally works on my kittens) and they are sufficiently distracted. We manage to get the rest of the tree put up with relative ease.
3. Lighting the christmas tree: We do have a pre-strung christmas tree, but the order in which the lights connect to each other have absolutely no rhyme or reason and I tossed the instructions three years ago (because who really needs them??) so we just plug them together randoming until all the lights are on. As soon as the first set of lights came on, they had the kittens' attention again. Doctor tried to gnaw on a light only to burn his tongue, Olive just sat and stare wide-eyed for about 30 second and then went batpoop crazy and tried to destroy the tree. The problem was that now that the lights were on, there was no way to distract them from the tree, and we needed the lights on to tell when they were all connected properly. We slid the cats away, we lightly swatted them, I tried holding them while Ian desperately attempted to get everything connected. We finally decided to let them lay near, but not touch, the tree. It seemed to work best. I only had to swat their paws a couple times a piece before they realized they could look but not touch.
4. Decorating the christmas tree: This is when all hell broke loose. Most of our ornaments are plastic anyway, thank the Lord, so it was mostly chasing down cats with ornaments in tow, or to replace the ornaments they swatted off. Ian used mean voice on them and they kept the swatting to a minimum a.k.a. when Ian wasn't looking only. This part took the longest as it normally does, but it was ungodly long this time because of all the interference from the two cat demons from hell.
5. Finishing the rest of the house decorations: piece of cake. Kittens liked the tree, didn't give two hoots about anything else.
After the tree was assembled, everything calmed down, cats lost interest, we forgot that they were unholy creatures sent to torment us during the Christmas season. Until Saturday. Saturday night Ian took me on a spontaneous late night Palace movie date night, and all was well. Ian had decided to put my presents under the tree already to taunt my with their wrappedupness and I was NOT appreciating it. I just wanted to rip them apart and have them already.
When we got back from the movies, Ian was dallying behind in his car messing with something so I was the first into the house. As soon as I flipped on the hallway light, I saw two flashes, white and black, shoot into the library. Immediately suspicious I hurried to the living room, knowing that Olive and Doctor only willingly went into their room if they were hungry, thirsty, or about to be in huge trouble. In this case, I was absolutely sure they were about to be in trouble. Once I turned on the light to the living room, I saw that they had apparently played some form of "present hockey" or soccer or basketball. SOMETHING. My presents (wrapped as much as I could see) were EVERYWHERE.
Me: PRESENTS! EVERYWHERE! OH, IT IS CHRISTMAS! (doctor who quote)
Ian: What do you mean, presents everywhere?
Me: My presents are all over! Maybe some are opened!
Ian: Don't you lay a single finger on any of those presents or I will send them all back! Don't move a muscle.
I was immediately shunned to the closest room (the laundry room) to sit and wait for Ian to inspect all the presents for any damage. Satisfied there were none, he let me out and went into the library with the kittens. I heard a lot of mean voice (no raised volume, just harsher tone). Then he came out of the room with a kitten in each arm, both looking sheepish. We spent the rest of the night curled up on the couch, watching "How I Met Your Mother" and cuddling with the apparently apologetic, suddenly cuddly kittens.
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