Howdy Stranger

I must look like the kind of person that you just want to talk to. Strangers are constantly just striking up conversations with me. The thing is, they are all weird. I never get the normal person who turns into a good friend. Just weirdos.

Like when I was at the mechanic’s a few weeks ago, and I was just waiting for my inspection. This nice old man came in, sat down next to me, and smiled. So eventually he started talking about how cold it is. I had to concur; it was indeed a chilly day that day. But then the conversation took a turn:

Man: “You know, my wife is always complaining that she’s cold.”
Me: “Yeah, today it certainly is...”
Man: “And I told her, that is because she doesn’t wear cotton panties.”
Me: “oh...”
Man: “I mean, you can’t wear polyester panties and expect to stay warm. You know?”
Me: “Yeah. Gotta stick with the cotton underpants.”
[I hate the word “panties” as much as Maria, so I chose different wording.]
Man: “Exactly! Well, have a good day.”

Then he just got up and left. Like imparting that important wisdom on me was it for the day.

I have had a woman talking to me about fruit at Stop & Shop, asking me what I thought she should buy. Last week I had a woman at Target yelling at me that they didn’t have enough pants for short people. (She must have thought we were comrades in shortness and figured I would be just as indignant.)

But probably the worst one I ever had was when I went to visit my parents in Florida. My dad took me to WalMart to buy something, and on our way out he had to use the bathroom (he’s old). So I was just standing at the end of an unused check-out line, waiting.

This old man approaches me, so I smile at him. Gotta be nice to the elderly, right?

So I get:
Old man: “Is that what they pay you for?”
Me: [still smiling like an idiot] “Excuse me?”
Old man: “Is that what they PAY you for? Just standing around like that?”
Me: [I just stare at him, mouth agape.]
Old man: “That may be fine today, but let me tell you hon, that won’t work when it gets busy this weekend. They won’t be happy to pay you to just STAND there.”
Me: “I don’t actually work here.” [I look down to be sure I am not accidentally wearing a bright blue vest with a happy smiley face on it, and I surely wasn’t.]
Old man: “Pshh. Kids today.”

And he leaves in a snit! Like I am being unreasonable! Like he didn’t just accuse me, on my vacation, of working at WalMart and not doing a good enough job! Crotchety old guy.

Pick up lines

So. A few months ago I was on the subway with my friend Leigh coming home. It was really late; probably about 5 in the morning. We had both been drinking (but remember, we were on the subway... so it was safe drinking). I decide to call my friend in Armenia because it can be hard to get in touch with him, and for some reason, it works best when I call him at 4 or 5 a.m. There is much less static and delay.

Leigh and I had been having a conversation, then I rudely make my call on the subway. The entire time, there is this weird guy sitting across from us (picture that famous sketch of the unabomber, but without the glasses--you know, the one that looks like Weird Al), just staring, and occasionally smiling. Repulsed, we both ignore him. I believe he even started somewhat "touching himself" but being that we wouldn't look at his general direction, who knows?

My subway stop is about twenty thousand from where we were, so it took a good amount of time. The guy ends up standing up and standing next to Leigh. He mumbles something like, "My stop next. You want to get off?"
"WHAT?"
"You want to come with me?"

Leigh (rightly so) says, "You need to back up and leave me alone. BACK UP! GET AWAY FROM US!" (or something similar) and he finally just gets off the train.

But the point of this story is this: does that EVER work? Is that guy ever on the subway, sees a total stranger, smiles while touching himself, then says, "my stop is next, you want to come with me?" and get a response like, "you know what? Yeah! That sounds like JUST what I wanted to do tonight..."

Sometimes I just want to understand the thinking process behind all of this.

Camponotus

When I first moved into my apartment, within about a month I developed an ant problem. It was those chunky big black ones (see left), the carpenter ants. Now, I try to be nice to buggy little things. But those big guys really freak me out.

Anyway, they were pretty much hanging out in my bathroom. I would go in and see 1 running from under the radiator towards the tub, and then in a day I’d see 2 more doing the same. So these were apparently the scouts. And I let them go, and would freak out and scream a little (I mean, look at those tiny little waists and flapping antennae), but I let them live.

This was going on a for a bit, and then one Sunday morning I got up and went to take a shower. I got all ready, opened the curtain...and saw TENS of ants!
(I don’t want to exaggerate, so although HUNDREDS or MILLIONS would have been a lot more impressive here, it was really just tens. Maybe about 50 total.)
But 50 of those big black ants is a lot, especially when you are naked and about to step into a tub with them. There were about 5 at the bottom of the tub, and maybe 10 just crawling on the walls. And the rest of them were smashing themselves down underneath and next to my shampoo bottle, as though it was their little ant church where they were congregating on this lovely summer Sunday. Because I don’t use sugar shampoo, I’m not sure exactly what the draw was. But ewwww. So I was screaming and jumping around, and grabbed a towel to cover myself (because I didn’t want their ant eyes to see me exposed). I ended up turning the shower head on them, and then watched them all just wash away down the drain, their creepy bodies and antennae swirling around in the tub. (The image of it is still burned into my brain; it was like a massacre, all by my hand.)

I decide that day that I’d rather just not shower, and go on with my life. The next day I shower, and when I look over, I see an ant that jammed itself up between the clear shower curtain and the decorative outside one. It was just sitting there, not moving, not doing anything. I think it was judging me. Silently. Effectively.

I still live with the guilt of that massacre today. Enough that I think about it and write down the experience 4 years later. I am haunted. And I am the person that was crying uncontrollably in “Honey, I shrunk the Kids!” because of that scene where their little anty friend defends them against the scorpion. Wait, I must be remembering wrong... Didn’t they live in the Northeast? Who knows.

Hellooooooo Doctor!

I recently went for my yearly physical. It reminded me of a physical not so long ago... when I realized that I was old enough for my primary doctor to start doing breast exams.
He started a few years before this, and I always found the whole thing really awkward. It's like, what do you do with yourself while he is feeling you up? Usually the doctor tries to chat, which ends up making it feel like a bad middle school date.
So this one year (I think it was the first year the nurse didn't have to come in with us for this exam) I am laid back on the deli paper getting myself ready for it. The doctor moves in, and I am psychologically ready. But then, what do I do with my eyes? Do I look him in the eye? Now that seems too romantic. LIke we are sharing a special moment. Do I shut my eyes? No, that seems too much like I am enjoying the breast exam. Like I have my eyes shut so I can get all the pleasure I can out of this.
I decide instead to keep my eyes open. So I have my eyes open and darting all over the room, from the ceiling to the wall and back again.
I also happen to have a number of nervous twitches. I am a big glasses adjustor. I push on my glasses when I get nervous, or more likely, play with my hair. At the moment of awkward conversation when my doctor is feeling me up, I automatically bring my hand up to play with my hair. But instead of making it to my hair, my hand gets caught in the tie of my doctor leaning over me. I was moving with too much speed to notice, and I let my hand go full-circuit. Suddenly, I realize what happened: my hand got caught in my doctor's tie, and I ended up jerking him down towards me... towards, what happened to be my bare breasts.
Luckily he jerked himself up before his face hit, and we avoided that discomfort. But really... who pulls their doctor's face into their bared chest???

I was comfortable enough with it that I never changed doctors. And this was years ago. Also, in a way, I feel like it brings us closer together. Like no matter what I do NOW, it can't be worse than trying to jam his face into my tatas.

Maybe in a few years I will get up the courage to discuss what we went through at this year's physical...

Niagara

So I just went to Niagara Falls. SO beautiful. I totally went lame and cried my ass off on Maid of the Mist, exclaiming, "it is just TOO beautiful!"
But I took my friend John who is in the Peace Corps. So I knew from the beginning that he just wanted to see me at his house.
I, however, have a limited amount of vacation. I work in an office, for crying out loud. My 2 weeks are like gold. So i decided that I wanted to do Niagara Falls. I plan the entire trip, knowing it will all come out of my pocket. (As a side note, this is not the point; I don't mind that part at all, it is just relevant to the story following.)

I pick a sweet room. (Almost a pun, it was the Jr. Presidential Suite...) I wanted a jacuzzi because living in my apartment, I never get to take a bath and I really miss those. So I am going all out. Full-on vacation. The room itself costs more than I spent for 5 nights in Paris, air inclusive. Again, all fine. My choice.

So the first night I go to take my beloved jacuzzi. John decides he wants to go for a walk and leaves me in the hotel room. I run the bath; I specifically brought a bath fizzy for just this occasion. I get in and start to feel the stress melting away. I am in there for awhile and I start to feel woozy. Did I make it too hot? I end up pouring cold water over my head, trying to cool off. I decide this is the point at which "smart" people just get out of the tub.

John comes back and finds me, in a towel standing in the middle of the doorway, about to completely pass out. And you know those stupid towels they give you in hotels. I even left a comment card: "If you have a jacuzzi, you should really have robes in the room, or at LEAST bigger towels!" He has to help me to the couch and bring me cold water. Not the greatest start to my "I-work-in-the-field-of-publishing-of-course-i-can-afford-this-totally-
ridiculous-trip-on-my-credit-card" trip.

So the next night we do the whole ordeal: Maid of the Mist (I can sob just thinking about it), Cave of the Wind, Nasty border patrol person asking me where I am going when I walk over Rainbow Bridge. The whole thing. We have a voucher for the dinner, and end up going to the hotel restaurant to use it up. I am sure we will go over, but decide the minute I get there I need a martini. So I get the martini, get an appetizer, get the fancy $35 pork dinner. Again, it is my vacation. I'm not going to live with regrets. John gets a drink too. Then we end up getting another. End of the night, we have spent way more than that little voucher allows for. They bring it over, and who do they give it to? John. Has he paid for the trip? No. The gas to get there? No. So I am annoyed. I take the bill and pay it, then wait for the slip to sign. Do they bring it BACK to me? Nope. It goes back to John. Because he really looks more like the "Diane" of the group.

Annoyance is minor, I move on, have a great time, etc. (See me having a great time, left. I am in yellow, not the 90-year-old man in orange.)

So the following day, the trip is over. All my great joy is coming to and end. They have this great system where you call an automated number with the little slip they give you when you drop your car off, and in 10 minutes your car is outside. (I love not having to deal with people.)
We walk outside with all the lugguge, and I swear the conversation went like this:

Me: "Hi, I see my car. Can we just get right in it?"
Valet guy (only to John): "Sir, can i have your slip?"
Me: "Oh yeah, I have that slip somewhere."

I dig it out of my pocket and give it to the guy with a smile. I can totally be understanding.

Valet guy: "Ok, while your keys are being retrieved, sir, do you need any directions for getting out of here today?

John looks at me.

Me: "Nope, I think we've got it all under control."

Now I start to bristle. I mean, enough is enough. Not that I am bossy person, but I clearly wear some pants here.

Valet guy gets the keys and bring them over. "Sir, your keys."

I snatch the keys out of his hand and can't even help but curtly reply, "They are MY keys. THANKS."

I mean, ok. So you stereotypically think the "man" is in charge of the entire trip; it is his car, his credit card, his keys. Well, let him tip you then. A-hole. Guess what? He didn't. The tip came from my ANGRY hand when I took the keys from the sexist valet man.

Anyway, what a rant. But it is SO tiresome.

Dude, where are my tonsils?

Leigh asked for this tale. This saga. It isn’t very funny.

As a kid, I think I was borderline between needing to get my tonsils out and the doctor just wanting to leave them be. I got strep throat enough that I could diagnose it myself immediately, and when I did my tonsils mightily swelled. But I grew up at the time when they were coming off that big tonsil-removal phase, and were then thinking that they should try to keep them in as often as possible. So on I went, with tonsils in place.

By the time I got to college, I was probably only getting sick with strep or tonsillitis about 1-2 times a year. But the sick got worse. One time, I went to bed and apparently my fever came on full force while I was sleeping. I had these horrible, nightmarish dreams about The Mists of Avalon, which I was reading at the time. I was standing in a field holding a sword up toward the sky and speaking in a language I don’t even know (weird that my fevered brain makes up languages... does that make me brilliant, or just totally insane?) and it was struck by lightning, and I kept yelling something up to the sky. And I would wake up and turn over or go get water, and go back to sleep and this dream would just keep happening over and over, and I wanted to make it stop but it would come right back the minute I dozed off. I woke up in the morning and went downstairs, where my whole family was. (No idea why—must have been a holiday or something.)

As soon as I got down the stairs, I ran to the bathroom and threw up, then walked out and passed out in the middle of the living room, just as my sister was saying I looked a little “green.” This became my new tonsillitis-induced fever habit. It was a Sunday and I had to leave for college the next day, so I get into the back of my own car, leaving the driving to my friend who only had a permit, and telling another person I was driving back that he was the driver in charge of things that day. (Funny I didn’t let the one with a license drive; I guess it was all those stories about him speeding his station wagon through Ossining at 80 miles an hour that deterred me.) I was sitting in the backseat with some guy I think I never met before but was driving back as a favor. So there I am, crammed in with all of our stuff and a fucking gerbil underneath my feet because some girl asked the permit boy if he could take it and I am a big sucker who agreed before realizing it would be ME put out by the thing. I am confused and half-delirious, sucking down Thera -flu from a travel mug and looking like death while this poor guy who just wanted to get back to school is stuck in the backseat with disgustingly sick me for 5½ hours. We stopped at a rest area and although I didn’t see myself, I know it couldn’t have been good because all 3 of the guys with me kept asking me if I was ok. I do know I kept zoning out and just staring while they were talking.

I slept most of the ride, waking up just to see permit boy speeding through the snow and tried screaming at him that he had to slow down and my car sucked in the snow, but my voice wouldn’t raise itself above an angry whisper. (He did slow down, right after telling me I had to stop freaking out and then skidded across the lane almost into the guard rail. Don’t we already know that I am always right??)

Anyway, this was just one of the times when tonsillitis came on like that, and I’d wake up feeling like death. Last year, I came down with tonsillitis again and it wouldn’t go away after 2 rounds of antibiotics. So they had to put me on another round and steroids. Now that was an experience. I only had to take thep rednisone for a few days, but holy crap! That shit messes with your mind! I would come to work and when someone brought me something to do, it would prompt me to just get ridiculously angry. So I would be like “why the FUCK do I have to do THIS? GOD!” Then in 2 minutes I’d feel so bad, I’d start crying. Then in another 2 minutes, I’d think it was all so silly and just laugh maniacally. I can’t have things messing with my emotions like that! I am already too messed up! I went to cut my avocado for lunch and realized that I didn’t have a knife in my drawer, which I thought I did. So I stared at it, and then cried. Meanwhile, there are knives in the kitchen. But I had the “’roid rage” so I couldn’t relax.

So my tonsils would go down enough that I could kind of breath again, but not ever did they go down to normal. It was like they were constantly on the verge of being like, “and you have tonsillitis...NOW! No, NOW!”

Between 1 of the rounds of antibiotics I went to an ENT who told me I needed to take Zyrtec. He thought that was perhaps why my throat was red. I couldn’t even really respond to that. It made me really angry. Not that there is anything wrong with taking Zyrtec, but I am really anti-medicating every damn thing without really even looking into what it is, and didn’t need Zyrtec! (This was also the guy who when I opened my mouth and said, “Ahh !” responded with “oh my! What big tonsils you have!” It was very fairy tale.) I told him I wanted to get my tonsils out, and he said that a the ripe old age of 26, I was “a bit old” for that kind of procedure and it would be horrible and painful. I pointed out the whole “I can’t breathe, when I go to sleep I have tonsil-induced apnea because they block my air passages, and my voice is new and NOT improved.” He didn’t buy it!

I“got better” after the 3 antibiotics and steroids, and then came down with tonsillitis again within about a month. Which I guess means that I was never really better. I had yet another round of antibiotics and steroids.

I went to my primary care doctor, who is also anti-medication. He was very pro-tonsil removal, and kept telling me that I had to get better so they could take the tonsils out.
Like I didn’t already want that?? Anyway, at this point I was being bounced between my doctor, my allergist, and Mr. “thinks-Diane-is-old” ENT.

So finally, finally, I found a new ENT. I went in and did the “AHH!” thing, and he looked in for 2 seconds and said, “You need to get your tonsils out!” They weren’t even infected at this point, so I knew I had found my match.

(Leigh can back me on what they looked like when they got infected—it was a really unpretty scene in there. When that happened, even the other ENT leaned towards removal. But when they shrank back a big I got a lot of “ehh, you’re old, do you really want to?” Stupid doctors.)

I scheduled my surgery for 2 weeks after my medications ended, and hoped and prayed I didn’t get sick. The doctor said you were supposed to be well and off medicine for 4 weeks, but that because of my jaded tonsil past, they were pushing it. (Hooray!)

The place was weird. You walked yourself up to the surgery room, carrying your own IV bag, and wearing that giant puffy head cover. I got myself into the bed, and when they strapped down my arms I went, “Woah, ok. I’m not as OK with this now”and they immediately started the drugs. So I started laughing and going, “It’s so funny to be here. There are a lot of people here! I feel like I’m on TV!”

Then I woke up hysterically crying (someone doesn’t do so well with anesthesia and this is her reaction all the time) and the nurse was really mean to me! I was freezing cold, probably because of the insanely low blood pressure I had. So I asked for more and more blankets, and then when I finally started to feel better, I asked her to take them off. She went “YOU were the one who wanted them?! Can you remember that?” Meanwhile, post-tonsillectomy voice isn’t all that menacing, so when I went, “Yeah!” and wanted to be rude, it came out as a pained, raspy grunt.

I also flip out after surgery that I need to get out of there. The anesthesia makes me feel totally panicked, and I asked when I could go. They made me drink a glass of water, and then said I could get up and get dressed. As soon as I moved, I felt really nauseated. I held my stomach so the nurse came back and went “oh, nauseous now? Why didn’t you tell me when your IV was still in?! Well, now I can’t do anything for you. And I won’t let you throw up in the car with your sister, because she will FLIP OUT. It will be all brown and gross from the blood you swallowed during surgery, so you better do it here.” Although her description made me want to vomit even more, I am one stubborn wench. So I sat down and told myself throwing up was not an option, and we were going home. The nausea passed.

The recovery really did suck. I sounded like a hearing impaired person and sucked down my liquid hydrocodone every 4 hours to the minute. It did take a week and a half to feel better, but now I feel AMAZINGLY better.

Anyway, turns out my surgery was supposed to only be about 45 minutes maximum,
and it took 2 hours. I asked the doctor at the post-op about that, and he said that my tonsils were “really gross.” Apparently from the infections, they were all necrotic tissue (ewwwww!) and not only were they so huge that he had a hard time working around them, but when he tried to cut into them, they just “disintegrated” so it was slow work.
This also means that nobody told me how much my tonsils weighed after the surgery, which my allergist said they should. Hmph. Too bad I couldn’t take the disgusting pieces and bring them back to that first ENT and say, “I call my ‘heartburn’ dead tissue bits. Here you go!”

Hot Tooth

The strangeness of events that happen to me extend even to the medical realm. I was going to this dentist that I really wasn’t a fan of, but he was on our insurance, and I was in high school, so I was in that “whatever” phase. He filled a cavity for me...

[wait, wait—total side note—is it my Irishness or something that makes me have the WORST teeth in the world? I mean, I brush. I may not floss every day, but I floss. I use mouthwash. And my teeth are practically falling out of my head! Ugh!]

...and the cavity never stopped hurting. In fact, it got a bit worse. I went to him and he was all, “just give it a bit more time, let me check it...yeah, it’s fine.” And I couldn’t eat on that side of my mouth for months. I was getting really into tepid foods because those were the only things that didn’t pain me. So I ended up going back, and to my great luck, he wasn’t in the office that day. I got to see his dental hire, this girl straight out of dental school who was working with him for the time being before going back for a specialty. So she sees me, and takes me seriously. No writing me off. No acting like I don’t know when my own tooth hurts.

She decided to open up the cavity and see what was going on. She warned me that there was a chance that she would open it up and then I’d have to come back for a root canal, but thought that more likely I would just end up having to get it refilled. So fine. I am sitting in the chair, all prone and slack-jawed. She is talking to me about something or other (which I HATE! Why do dentists do that to you?? Just to show the power they have over you? You can’t answer! You can’t even really nod! You have to just sit there and listen to whatever they feel like telling you and can’t talk back. Ugh!), and all of a sudden she starts yelling “HOT TOOTH! I GOT A HOT TOOTH IN HERE!”
I could do little more than widen my eyes and go “uht? UHT? Ot oot?” The dental assistant came rushing in, and as I had the spit sucker and multiple hands in my mouth, they let me know that my “hot tooth” meant I had to get the root canal immediately. They were rushing around prepping and frankly, it was making me a bit nervous.

(In case you are hoping for further information on the term “hot tooth,” I have done you the favor of pasting below the following paragraph from www.doctorspiller.com/root_canals:

“On the other hand, some people present with what we call a hot tooth. A hot tooth is one in which the nerve is alive, but badly inflamed. The tooth is generally already very painful [mine was!], especially to hot or cold stimuli [yes! YES!]. These are the ones that require multiple shots to get numb enough to work on painlessly. A vast majority of these will numb out with a few carpules of anesthesia administered in the normal ways. A few, however, are so inflamed and acidic that the anesthesia cannot diffuse into the nerve fibers well enough to totally destroy the sensations generated by the nerve in the tooth. In these cases, we may resort to intrapulpal anesthesia. In this procedure, we will drill very quickly directly though the top of the tooth into the nerve chamber (a few seconds is generally sufficient time) and deliver a quick squirt of anesthesia directly into the nerve inside the tooth [oh, we are so getting to this part and what THAT feels like in a few seconds]. It's fast, and always effective.”)

So back to me (isn’t that what blogging is all about?), I am sitting there dreading the whole procedure. I had never had a root canal before, but the things I heard weren’t really fabulous. So as they start setting up for this sudden, immediate root canal, I can do nothing but stare over to the painting of a sailboat on the far wall. I believe I still hate paintings of sailboats because they are ALWAYS in dentists’ offices. At least, my dentists had them. Perhaps they are supposed to be calming? Like the “lite fm” music that they always play. Because really, how can you not just relax and open wide when you hear Celine Dion?

The doctor (I have no idea of her name, hence the “doctor” and “she” business) then lets me know that what she has to do is directly inject the Novocain into the root itself, in order to do the root canal. I had some other Novocain that day and the aforementioned terrible tooth history, so I felt like it would just be more of the same.

Well. Not so much. I am a pretty quiet person; I think I go with the flow. She stuck that needle into the root of my tooth and I vocally protested, used one hand to grip the arm of the chair with a force that probably would have broken a bone, and flailed my free arm for about 3 solid seconds. Which doesn’t sound like a lot, but it really is. It was excruciating. And perhaps because this came before all that other crap I had to have, like getting all 4 impacted wisdom teeth out at the same time, this stands out as the SINGLE most painful dental experience of my life.

But then, I guess looking on the bright side (as I am so inclined to always do), after that 3 seconds of torturous pain, I had absolutely no further pain for the rest of the procedure. She did whatever had to be done, and I felt nothing. I practically dozed off.

And then that doctor decided that what she was going back to school for her as a specialty was root canals! So I’d like to think that my “hot tooth” kind of played a role in shaping her future.