In yesterday's post, I wrote about my once possible appendicitis turning out to be VEG (Very Expensive Gas) and a friend wrote me and said that she got in a car accident once and they were doing a full body scan to make sure she was okay and her “ex-husband was looking at the abdominal scan with the tech, saw some odd looking 'shadows' near where my lower intestines are, and asked if they were tears, or possibly tumors. Tech, without looking away from the screen, says, 'nope- those are gas bubbles'. Ex hubby thought to hilarious he was looking at my "pre-farts".
Pardon me while I go all twelve-year-old boy on you but “Pre-Farts” is funny. Anyway, I told her Husband will ask me, "Did you fart?" And when I say, "No!" he’ll ask me, "Were you thinking about it?" Without fail, I’ll smile, even when I'm trying hard not to. I'm going to add a pre-fart defense into that conversation next time. "Nope. No pre-farts here." Because he's a boy and he has the maturity of a twelve-year-old, farts are big with Husband. If I ask him if he farted, his response is usually one of the following ME: Did you fart? HUSBAND: Nope. Do you want me to? OR - ME: Did you fart? HUSBAND: Yup. Would you like me to do it again? There are variations on the theme but they are all funny and, try as I might, I cannot not smile. Being twelve by association is stupid. Anyway, you’d think with all this gas in my life, I’d be okay with farts. And I guess I am, to a point. What is that point? Well, I’m going to have to say it’s when I’m sitting at a bar having just put the last bite of my dinner in my mouth, like I’m STILL CHEWING and someone lets a silent deadly fart loose IN THE BAR and it floats up and around me, like one of those deadly fogs you see in horror movies that start as a wisp and become a thick soupy fog and before you know it you’re surrounded... THAT is the point I am not okay with farts. One minute I had a fry in my mouth and the next the fumes overcame me and I had to leave. Like I said to Husband, “I’m leaving.” grabbed my stuff, got up and left. I did not say goodbye to the friends we were chatting with. I did not say thank you to the bartender. I did not make a meaningless attempt to pay the bill. I got up, went into the lobby and fought my stomach’s attempt to give my dinner back to me right then and there. For ten minutes I was at war with my gut, texting Husband during the battle to let him know I was dying and would not return. Actually, my text was ‘someone farted – had to leave’ but you get the point. Finally I had myself under control and went back into the bar to hurry him along, standing at the door so the air I was still having to gulp was somewhat fresh and fart free. Under the guise of watching the songwriters on stage, I tried to suss out the culprit, the literal ass that had let out the awful stinking billowing vapors that almost took me out. Alas, it was a songwriter night. There were so many suspects, too many to name. And, quite frankly, thinking about it made the nausea worse. I am well aware that my very quick exit might make me look like the primary offender but I could not stay in that smelly haze to defend my honor. She who smelt it did not delt it. I would never! Who does that? Who lets off a silent and very deadly fart around food in a public place? I’ve been crop dusted before but that’s been in a store and I should have known better. I’ve been with Husband for years. I know that when someone suddenly walks away from where they were standing I should move quickly. That they have obviously just crop dusted the place and I should use evasion techniques. But this? It is NOT OKAY to crop dust the bar folks. There should be a sign. The noxious disturbance happened at 9:50pm. My text to Husband went out at 9:56pm. I did not stop burping out the massive amounts of air I swallowed in my attempts to combat my stomach’s efforts to give back dinner until 2:30am. 2:30 A.M.!!! My stomach hurts. I haven’t had an abs workout like that since boot camp five years ago. Husband had to rub and pat my back like I was a breast-feeding baby. I even took an antacid even though hate them with a passion, AND I had to drink water to take the stupid pill, almost lost it and had to start over again. Hours working to keep those French fries in my tummy and to only let the stale air out of it was exhausting. I may not make it through the day. If I were really twelve years old, I’d have my mother write me a note to get out of school. Seriously. Farts are funny until someone almost loses their dinner.
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I’m following up yesterdays deep and celebratory post with an update on my teeth. Because I can and because I know you have all been worried about the state of my mouth and my eleven cavities and a root canal.
I sent my x-rays to Nicest Dentist Ever to look over and compare to the ones he took last time. Sunday, he’d sent me an email letting me know he’d call to discuss my “proposed treatment plan. In general, things don't look THAT serious or extensive!!!” Well, thank whatever lord you look up to, that things don't look that serious or extensive because I truly don’t know how I went from “Things look great! Keep it up.” with Sad Faced but Cheery Dental Hygienist and five minutes later New Dentist was all, “You have eleven cavities and need a root canal.” I mean, I eat badly but I do brush my teeth after I stuff my face with all those fats and sugars. And sometimes, I will even floss without something stuck in my teeth. Anyway, Nicest Dentist Ever called and we chatted and I DON'T NEED A ROOT CANAL YET just a filling will do!!! Pause for fireworks and cartwheels here. And, of the eleven cavities, ONLY ONE tooth really needs to have work done right now. The rest of the “cavities” have not actually penetrated the enamel to the dentin and with more regular flossing and a daily fluoride rinse, I should be okay for now. Pause for the big brass band, the flying acrobats and me running around the room screaming "Yes! Yes! Yes!" at the top of my lungs. Instead of fifteen plus visits to New Dentist and an approximate three thousand dollar out of pocket bill, I think I’m going to fly home at some point, see Nicest Dentist Ever and have the work done by him. Because really, no way in hell am I ever going back to New Dentist and her tooth fracking ways. And, as I said before, Nicest Dentist Ever is the NICEST DENTIST EVER! Tiny rant here: How dare New Dentist and others like her take advantage of people like me. Trusting in her expertise that she instead use for evil. And I’m not just talking about dentists. I’m talking about everyone who knows you need something and will inflate the need or urgency for their own gain. The plumber that comes to your house and takes a clogged drain and turns it into an urgent need to get your house totally repiped and you have to take out a second mortgage to get it done. The car mechanic that tells you the knocking you’ve heard is the transmission dying or the oil seizing or something equally bad and expensive and hard to verify in your moment of need. The insurance companies that scare you into buying policies that are useless when it comes to any accident you actually have or if you ever need your stupid teeth worked on because they cover NOTHING. You spend the money and you never know for sure if it was worth it, if they were telling you the truth or if you have just been scammed. It’s an awful feeling to not know. And it’s even worse feeling when you find out that you have indeed been conned and there is nothing you can do but wish plagues of awful things on them and their stupid ass faces. Which brings me to my boob. Next week, I’m getting a six-month check-up on my right boob to make sure it hasn’t mutated into something they say I’ll “have to do something about right now.” Do you think Nicest Dentist Ever can look at those x-rays too? I’m sure his many years looking at anomalies in teeth has given him the expertise to see any possible anomaly in my boob. Boobs and teeth aren’t that different, right? I’m actually starting to think I’ll go to him for everything that’s wrong with me. And I do mean every little thing. I trust him way more than the lady that “found my womb” two years after I had a womb-ectomy. Seriously. Or the doctor that told me I had possible appendicitis and had me take lots of very expensive tests and, when my possible appendicitis turned out to be VEG (Very Expensive Gas), just handed me a pamphlet and told me to look up possible causes online. Ass. Nicest Dentist Ever would never do that. Aside from Husband, I think he is the only one that will ever tell me like it is - but in a much, much nicer way than Husband ever would. So, at what point do you think Nicest Dentist Ever will take out a restraining order against me…? A year ago today, my former employee now friend Chelsea and I sat down for a coffee catch up. She had just finished her degree in toy design and brought me a sample of her thesis to show me - a book for children to ease their separation from their parents. It was fantastic.
“You have to do something with this,” I said. “Now!” I challenged her to spend the next year working on moving forward with her project. Not necessary finishing it and publishing/manufacturing it but getting it to a point where she could show people what she had and what it could do in the market. Getting herself to a point where she could move forward doing what she wanted. Satisfied with my cheerleading, I sat back and sipped my coffee. “And what about you?” Chelsea asked. “What are you going to do with your writing?” Crap. I dodged the question for a bit but then realized that I wasn’t doing what I told myself I would when we moved to Nashville. I wasn’t writing. Or rather, I wasn’t finishing anything. “I challenge you do something with your writing.” she said. Crap. Challenge dared into acceptance, I set out to finish… well, something. In the past year I’ve started writing daily. Sometimes it’s just for this blog but sometimes, I actually write more than my morning blurt. Sometimes. I’ve even managed to finish something AND show it to someone other than my imaginary self. And then – brace yourself – actually sent a few things out and gotten some lovely and quite personal rejections back. Yea me! I have a tendency to be hard on myself. To scold for the “ I almost did it” and not celebrate the small victory. And so today, I celebrate the little tiny triumph that is my creative emotional purge. I celebrate pushing the ‘publish’ button on my website every morning even when I’m not awake enough to proof read the post. I celebrate getting emotionally naked on a regular basis. I celebrate the little moments in my day when I’ve been able to shut out all the noise and doubt and fear that is in my head and just write. And I celebrate putting my self out there for rejection more than once and being okay with the big fat “Nope.” Yea me!!! Well done!!! Yippee!!! ... Now what? |
AuthorMy name is ej. I'm a girl. I say that because with the short hair and the short initials, folks aren't always sure. More brilliant insights to who I am in About me Archives
April 2019
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