I used to be very afraid of the dentist. So much so, that I neglected to go for years. I think I was scarred from my childhood dentist. His breath smelled of corn chips and he seemed like a sweaty fellow. I recall, not with fondness, one trip to the dentist where he was working inches away from my face while the radio played “I Like a Man with a Slow Hand”. I still get shivers thinking about that, for all the wrong reasons.
I used to cry every time I was taken to the dentist. Growing up, I fought back the tears as well. To be completely honest with you, even as an adult I still want to cry whenever I visit the dentist. That part reminds me of being a child. However, the reasons for crying are much more “adult” now. I do not cry in honour of the potential pain. I cry for the bill at the end of each wonderful visit. Today was no exception.
Before I go on to tell you about today, I will tell you about recent experiences in regards to going to the dentist. A few years back I finally worked up the courage to see a dentist in my hometown. After damn near hyperventilating and having a panic attack in the chair, I was fine. It still wasn’t my ideal of fun, but I got over it and I was proud. We had an action plan for my teeth and I spent a lot of my own hard earned money (no insurance) getting my teeth fixed up. I won’t get into the part of having the nastiest abscess that made my cheek swell up like a balloon. Let’s just say, even the hygienist was mortified.
Needless to say, I spent a lot of bling on my teefs. I eventually got a job downtown and changed dentists due to convenience. This dentist was great! He looked and sounded like Ned Flanders and gave me a mall discount. His work was not shabby either. He ended up rebuilding a certain tooth in my mouth and warned me, there could be eventual problems with it.
Months after moving to Montreal, I have terrible wisdom teeth pain. I go to see a very experienced, high falooting dentist – the one I saw today. We have a consultation, complete with a wacky mouth camera which I see my teeth on a monitor. Sounds wacky, right? Well, no. At that moment, I discover something. Either my teeth are rotting at an amazing and spectacular rate – or the dentist in my hometown royally screwed me over in terms of professional work. I think the latter. So current dentist points out all the work to be done and asks me, “How does this make you feel?”
I blubbered, “It makes me sad.” I almost cried that day. I probably did when I got home.
Armed with a new action plan for my teeth (which includes a night mouth guard because I’ve suffered damaged and get headaches from grinding and clenching my teeth at night), I go home and realize that I am sadly unemployed. I don’t look at the sheet for a while because I know I cannot afford all that needs to be done.
And that brings us up to today. My teeth are hurting again. This time, the tooth Ned Flanders warned me about. I go in for a cleaning/exam at current dentist’s office. Everything is going fine. I’m relaxed. My hygienist is this gothic looking girl with a lip piercing. Everything is A-OK. Then the dentist comes in and ruins it all, with his all-knowing dentist ways. Boo.
On the semi-dark bright side, I have no more new work that needs to be done in my mouth (by the dentist I mean, bah-ha). My teeth barely had any tartar or build-up, which is good because I haven’t had a cleaning in while. For a parting gift, I received a tooth brush, the most wicked dental floss in the world (that I have been too cheap to buy recently), a miniature tube of toothpaste and a “tooth towel”. For a bonus, a little front desk receptionist cleavage. Ha ha.
On the grim and pitch black side, I need a root canal and received a pleasant lecture from the dentist about taking care of your teeth right away. Then he compared what price it could have been compared to now. Thanks, dentist. I really needed to know that. Ned Flanders would have broke it to me gently. And this was the exact moment when I wanted to cry in the dentist chair.
The verdict is that I need a root canal. It’s recommended that I get a crown, to insure the safety of this tooth for the years to come.
Price tag, according to my dentist – $2000.
Honest to God, how does one act “normal” when they hear that ONE tooth will cost them $2000. I tried, but I think I failed. I pretty much looked like I swallowed a handful of glass shards and rusty nails. I could do A LOT with $2000, I thought then and still thinking now. And believe me; it wouldn’t include spending money on one tooth. Sweet baby Jesus, I could send me and my disgruntled to Las fucking Vegas with that money. Me and my disgruntled tooth could “find ourselves”, while backpacking in Europe with that money. That sweet, sweet money that I do not have. SIGH. I wonder if they have a plan where they can just knock my tooth out and give me a supply of freaking Chiclets to jam up my gums. Fuck.
Yeah, I’m making jokes but this worries me. I do not have the money for this at all. I know, obviously, that there are people in worse shape than me and I shouldn’t complain. Count my blessings. Well, I don’t exactly have two thousand blessings to count and it stresses me out. At a time I felt that perhaps I could finally get a bit ahead and have myself some savings for the future and fun stuff and maybe even a new living space in time – I feel kicked back down again, in terms of money. Makes me wish I was a kid again.
I’m calling another guy tomorrow to get a second opinion on this tooth. I know it will be expensive but anything less (but not too cheap, meaning done in some sketchy back alley) than $2000 will be helpful on ye olde bare wallet.
Filed under: Being Positive, Blogging, Carnivorous Plants, Gratitude, Toothache
Life has been fairly uneventful lately. And I’m not complaining. Days seem quiet, nights feel relaxed – there’s a sense of balance in my life. There are the beginnings of green on the trees and a smile on my face – I feel at ease, at peace. It is spring. I breathe a big sigh of relief, at getting past winter.
To those who know me well, I have tendencies of droopiness. I’m a dweller, a brooder in my own mood. I can let sleep’s bad dreams ruin my entire day and I can turn a slightly bad mood into something fiercely depressing. I have spent entire days on the couch, in gloomy dwellery.
I proposed to myself this year, I will try to be happier. Call it a New Year’s Resolution, if you will. I already understood that I was a good person and that I do not ruin my every day with a sour mood. What I did see, was that I brooded around every so often which certainly made an impression my daily life in terms of this city, where I am living, and what I am doing. I knew I needed some inner changes to bring simple happiness into my life more fully otherwise I was going to make people around me miserable. I was going to always point out the negative and not take stock in all the good that regularly surrounds me.
My goal here is not to be continuously happy like some sort of salesman bent on commission. That would drive me crazy and simply be not “me”. My goal was to be happy, be grateful, and see the beauty in life. To be good to myself, to better myself in the long run. I’m tired of being self-destructive with my own moods.
Since the beginning of this year, I have written everyday for myself. I have taken special notice to what I am grateful for everyday. I have been reading, as usual. I have taken time-outs for me. I have improved on communicating. I have been giving attention to the small details that make up the proverbial big picture. I have gotten in touch with my crafty side. My fingernails even look a little less bitten! Small steps, indeed.
It’s a work-in-progress.
However, I think I deserve a wee pat on the back. Daily writing has done me wonders, as well as taking note in what I am grateful for on an everyday basis. It’s been a long time since I felt like wasting away a day in my misery. I find that I walk a little taller (despite my bad posture!). I find that little things about people around me bother me a lot less and I can brush them off easier. The level of worry I carry has shrunk a bit. I know when I need to relax and I think it shows that I have been taking care of myself. I feel more confident in myself and getting what I want. Even if no one else has noticed, I know I have and that’s what matters the most.
On a different note, work has given me a break to collect my thoughts and feel healthy. There’s a hold on the upcoming project, so it’s the waiting game again. I welcome this break. I feel like I have been slowly falling apart this week! Nothing major, so I suppose I shouldn’t complain. First was a cut on my finger, that has taken it’s time to heal (yet, I am oddly intrigued by it). Secondly, since everyone was sick at work and the heating was messed up to the point feeling like we were working in the heart of the tropics – it lead me to feel like I was getting sick. My immune system terribly down and the heat terribly high at work, I felt like I was wading in everybody’s germs. Oh, and then the best part. Dental aches! The pain is thankfully not excruciating, but I know it will eventually be if it is not taken care of soon. It’s left me mentally exhausted. I go in on Tuesday for an exam/checkup. I expect the procedure after that will make me cry. I will mourn for money that could be spent on shoes and makeup and not on a disgruntled tooth.
In other news, a few weeks ago I brought home another stray much to Zak’s delight. I tell him I could be bringing in animals or begging him to make babies – no, instead I bring home carnivorous plants from the nasty living conditions of Home Depot. We named him Richard. Richard the Pitcher Plant – Nepenthes. It’s been a few weeks and he has perked up so much! He’s green, his pitchers are growing noticeably everyday, and I think he’s taken to his new home. We also replanted the Venus Flytraps into new pots and soil (which was a great difficulty to find in Montreal). They look much more healthy too – finally able to stretch their legs in their new home! The spikes on their traps have gotten longer as well. Weedy, the jack pine seedling…well, he’s special. I’m convinced he is growing, just very slowly. In about 40 years from now, he will be a bonsai tree.
That’s all for now. Time to tend to my tooth, with pain killers.
I should be in bed, trying to get in a good handful of hours of sleep. Whenever I have the apartment to myself, I feel as though I should take advantage of this time wisely. Typically, I do not. Heh. I end up smoking too many cigarettes in lieu of kisses, doing pointless searches online and on myspace.com for old friends, and sitting in contemplation. It’s edging towards one in the morning, and here I am. Cigarette in mouth. At least I am listening to the music I can dive into and swim a little while in. I dug up a burnt cd full of songs, and found some Dale Watson. His album, “Every Song I Write For You” is truly a beautiful and sad album. I recently discovered that this album is entirely written for his ex-girlfriend, who died in a car accident. All the things that he wanted to say to her when she was alive. You can hear it, there’s honesty in every song. Down with that glossy, new country I say! Listen to him and understand that new country can sound old…and good.
It seems these days, the institution of marriage is being cheapened. I wonder why, sometimes, this offends me so. I’m fairly open-minded and I understand love can take many forms. I believe in love at first sight and support long distance relationships – I know they can work due to my own experiences and I am completely happy. Now, I may sound like the mothering type here but what’s with the rush of marriage these days? Whatever happened to slowly enjoying the process and stages of falling in love? Whatever happened to getting to know someone without hurry? Is it just a result of a disposable culture and the speed of things in general?
I have known -personally and not so personally – people who have jumped the gun and moved away afar just to marry some virtual stranger that they recently met off myspace. I should accept it, since it does not affect me directly or personally. But it seriously grates at me. This is coming from the rural female who met her significant other off one of the most cheesiest sites online – www.hotornot.com. However, in my defense, we met and communicated for a good year and change. We emailed as friends. We did our own things in that in-between time. And then one day, we struck up a marathon long IM session that connected us. We didn’t jump the gun though. We still kept it on the level of friends (even though feelings were becoming heated, for me at least) and met with no heavy expectations (I won’t lie, we were keeping fingers crossed). We wrote handwritten letters, we had our late night telephone conversations, and finally met months later. I fell into that smile and those arms and that was that – I was in love. And he, the naysayer of long distance relationships that spawn off the net – he fell in love too. We took our time. We visited each other many times. We made sure that this was real, we spent a good chunk of time together over the Christmas holidays rather than just a couple of days. We discovered a bit of each others habits and faults and negatives. We still loved each other. We made that decision. We’re still not married. We’re still enjoying the process.
I’m certain that in many of my protective friends eyes, it seemed as though I was jumping the gun and making a rash decision by moving away from my prairies homeland to his city. I did it, knowing that it could fall apart – even though I knew in my heart, that after all these months, he is worth it and this is it. This is it.
But I know from this experience, it isn’t exactly easy to pick up and leave. I think my first six months here was full of confusion, fear, and disorientation. Missing home brought a frown to my face for too many days and not knowing the language urged the loneliness further. But it became easier. The fear slowly goes away (yet arises at occasions), I am less disoriented, I am less confused. I am less alienated. It’s a process of change and I don’t think the changes that love brings is something you can jump steps on.
I shake my head when I hear of myspace marriages. Sometimes I shudder in disbelief. I think the sacredness of marriage is being completely cheapened, thanks to the internet. I know love is something you may just know, even if it makes no sense. However, to make the decision to change your life (and if you have a child, change his or hers) to move to be with someone should be seriously considered. Ease into it and enjoy the journey, if you will. I long to hear stories of becoming acquanted, those long wintery walks and long conversations of new lovers, feeling weak kneed and wishing that could last forever. And then the real stuff. The way they are when afflicted with PMS or how he releases his anger. The habits you come across. For good or bad. How personalities blend or repel. The simple chemistry. And oh boy, believe me – the chemistry will always be there in a long distance relationship. It’s not until visiting for an extended period of time or living with that person to truly see what they are honestly like.
I am saddened by women (and people, generally) who are now taking to myspace type places to fall in love. Why rush? You never know who you will really be marrying. Yeah, it’s all warm and fuzzy and powerfully sexually when you first meet someone – but do you even know if he excessively drinks or if she’s a golddigger? That part comes later. Months ago, I came across this person’s profile. Someone I dated once upon a time. A person that should come with a warning label to all women. Literally, the kind of guy your mother warned you about (too bad I didn’t listen to mine). A user, a self esteem destroyer, and a money sponger. Then, a few weeks later I saw that a woman moved across country to visit him and get married – that same weekend. I felt incredibly sad for her. Hoping that he has changed, sincerely…but scared for her. Another person back home, moved to across to marry someone after a couple of weeks of knowing each other on myspace. I wonder they found out yet that this person is constantly drinking and losing jobs? I know people who have done this and now feel stuck, with this person and in strange places. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not against marriage nor am I bitter to be unmarried. I just think people should slow down.
Ease into love. Enjoy the moment. There’s no reason to rush, when it comes to love. If it’s meant to be, it’ll still be there. There’s your cliche of the day.
Home alone on another Saturday night…and I’m not complaining. I took a raincheck on the rockabilly show tonight and opted to do my taxes instead. It needed to be done and I’m past the point where I can stay up late in a smoky barroom and function at work the next day. At this point, the money is more important to me than feeling tired the next day. Combine that with my on-going cross stitch project and I truly sound like a retired old cat lady. Meow. When the boys came by to pick up their gear, I got a little song and dance by Bloodshot Bill about “filling out forms on a Saturday night!” – it made me smile. You can make anything fun with a song and dance, even taxes!
Lately, our neighbours have been an issue with us. Since this is the first time on my own, I haven’t honestly had to deal with problematic neighbours. They keep out of our way, generally speaking. They don’t make late night noise, they don’t have parties, they don’t have noisy apartment building sex. However, they are complete and utter slobs with no respect for their living space. It’s disgusting.
Since they moved in, the neighbour next to us has piled a pyramid of garbage bags right in front of our living room window. The pyramid has been the victim to hungry raccoons, so needless to say there is scattered garbage torn from the bags. French fries, chicken bones, you name it. The upstairs neighbour (they are all friends, apparently) has taken to the same habit on their wee and unstable balcony. Not only that, they have been lazy enough to not take their pitbulls (which is another issue for me) for walks. There are chunks of dog shit in front of our window as well. I’m sure it will be lovely, when springs rears it’s head and heats up the garbage and the feces.
We noticed early last week that there is one big ol’ dump of fecal matter on our side of the patio. Clearly, we do not own dogs nor do we take dumps on our patio. This was the last straw. We talked to the “caretaker” and written notes sent along with the rent cheque for months. The caretaker said to us, “Well, you have bikes on your side”. Um, bicycles and a couple of lawn chairs are a little different than heaps of crap. “It’s his patio, and he can do what he wants with it”. There’s a big difference between doing what you want and creating a health hazzard/haven for rats, roaches, and raccoons. What we thought was the last straw wasn’t. We then discovered that the fire escape is clogged with tossed garbage bags. I thought my partner was exaggerating when he said “waist deep” – he was not! It’s literally waist deep of garbage bags that we would have to climb over and squeeze through, in case of emergency. Nice.
The city housing inspector came by on Thursday morning to examine this situation and she did not seem impressed. The right word would be appalled, especially when she saw the fire escape. Unfortunately, I could not explain to her what I wanted and had to strongly say. There was such a language barrier between us, it was embarrassing. I was left on my own to deal with it and I felt like the biggest dummy. I was already nervous because of the potential tense situation that could happen in our building, but I was going over French phrases and words in my head to explain myself. I bombed. However, in my pathetic defense, I do find it odd that someone holding a position such as hers should know a little bit of English. I’m not asking anyone to bow down to my Anglo ways – it would just help to get my point across successfully if she understood even the simplest of words I was using. Maybe I was just nervous and paranoid, as I couldn’t tell if her expression was stone-cold indifference of being a city inspector or one of complete misunderstanding my English to her French. After she took photographs and went upstairs to serve warnings, I felt as though I have failed. I know have to learn French and I take full blame for still being unilingual after a year and half of living here. I was scared before which morphed into stubborness – BUT I do feel a bigger sense of drive this year to get things done, whether it be learning French or discovering paths to daily happiness or finally taking up the old-timey piano (which would be so much more thrilling than French lessons).
After the inspector left, the upstairs neighbours proceeded to violently bang and slam things around. I may sound like a jittery feline, easily alarmed by the slightest sound. It was as if they repeatedly picked up a couch and slammed it on the floor. It was no stomping around or slamming a door. It was violent sounding and upsetting to my already shot nerves. It’s been quite some time since I wanted to have a big anxiety attack but that did it. I was shaking, absolutely queesy, teary-eyed, and out of breath. I didn’t want to be home alone with this. Surrounded by dog shit is one thing, but sensing someone is pissed off and it’s directed at me (even though it’s not my fault) is another thing. I just wanted to go home or be with friends or in my partner’s arms. Thankfully, after a good half hour the banging and slamming about stopped. My partner came home. And I was off to work – for once, I was truly happy to be distracted by work.
They have until Monday to have it cleaned up. They have yet to attempt this, at least not the garbage before our window. Believe it or not, this is their second warning! The first one came from the people who live in the building next to us. The neighbours we affectionately call, “The Imbred Neighbours”. They too own a large dog and do not walk it, so if we look down from our bedroom window we see more piles of crap. I suppose they too had enough of our neighbours garbage bags falling down from their balcony into their back yard. And you know, it has to mean something when slobs file a report about someone filthier.
I’ve had just enough of sketchy landlords and being surrounded by feces and leaky faucets. I’d like out sooner or later. Hopefully, we can work towards this goal for summer. I think it would be a good idea, nonetheless.
At work, the stink lurks as well. It’s bad enough that certain people choose to take their “morning constitution” in our small working quarters and proceed to mask it with headache inducing “fruit spray”. I can, somewhat, live with that even though I would never do that myself at work. However, some of the new staff at work clearly have an issue with body odour. Is stink the new clean? I wonder that, whenever they work. I understand that some people might be worse off and I respect that. However, I think that there shouldn’t be an issue with hygiene when you own some brand name clothes, live with mom and dad, and go to college. Bohemian wool sweaters need to be washed once in a while! Hair does too! Somedays, work just stinks like hippy – b.o and greasy hair. Proper air circulation at call centres are not a high priority in the first place, so imagine that with stuffy winter heating in a smaller work environment. Sadly, I’d rather take the aroma of the dumps-masked-with-fruit-scent over stinky 18 year olds in funky unwashed wool sweaters and greasy art school hair. Here’s a performance art rock show for you to do – take a fucking shower. It’s not a good sign when you work in an office environment and feel like you need to take a shower at the end of the day, as though you worked a long day of hard labour. Count my blessings though, at least they don’t cover it up with patchouli. I proposed the idea that they should hand out work bonuses of sticks of deodorant for every ten completed calls. Good idea?
All this talk about stink, makes me want to take a bath. That’s the rest of my evening’s itinerary – hot bath, good book (Portnoy’s Choice by Philip Roth), a little cross stitching, and The Darkness. -
The lamp is burnin’ low upon my table top
The snow is softly falling
The air is still within the silence of my room
I hear your voice softly calling
If I could only have you near
To breathe a sigh or two
I would be happy just to hold the hands I love
Upon this winter night with you
The smoke is rising in the shadows overhead
My glass is almost empty
I read again between the lines upon each page
The words of love you sent me
If I could know within my heart
That you were lonely too
I would be happy just to hold the hands I love
Upon this winter night with you
The fire is dying now, my lamp is growing dim
The shades of night are liftin’
The morning light steals across my windowpane
Where webs of snow are driftin’
If I could only have you near
To breathe a sigh or two
I would be happy just to hold the hands I love
Upon this winter night with you
And to be once again with with you
- Gordon Lightfoot
This song strikes me tonight. This song always strikes me. I write tonight, surrounded by quiet and honesty. I remember the handful of years ago when this song struck me differently. When I had a taste of seperation in my mouth and a hunger of loneliness that only his touch could cure.
Stuck in the middle of a Canadian winter without your lover is the coldest of feelings. You can relate with the chilling wind and each individual snowflake that longs to be touched, to melt against rosy cheeks and fingertips. You long to have your companion to hold you close, to hold mitten covered hands, to share mugs of hot chocolate with under the night sky or a plethora of blankets.
I am glad I am no longer in a long distance relationship, despite the romance and the drama and amazing ways you invent to say hello.
However, I am home tonight and enjoying my solitude of a small apartment. I like my time alone but I admit it feels odd when he leaves. Even if it is for only the night. I miss his companionship, his body, his music. Just knowing he is there in the other room, tapping at the keyboard with his two fingers or playing his guitar while I am curled up with a book or my journal in the other room. I am not ashamed to admit I am positively dependent! I may secretly complain that I loathe domesticity, but I feel a certain lack when I am only making tea for one.
I will take advantage of this time wisely. I will take a long bath with a good book (I am tempted to start a book about serial killers, however being home alone may or may not cause paranoia and/or sleeplessness). I will continue forth with my cross-stitching though my eyes feel sore. I will listen to certain embarrassing cds I own and shamelessly dance, if I feel compelled (Ultravox, anyone?!). And if the true crime book on serial killers freaks me out, I will confidently sleep with a baseball bat tonight.
