the root of the problem...

I suppose I should be grateful that I prolonged it as long as I did. When I first moved to Colorado back in 'o4 and saw a dentist for the first time in, oh, two years. He gave me two fillings with the promise of, "Oops, that one's kinda deep, you're going to have a root canal within the year." I made it to 2010, Ladies and Gentlemen; no root canal. I was kind of hoping I had permanently averted disaster. Alas. No such luck. I went in for my check-up and my new dentist said, "You're teeth look great." I thought to myself, "Nice, I'm still good." Then she added, "but I'm going to go ahead and recommend that you go to an endodondist though and get those back two, 14 and 15 evaluated. Looks like you might need a root canal on at least one of them." Shit. I knew it was too good to be true.

I'll give you the synapse of the previous week and bring you up to where I'm sitting now with an aching jaw and left side facial droop that has people stopping me on the sidewalk and asking if I just had a stroke.

Endodontist said, "Yup, we're going to have to do a root canal on 15" (For those of you non-dental type people, that's far back top left.) It was scheduled for last Friday. It went well enough. I didn't love it but it wasn't the worst pain I'd ever felt, but please keep in mind the bridge jump disaster Summer of '04, for your score card. The anesthetics made me all tweaky and sick to my stomach and of course I was fully aware of my jaw and every muscle attached till Sunday.

Wednesday of this week, my dentist planned on crowning me. The receptionist asked me to come in earlier so they could redo the filling on 14 while they were at it. Shot up once again, jaw unhinged so completely I'm pretty sure they could see the contents of my stomach. The dentist starts on 14 and realizes its worse than the x-rays revealed. Damn x-rays. "You're not going to like this but you're going to have to get a root canal on 14 too." Ugh. She calls the endodontist and immediately schedules a root canal for this morning at 8:30am. More jaw shots, more unhinging of the jaw and I don't know if anyone else has experienced this but utter and complete increasing pain on the back of my skull as it rests on the seat, unable to move my neck and readjust. Whatever they used to clean made my mouth smells like I'd just licked the bottom of a swimming pool. I also had to pee 15 minutes into the procedure so that by the time they were nearly finished I could taste urine as well as smell chlorine.

So here I sit in the present. Full mobility of the right side of my face and as I try to slurp some much needed food into my belly. The soup slithers across my lips and down my chin like an unruly snake. I try to catch the escaping drips, face unequally scrunched like a contortionist. Its a challenge because I don't quite feel them until they've reached the un-numb portion of my chin. I need a bib or a mirror.

I believe the moral of the story is: just don't go to the dentist. Maybe mom was right all along...just swish with charcoal water, or liquid vitamin or whatever concocted swill she came across or invented. They were all better than this.

Will the real Michael Scott please stand up?

Along with the gadzillion other changes I've been plowing through the past months I have also changed jobs. I'm no longer working at the miniature poo factory. I now work at an industrial sized poo factory. Go big or go home, eh Gibbler? And I feel the need to stick with the poo factor. Its where I'm most comfortable. Psycho-analysis not needed. Where am I working? In the words of Michael Scott, "Drum-roll please...". The local community hospital. My job description has obviously changed. Instead of wrangling a classroom of preschoolers I now try to get pertinent detailed information from someone who is sick, or semi-conscious, or drunk, or all three symptoms. When I stop to admit it, the similarities between my last job and this are actuallyquite extensive. Some patients lack in verbal communication areas not unlike a two or three year old. Some can be quite demanding. Some don't stay in the room where they were dropped off. And some like to scribble their names in poo. One difference now is that I don't have to clean it up. I get to see it, write about it, possibly laugh at it, but no longer do I need to be elbow deep in it. I have arrived.

Something else about this new job, no two days are ever the same. Don't get me wrong. Childcare days weren't the same either but at least when I woke up in the morning I had a general idea of who I was going to see that day, what plans I had and that I could control a good portion of the outcome. This new thing of not knowing is both refreshing and terrifying. I don't even necessarily know who I'm going to be working with. This is also good and bad. Bad because I don't have the time to mentally prepare myself for certain individuals. Good because, why stress about what you don't know. When I walk in the door and discover I'm working with co-worker Q, I am pleasantly surprised or I walk in and see that I'm scheduled with co-worker X and have to score an extra cup of coffee and some deep breathing exercises before taking my place at the desk.

Co-worker X is no laughing matter. Although, now I will take the time to laugh. HAHAHAHAHA. I get my very own female version of Michael Scott. Just like back at the school when I worked with Dwight Schrute Blonde Sorority Girl I now have the pleasure of working with yet another Office character. I haven't figured out which character I could be; for now I'm enjoying spectator status.

Co-worker X comes fully loaded with jokes that aren't funny, expressions that are overwhelming annoying, vain confidence that she is right and no matter what you do you are wrong, if she makes a mistake its your fault, every good idea is her idea, a receding hairline and in the right light, which is just about every light, a mustache. I guess Michael only has a mustache in some of the episodes. That, and he doesn't perpetually half close his eyes when he's showering himself with verbal accolades.

Yesterday she was showing me how to type in some patient information and was needlessly flying through the tabs in the medical computer system. I'm pretty sure she was going even faster than necessary just to show how quick she was and to try to make me think I'm an idiot for asking about something on page one when she was already on page five. She got to the part where it asked for a particular zip-code that someone would have had to google or just know. This Michael Scott, she knew. She speedily typed it in. I had ceased asking questions by then. I made no sound. She lauds, as if typing in the zip-code nominated her for the Nobel peace prize, "Don't ask me how I knew that. I'm just one sick puppy." I hadn't asked.

the plants...

Paul and I have moved. I doubt that many of you will find that unusual. What is unusual is that we moved from 400 square feet to 3,065. Just the two of us. And the cat. What ridiculousness is this you ask? We don't own it. We don't pay rent either. We're basically squatters. Our only task is to keep this place clean and neat, oh and to disappear when told. Sometimes we have days advance notice and sometimes minutes. The owners of this pretty sweet pad, that we lovingly have dubbed "The mansion", moved south before it sold and we moved in to stage it and care for the upkeep. The joke is that we're staging it with our measly amount of furniture. Paul and I have lost track of each other on more than one occasion now. I call out and Paul answers sounding more like he's 5 miles, than just two but very large rooms away. I'm getting used to the echos and creaks that big houses with small furniture are guaranteed to have and have taken to naming our plants to make it feel like more people live here. Victoria Hemingway, Tom and a few other plants moved with us from our 2711 nook but remained nameless till coming here. Lola, Herbert and Zoe recently joined the ranks as they pose in various corners of the house to trick visitors into thinking its fuller than it really is. Tom hasn't been fairing as well as I'd hoped. I first tried to figure out exactly what kind of plant he was but after searching online plant encyclopedia's my only conclusion is that he's a frightened anomaly. I re-potted him thinking some space for his roots might do him some good. Our cat promptly molested his soil the next day. She's got a thing for fresh dirt and I guess Tom's pot was just too tempting. He's still not fairing too well. Therapy is next.

the ying yang of holidays

I realize that holidays are typically the time of year when family comes together and warm fuzzies are in abundance. I believe though, in order to keep the cosmic balance (how dare there be a week where everyone in the world was freakin' joyous), airline companies along with their TSA minions join forces to keep the would-be/could-be happy travelers from getting just a little too gay, merry and bright.

My blessed grandmother bought Adam, Paul and I our tickets and that right there was cause for much celebration. She cashed in some of her air mileage points with United Airlines and reserved for us some round-trip beauties, exceeding our expectations by omitting a lay-over in Chicago O'Hare and instead having us stopping over at Dulles in D.C. We were due to depart on Christmas day. The morning arrived with promises of cold but sunny skies. Adam drove. We were expecting to park in long-term parking but flying out a couple days after the mad traveling rush left all the parking lots full, now with a time constraint we were told to park nearest the airport, in the garage, and at a discount for $10 a day. Not bad actually. Covered parking for a few days. A little more than we had anticipated but we'd make our flight on time.

Security was a joke and when Paul and I checked our bags in, they never even asked to see our ID's. Whatever. Our flight was on time so we waited at the gate, spending time and making conversation with some students of mine and their family that were coincidentally on the same plane. The flight was long but a movie sped the time and we arrived in Washington D.C. with an hour before our next leg to Richmond. The weather was still holding with a light drizzle at Dulles international but nothing to write home about...until now. Turns out that during that hour, our luggage along with the luggage of about half of the passengers on that flight was left in a pile. On the tarmac. In the light drizzle, that after we took off turned to a rainstorm. Our luggage, left behind. On the tarmac. Who does that? United. Apparently.

We arrive in Richmond sans luggage and discover that no amount of sincerely forlorn looks shot in the direction of the conveyor belt would turn them up. Ours, along with about 15 other bags would not be magically produced no matter how kindly nor condescendingly we spoke to the customer service rep behind the counter. Threatening her job and quoting the survival rate of United Airlines as a company did little more than produce "we're sorry/complimentary" ditty bags of miniature toothbrushes and shaving paste. Extremely disgruntled we tackled our next task. Secure a rental car. I won't even get into it except to add that Horance the Horrible, you know who you are and you should be ashamed of your overweight ass as you poured over your hydraulic office chair and refused to leave your warm and sweaty seat. And Crystal your co-worker? She's not even worth mentioning.

The next morning we were informed by a terribly kind Chai-drinking customer service rep in Dubai that our luggage had happily and indeed arrived at the airport and he was pleased to inform us that we could kindly return and pleasantly retrieve our luggage and would we joyously please get there by 12:30pm as the baggage claim would close by then and thank you so much for your business and have a very good day. It was 11:00am. We raced the hour and a half back to the airport. It was 12:36. Baggage Claim was locked up tight. We could see our luggage through the window. The plus side was that we could definitely see it. The negative side was, well, you get it. So close and yet so freakin' far. It was almost as if the manically happy Indian had arranged to have it placed just on the very other side of the glass so we could be absolutely positive it was ours and then go mad beyond all reason that we could do absolutely nothing about it. When would this saga end? The three of us marched up the escalator to the United ticket counter and were immediately shunned by a freakishly tall northern European woman who responded to the name C Bordeadeaux. She haughtily informed us that unless we were First Class she would not assist us in any matter. All we wanted was someone to open the baggage claim door. We can see it through the glass. Were we first class? No? No! She told us that she was the person who could do that for us but that no she wouldn't and furthermore she wasn't surprised they had lost our luggage because of our attitudes. Wait. What? So what your saying is that somehow United baggage handlers KNEW we were going to be grumpy about losing our bags and therefore left them just to make sure we became grumpy. Can't upset the balance of nature now can we? We left I-could-but-I-won't-psychic at the First Class counter and walked away to take matters into our own hands. Back down to Baggage Claim we started prowling for anyone wearing any type of United insignia. We saw a man wearing a United blue jumpsuit. Ground crew. We pounced. He unlocked the door and gave us our bags. We thanked him profusely. We were just about to head to the car but upon inspection of our things we discovered that leaving baggage on the tarmac during rain has its consequences. Our clothes were wet and stained. Gross. We couldn't let this one go. Paul trudged back upstairs. C Bordeadeaux was still at the counter. He said, "I know you're busy so can I please speak to a manager?" She called the cops. The people waiting in line now took up our cause. The cops arrived. Pointing at C someone remarked, "She's the one that should be arrested, for a bad attitude." "All this guy asked for was to talk to a manager." The cop said, "I'm just trying to keep the peace, please sir, just go wait in the back of the line." Paul went to the back of the line and waited. A manager arrived, he said something in C Bordeadeaux's ear. She left. A few minutes later she was seen skulking out, belongings in hand, chin to chest. The crowd cheered. Not much more was done. An honestly nice guy named Thomas apologized for the frustrations gave us some vouchers and told to report our damage claim online. Ready to just be done with it all we left to head to Massanutten and some fun with family.

The week was busy but a blast: A yoga class that turned out to be kickboxing on speed and then a yoga class that was purely commercial time for some unknown to us local health-nut celebrity. Wine and beer tasting of some local wineries and not-so-local breweries. Yankee Swap Recycled Ornament Exchange. Splashing at the park. Christmas dinner and presents. Playing some very loud board and card games all day and night. Impromptu jam sessions. Late night movies. Trying to break the record of most inner-tubes in a chain. 13. Or was it 14? We almost had 22. Counting in the new year while David hastily poured champagne and sparkling cider and Karen spun Grandpa to play the KKC version of Pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey known as Dizzy-and-blindly-tape-your-red-circle-closest-to-your-name. Talk time with family. Catching up on the happenings of the past two years. Cookie Eating. Smiling Laughing Joking time. It was all too good. Psychic C Bordeadeaux knew it. United Airlines knew it. It was time to reset the balance of all the joyousness and bring these happy people back down to freakin' grumpy earth-time.

Adam had left on the 30th to get back to work. He had left before he had upset the balance so his trip back was smooth and fairly uneventful. We left Massanutten early to have time to meet up with Gibbler and squeeze in some face time before flying back West. By the time Paul and I left with Bex and Seth to get to the airport the joyous-merry-happiness had tipped the scales with an obscene weight and it was time the universe was balanced again. We were in for a long day. Bex and Seth were picked up by Seth's parents to fly out the next day. Paul and I stayed to fly out in a couple hours. Checking in we saw both Horance and C Bordeadeaux but were determined to not let them get us down this time around.

We made it through security. Still pretty lax. We arrive at the gate. Our flight was due to leave at 2:37pm. Nope. Now 4:10pm. Wait, what? Our connecting flight in Dulles left at 3:56. Simple math proved that wasn't going to work. No United reps could be found. People gathering at the gate to board now realized most would miss their connecting flights. Still no reps. Police were called. This time to find a United representative who could appease the frustrated and growing crowd. Even an environmental service guy started hunting. No rep came. Finally, Thomas appeared. We decided that he must be United's last man standing. Apparently it wasn't in his job description to work the ticket counter or the gate counter but here he was again saving us and our luggage and trying to help us get home. We're pretty sure he's the only reason United still holds a contract at Richmond International. We waited in line. Thomas got us on a different flight. It gets cancelled. We wait in line again. Thomas switches us to Airtran, probably realizing us flying out on United is a hopeless dream but promising to personally put our luggage on the plane. Back to the ticket counter. This time checking in with Airtran. Back through security. Our flight is due to leave at 6:36pm. Now 7:38pm. Is it just us? Do we have some serious back luck or did we just have too good of a time with family? Now it's due to leave at 7:56pm. At this rate we're going to miss our connecting flight in Atlanta. Paul is silently shaking his head and I'm beginning to fear we will never leave Richmond airport as visions of Tom Hanks in "Terminal" dance through my head. We've been chilling in the terminal for close to 8 hours now. We could get stuck in Atlanta. We've got a new decision to make. Airtran can't switch us, we'd have to go back to United and get switched to another flight due to leave the next morning. I would take my chances with Airtran. As more people gather at the gate whispers spread that the connecting flight in Atlanta is also delayed. So you're sayin' there's a chance. We board and fly. Making it to Atlanta we race to the gate. We do have time. It was delayed. Sweet Jesus. Just as we're about to board we realize we have two separate seats. Since the only remaining seats together were in business class they actually made us pay to sit together. The seats were wider but that was about the only amenity. Oh, that and we got drinks 2x instead of just 1x like the rest of Economy Class. No movies though. I had really bad gas on that flight, it was probably all the airport food we had to rummage through for the previous 10 hours, but since I figured, Dangit, I paid extra for this crappy seat I'm going to light it up, I let them rip. Paul was immune but I think the business dude behind me was asking for an oxygen mask about an hour into it. Oh, and when obese guy across the aisle from us took his seat at the beginning of the flight and Paul and I happen to be looking in his direction at the exact same time to witness him bend over to grab his seat-belt and reveal not just an ass-crack but a curly-cued hairy ass-crack. We nearly blew out our eyeballs trying not to explode with laughter.

Four long hours later we arrived in Denver. In Colorado at last. Thomas came through, our luggage arrived too.