Clancy’s Story

Hello, and happy Friday.

I want to tell you a story about my tooth.  

The story begins many years ago, when I was working contract jobs, and didn’t have any dental coverage.  Due to my lack of coverage, and my irresponsible neglectful behaviour, I didn’t go to the dentist for quite some time.  But after I got engaged, I thought I better get my teeth cleaned before the big day.  In addition to getting them cleaned, I was diagnosed with a cavity. The cavity was on the molar on the bottom right side of my mouth.  Let’s call this tooth Clancy.

Clancy’s cavity got filled, but he was never the same after that.  The filling made Clancy a shape that encouraged food particles to get mashed up underneath him, and so he got flossed a lot.  That helped Clancy in some ways, but he knew his odd shape made him a target for more cavities.  

Which is exactly what happened.  Clancy’s new filling was a little better shaped than his last, and so he breathed a sigh of relief, hoping that he would get a break from the tartar build-up that is known to cause cavities.

And Clancy did get a break.  He was getting cleaned regularly, and life was pretty good.  However, Clancy was too wise for his own good.  He had heard that life outside the mouth was getting tougher, and that would mean that life inside the mouth would eventually get tougher for him.  Unfortunately, Clancy was right.  He was cleaned less regularly, and due to his sensitive nature, he was feeling hurt. When Clancy finally did get properly cleaned, he was also diagnosed with another cavity.

Clancy was starting to wonder “why me?” Indeed.  Why was Clancy the target when there were other teeth that hadn’t ever got a cavity.  Some of those teeth were even known for biting the inside of the mouth’s cheek, causing pain that Clancy would never dare inflict.  Life seemed so unfair.  But Clancy, being a “mouth half full” kind of guy, shrugged it off, and was ready to get poked and prodded yet again.

And as the day of the cavity filling approached, Clancy felt prepared.  He’d been through this before, and looked forward to getting it over with.

When the time came, the procedure started off the usual way.  A large intimidating needle was used to numb his feelings, but when the numbing didn’t work, Clancy was a little concerned.  He shrugged it off, though, and figured everything would be fine.  

Then came the second needle, the third, and the fourth.  With each needle, the rest of the mouth was getting more and more inebriated, but when the drill came for Clancy, he squealed in pain.  The numbing didn’t work.  He was more sober than ever.  “What gives?”  he thought.  This had never happened to him before.  

He felt defeated when finally it was decided that Clancy’s cavity had to wait for another day.

But that day turned into weeks, and then months, and then a year.  Clancy struggled to keep himself together, but it was becoming more and more difficult.  He ached with despair, and noticed that he wasn’t getting any food to chew lately – the mouth was clearly favouring the left side now.  The other teeth didn’t know what to say, which was to be expected considering that they can’t talk.

Finally the time came for Clancy’s cavity to be filled.  He was eager to get this taken care of so he could get back to chewing the things he loved. And while he waited to get poked with the large needle, he was shocked to hear the words that no tooth ever wants to hear: root canal.

Clancy was lost, and again wondered,  “why me?” He just wanted to be left alone, to do his job, and live his life happily with the rest of the teeth.   How could he be happy without his roots?  Those roots that kept him grounded, and connected since he was born.  He didn’t know, but that was life.  He couldn’t do anything about it.  He had no choice but to bravely face his destiny.

It was three long and arduous hours of drilling and filing holes.  Clancy was exhausted, and just when he thought it was all over, he again heard those dreadful words: root canal.

That’s right. Clancy would have to get a second root canal because the first one didn’t do the trick.  

Luckily the second root canal took much less time and was much less painful than the first. Clancy was hopeful.  He was even looking forward to being the only tooth with a crown.  He imagined being the King of the mouth, and started looking around for his Queen.

But his fantasies were cut short when suddenly Clancy couldn’t handle hot or cold temperatures.  Then he started to ache. He ached when he woke up in the morning.  He ached when he went to bed.  He was sore when he shouldn’t have felt any pain at all.  Something was amiss.

Clancy went back to get checked out, and got a temporary filling.  He heard that everything would be fine, and they were just going to wait and see.  Which also meant the crown would have to wait.  Clancy was devastated.

Despite being heartbroken, Clancy resigned himself to the fact that the only thing he could do was wait it out, and hope for the best.

It seemed to work too.  Clancy was starting to feel better.  He didn’t shriek whenever a hot coffee or cold glass of water came his way.  He might actually get his crown after all! Maybe even his Queen! He dreamed of a world with no pain, and could finally imagine a future for himself.  He’d been waiting a long time for this, and even though he was feeling a little tender lately, he shrugged it off.  This was all normal.  He was normal.

But he wasn’t normal.  With each day, and each meal, and each brushing, and each flossing, he was feeling more and more irate.  More vulnerable.  He no longer looked forward to anything.  He couldn’t even handle the soft foods, for god’s sakes. Clancy could barely remember a time when he didn’t feel pain.

There was no more denying it.  Clancy had to admit that he was ill.

And that’s where Clancy’s story ends.

Clancy will have to get looked at again, and then referred to a specialist for another root canal.  Best case scenario: he just needs one more root canal.  Worst case scenario: Clancy’s time on this earth is over, and sadly, never get his crown.

I’m not sure what will happen in the next chapter of Clancy’s life, but I do know I’m to blame.  

I just wish I could tell Clancy that I’m trying to do the best thing for him, but it’s no use.  He doesn’t have any ears.

Moral of the story: Take care of your teeth.  They need you just as much as you need them.

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Sleepy…

Good afternoon all.  

It’s a Monday afternoon in my part of the world.  As I type this, I’ve got 12 minutes until the clock strikes 5:00pm and I’m free to go home.  And honestly, I shouldn’t be “blogging”, but I am quite useless right now.  I’ve worked hard all day, skipped my lunch, and only stepped away from my desk to empty my bladder, and eat three mini cupcakes in order to sustain some level of sanity.  And so, now I have absolutely no energy left to devote to things that are work related.

The only thing keeping me awake right now is typing these words.  So get off my back already!  In fact it’s probably in my work place’s best interest that I practice my writing and typing skills.  This is money well spent for them. I’m doing them a favour.  You’re welcome!

Anyway, what is the point of this nonsense…Oh.  Now I remember.  I’m f-ing tired.  

It all started this morning.  I was laying in bed, wishing that I had another hour or so to sleep.  Just one hour.  It’s not that much to ask.  But I did the math in my head.  I have to be at work for 9:00am, and it takes me about 30 minutes to get to work, and it takes me about 20 minutes to look decent, but I also had to factor in the shower I needed to take, which adds another 20 minutes.  I contemplated not including the shower time, but then remembered that I couldn’t remember the last time I took a shower, so I was probably going to need to take one, or else be confused on the subway as a hobo.  Or a hipster.

After I did the math, there was no denying the facts of the situation.  It was time to get up.  Whether I was tired or not.  So I got up.  But as I got up, I asked the universe “WHY?”  Why does it matter that I get to work for 9 in the morning.  Who came up with this system.  Why not 10am?  Or even 9:30am.  Who came up with this arbitrary time, and why do we all have to conform?!  

I checked the internet on that, and got tired trying to find an answer.  I was looking for a scientific or historical answer, but instead found articles from other people complaining about how they don’t see the necessity for starting work at 9am.  I’m shocked I’m not the first to trail blaze this particular topic.

But all I was looking for was a name, or something.  Like Sir Earlybird Rising of Scotland told his people that “hence forth, the work day shall begin at 9:00am”, and then I could blame him.  I’d have some name to curse in the morning.  “Damn you Sir Earlybird!  If it weren’t for you, I’d be napping right now!”, and so on and so forth.  

But I didn’t find any name, or interesting fact.  Just a whole lot of people wondering the same thing as me.  So I won’t waste my typing energy on it any further.  Instead, I’ll focus on what my real issue is.  

I’m tired.  And I’m ready to go home.  And look, it’s past 5:00pm now!  I’m free to go home.  And once I get home, and hang out with the kid until his bedtime, and then hang out with the husband until his bedtime, and then lay in bed thinking too many things, so that it takes me at least an hour to get to sleep, I’ll finally get my wish and get some much deserved sleep.

Yawn.  

Or maybe I’ll just rest my head here on this keyboard for a moment.  

Good night…

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Dreams are crazy, yo.

I want to talk about dreams.  To be clear, I do not mean aspirations, or goals we have for ourselves, like competing in a pie eating contest and puking up all over your opponents for barf-o-rama revenge, a la “Stand By Me”.

No, no.  I’m talking about when you go to bed at night, and your brain transports you to strange locations, with zany situations.  Like flying on a rainbow unicorn with David Hasselhof while you discuss the potential racist implications of a white person twerking.

If you’re lucky/unlucky enough to remember your dreams once you wake up, then this blog entry will be right up your alley.

I have always been able to remember my dreams.  The first reoccurring dream that I can recall featured yours truly, and a medium sized elephant as we floated down a tropical river, on a large lily pad.  That’s it.  I suppose that’s all my brain could come up with at the ripe ol’ age of two.  

As the years passed, I got better at dreaming. In my youth, and even extending to my late teens, I couldn’t wait to fall asleep, because I knew that a new and awesome dream was just waiting to entertain me.  Can you believe I never quite made it as one one of the “cool kids”?  Me neither.

But now I’m an “adult”, complete with mortgage, a husband that wants to discuss whether I think the shingles he chose for the roof are grey enough (fyi, I don’t give a fuck!), and a kid that plots my destruction on a regular basis.  So the dreams have changed accordingly.

Gone are the days of fanciful, care free dreams.  They died awhile ago.  Now my dreams mainly consist of the same damn things: saving my kid from perilous situations, and getting rejected in new and exciting ways.  These are the themes that plague my dreams. Every.  Single.  Night.

To be clear, I don’t mind saving my son from drowning in murky lakes, or spitting volcanoes.  In fact, it feels great because I haven’t let him down once.  So despite the fact that it’s always stressful, I’ve been getting better and better at it.  It’s actually created a sense of confidence in me.  After saving my son from all sorts of crazy situations, I feel like maybe, just maybe, I can handle this whole motherhood stuff. Which is a big revelation for me, since I wasn’t sure I could cut it.  And it’s probably worth noting that these rescue dreams are a big contrast from when I first became a mom.  The reoccurring dream then was a strange one: I dreamt that upon waking up, there was a very large, ominous looking stork, sitting at the edge of my bed, staring me down, questioning my abilities.  No wonder I have a fear of birds…

Now let’s move on from rescuing my child, to the rejection dreams.  These delightful gems come in a variety of forms.  For a while, my best attempt at a sex dream would involve me trying to get busy with my husband.  In real life, my husband would never reject me.  He’s too desperate for that.  But my dream husband is an evil, inconsiderate, horrible human being that treats me like shit.  He ALWAYS rejects me. I wake up from those yelling obscenities at the real life version of my husband, and he apologizes for his dream behaviour, and life goes back to normal.

But I don’t just get rejected by my husband – no no!  I get rejected by friends, co-workers, my mother, my father in law, and even the bit players in my dreams, like the grocery store clerk who wouldn’t let me into the store.  

It’s equal opportunity rejection in my dream land.  A free for all to tell me exactly how horrible you think I am.  Like the comments section on the internet.

Freud theorized that dreams were where our sub-conscious urges were released.  Sorry Freud, but I don’t completely agree with you on that.  Granted, I think back when he was working, people were denying themselves of all sorts of urges.  Particularly the women.  I bet if I were around back then I’d have all sorts of nasty urges I’d play out in my dreams that Freud would just LOVE to dissect.  But the days of hysteria are over, we’ve got the vote, and I am woman, hear me roar.  

I also think sometimes dreams are just random and meaningless but because our brains are pretty kick ass, they can come up with a cool story every now and again (i.e. anything that involves flying).

 But mainly, and I think this is true for most adults, that dreams are where we practice worst case scenarios so that we can handle this shit when we’re awake.  It’s that primal, survival instinct in us all, and it’s helped us evolve, for better or worse, into the walking monkeys we are today.

Case in point, saving my child’s life. Last night was the most recent occurrence.  I saw his head bob under the water, and quickly dove in with my eyes wide open, grabbed him confidently, and saved his life. I was ten million times better at it compared to the first time.  And I got to practise without actually having to get my hair wet (which is a big hassle for me – I hate doing my hair). 

But what about the rejection stuff?  I was just getting to that!  Two nights ago, in a dream in which I was rudely told to shut up by a group of senior executives at work, I finally stood up for myself.  I told them exactly what I thought of their bullshit.  And not only that, but just the other night, I screamed like a maniac at my father in law after he told me that I was annoying (“NO, YOU’RE THE ONE WHO’S ANNOYING OLD MAN!”)  And like a good Canadian, once I was done yelling, I apologized profusely.  But that doesn’t take away from the fact that I stood up for myself.

I am officially entering a new dream world.  A dream world in which I don’t let the assholes in my dreams tell me what I am, and what they think of me.  A world in which I tell them why they’re wrong, and why they have no business rejecting me. Because I don’t give a shit what they think.  I say bring it on, like donkey kong!

 Tonight I’m going to bed, not with fear of rejection, but instead a renewed sense of power.  Instead of worrying about my dream husband rejecting my sexual advances, I’m going to get my dream samurai sword sharpened, and attack his negativity with a “Kill Bill” flourish, and chop his little dream head off.  Chop, slice, splurt, splat!

Is it bed time yet?  Hmm, close enough.  Sweet dreams!

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Umm…

Good day non-existent readers!  It’s been a month since my last blog entry, but considering no one actually reads this, I’m not feeling guilty about my absence from wordpress.com.  

I wonder what it would be like if people actually read this blog.  I suppose I’d be more concerned about what I was saying, and how I was saying it.  I might even attempt to be cool, and talk about things like vegan food trucks, or memes, or #hashtags.  Maybe I’d meet people at parties, and brag about my stats, and exchange twitter handles with other bloggers.  The more I think about it, the less I want to think about it.  So let’s move past useless speculation, and get on with today’s blog.

Which is something I would love to do, but I’m having trouble getting started.  

I’m struggling with what I should write about.  

I’m without inspiration.  

Hence the stalling…

Usually I just write whatever pops into my head, and organically it forms into the topic I want to discuss.  But since I’ve started writing this particular entry, nothing has popped into my head.  Nothing organic.  Nothing with preservatives.  Nothing from concentrate. I’m sorry to say, I’ve got nothing.  

I feel awful about that.  I’m disappointing all my readers out there (which we’ve already clarified is a total of zip, nada, zero, none).  

Still, I hate to disappoint, even hypothetically.

I wonder where my inspiration has gone.  I suspect my muse has left me.  I don’t tend to believe in other worldly things, like muses, but now that she’s abandoned me, I’m eager to point the finger at her.  

Interesting how I’m more apt to recognize the existence of my muse once she’s left me.  That’s not very nice.  It’s about time my muse stood up for herself and high tailed it out of here.  I wasn’t giving her the respect she deserves.  Dammit, it serves me right.

And now that I’m without my muse, with a blog entry to finish, the next logical step is to find a new one. ASAP.  Maybe there’s an online service that’ll match me up with a new and improved muse.  However, if it’s anything like a dating service, it’ll take too long, and I don’t think I’m quite ready to commit to a life long muse partner – I just want to write a damn blog entry, for goodness sakes.  

Maybe there’s a muse prostitution ring out there. 50 bucks for an inspirational quicky.  That sounds reasonable.  But with my luck, she’d be a nasty muse that inspires me to cut my ear off, which must have been what happened to Van Gogh.  It’s all making sense now…

So if I don’t want to be tied down with an ol’ ball and chain muse, or lose an ear from a low brow muse, I can’t see how I can explore this muse avenue any further.  

I’m on my own.  And since I started this blog entry, by golly, I’m going to finish it. 

And this seems like a good spot to finish it.  

Have a super duper day, non-existent readers!  

And remember, don’t abuse your muse. 

 

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Celebrate Good Times? C’mon…

The long weekend is upon us!  If you live in Canada anyway.  Which I do.  Happy Canada Day to those who celebrate.  And for those who don’t, well, celebrate it anyway.  Canada’s birthday is as good a reason to celebrate as any other.  

But perhaps you don’t like to celebrate.  I certainly don’t always feel like celebrating.  Honestly, celebrating can be down right stressful.  Many times, you feel forced to celebrate.  It’s Christmas.  It’s New Year’s.  It’s St. Jean Baptiste Day.  But those holidays come just once a year. Birthdays, on the other hand, come one after the other, after the other, after the other. Throughout the year, and every year after, in one way or another, it’s your responsibility to celebrate somebody’s day o’ birth.

Prior to Facebook, I never knew what the people I went to high school were up to, but now I know what they ate for dinner, where they vacation, what their kids are up to, and I am notified and encouraged to wish them a happy birthday. 

Fine.  I’ll wish them a happy birthday.  Because dammit, it’s easy enough to do.  I’ll say “Happy Day!”, and they’ll “like” the comment, and we all feel good.  But I must say, when Facebook tells me it’s someone’s birthday, I groan a little bit.  This is the first step of celebrating becoming a chore.

The next is when you’re invited out for a birthday party.  You get a jolly message like “Come Help Me Celebrate My Birthday!”, and you do, because you don’t have any other plans, and your friend will appreciate it.  And hey!  There’ll be booze, and who doesn’t like that!  But then you find out you don’t know anyone else going.  And then you find out the celebration is in a far away place that will make it an expensive cab ride. But you go.  You suck it up, and hope that if you drink enough, it’ll be a good time.  But once you arrive, you realize that you didn’t bring a present, and everyone else did.  You eye the table that holds the many brightly coloured bags, with lovely tissue paper and curly bows, with thoughtful Hallmark cards attached.  And you have brought nothing. And the guilt starts to wash over you like a dark nauseating cloud.  Your bowels clench.  You find yourself apologizing profusely for not bringing anything, making a bigger deal out of this than you should.  You’re an embarrassment.  A clown.  Have you helped to celebrate?  Or have you just proven to everyone that you’re a dick, who is too cheap to pay for taxi fare, booze, AND a birthday present.  I’m getting stressed out just thinking about it. 

I don’t like celebrating my birthday. Not really.  Not any more. Partly because when I was a kid, it was the best day of my life.  As the youngest of four children, it was the one day that I could choose what I wanted for dinner.  What I wanted to watch on tv.  My siblings treated me with respect, and my parents too.  And I got gifts!  A Barbie doll, a new game, a cool Swatch watch with snowflakes dancing along the wrist band.  It was fantastic.  The best day of my life.

But then I got older.  I moved out of my parents’ place.  I got married.  But I still had the great expectations for my birthday that I had when I was a kid. And it was ruining my “special day”.  My husband, who I love, has a horrible gift giving reputation.  One year, he gave me a Swiffer sweeper.  Another year, he lugged out a HUGE present, and as I unwrapped it with glee, it turned out to be a broken television he found on the side of the road which he thought looked cool.  It was not cool.  It was a dirty, broken, homeless tv.

Each year, I felt pressure to have a “Happy Birthday!”  And I was not having a happy birthday because I always felt disappointed and then ashamed of myself for feeling disappointed.  This lead me to a new era.  An era in which the last thing I needed or wanted was a yearly celebration reminding me that I’m no good at celebrating my birthday.

One year – a particularly difficult year for me – my husband wanted to do something special for me because, well, it was a particularly difficult year for me.  There was a knock on the door, and voila, all of my closest friends were standing in front of me, and they yelled “SURPRISE!” and I started drinking immediately.  I know they all wanted to help me celebrate, which is not an easy task.  They accepted the responsibilities, and the chores associated with ensuring I had a “happy birthday”.  Which forced me to act happy, to avoid disappointment.  But as I’ve said, the circumstances of that year was not conducive to me being happy, and so I just had to keep it together until we all made it through, and I could convince my husband how wonderful it all was.  He was pretty drunk by the end of it, so it was fairly easy to do.

In retrospect, my husband was absolutely right to have a party for me.  I did need help celebrating that year.  I was depressed, and celebrating was a difficult concept at that time. Sure, I would have been happy not celebrating, but my husband wanted to remind me that I still had reason to celebrate.

The word “celebration” sounds so exciting, and wonderful.  It sounds like a gift in itself.  But honestly, celebrating can be difficult.  It’s work.  It can cost you money.  It can cost you time.  It can cost you your sanity.  And your life might be in place where celebrating sounds dreadful.  And helping someone celebrate seems impossible.  But that’s life.  It’s work.  And sometimes you can call in sick for work, but other times you just have to suck it up, pop open the champagne, and celebrate your face off, because who knows, you just might enjoy yourself.

So happy celebrating everyone!  I know it won’t be easy, but let’s give it a go anyway.

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I told you I’m not a good blogger. But go on and read this anyway.

Welcome!  This is the first entry of a mediocre blog.  Being sober isn’t advised, so at this time, I do ask everyone to please take a big swig of tequila, or a mondo bite of hash brownie (and we can just wait here until it kicks in…good? Alright, let’s keep going.)   But if you’re intent on reading sober, I can only promise a series of letters, which make up words, which then combine to create sentences, which in turn, will be my blog entry.  Low expectations, and nobody gets hurt, okay?

So let’s get this thing started.  (Cue the fireworks, and Cirque Du Soleil performance, and there you have it – a not very good blogger opening ceremony).

Okay, one more shot of tequila, and let’s jump right into this.

Today I listened to some poetry.  Not by choice, of course.  It was strictly because I was listening to CBC Radio One, and they were classing up the joint with some Canadian poets.  Each one was speaking in metaphors on top of metaphors, with that kind of unstoppable energetic rhythm that makes me nervous listening to serious poetry.  Now, before I get any hateful haikus from my readers (ie. this blog really sucks/I need more tequila shots/to endure this shit), I just want to say that I respect all of that crap.  But for some reason, if I don’t hear a funny rhyme, then I don’t get it.  Basically anything beyond Shel Silverstein, and I’m stumped.  And annoyed.  And want to burn books.

I’ve thought in the past that this is a flaw in my character.  Something I need to work on.  Like booze – I didn’t always guzzle back my beer, I had to work on it!  And it was worth it, because dammit, getting drunk was something that mattered to me.  Perhaps poetry was the same.  I just needed to read, breathe, and bathe in poetry until it finally sunk in, and I’d be nodding my head along with all the other poetry enthusiasts.  Feeling each word with every fibre of my being.  Not worrying about whether the words rhyme or not, because who needs that when you have orgasmic metaphors that transport you to a new world.  A new existence!  An elite world of sexy poets that compare my body parts to nature and food stuffs, and make me feel fancy.  But alas, it never happened.  To this day, most poetry I read or hear tickles the part of my brain that makes me absolutely INSANE!

I do have a confession before we take this any further.  I am guilty of writing poetry. I know…  The very thing that drives me nuts, I am guilty of myself!  I was just a kid, and during my adolescence it was my go-to option for expressing my deepest disappointments of teenage life.  And I had a lot of disappointments.  And I liked writing poems. It made me feel better – almost as if the pain I was going through meant something, because from it, I had created something beautiful.  Which, by the way, is what I love about art.  But poetry turned out to be just a phase.  Once I made it through that hormonally charged era, I left poetry behind and never looked back.  I don’t know why.  Perhaps I just grew tired of it.  And I had different ways of expressing my disappointments with life – like drinking beer!

And I suppose along with not writing it, I lost my sense of appreciating other poems as well.  It became inaccessible.  A word puzzle that only served to confuse me and make me feel stupid.  So I’d lash out at those who wrote it, and call them pretentious asses!  (Not out loud. Just in my head.  I’m not THAT crazy.)

But I honestly don’t think people who write poetry are pretentious asses.  I think they are artists doing work that I don’t understand.  Which does make me feel stupid, but I’m okay with that.  I’d rather feel stupid, than have a world with no poetry.  And I’m hoping, one of these days, I’ll hear a poem that changes everything for me.  One epic modern poem that breaks down the barriers for block heads like me, and opens the doors to iambic pentameter and beat poetry, instead of the bawdy verses and childish rhymes that I can’t seem to get past.

And with that, I leave this first blog entry with a sense of accomplishment.  For not only have I come to terms with my poetry pretenses, but I also have completed this entry with a renewed love of the arts, and I couldn’t have done it without my muse: beer.  I love you beer!  Which is why you should probably read this blog while you’re drunk.  It’ll be easier to impress you with your mind altered.

Thanks for reading.  Live long and prosper.

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