Quo Vado?

I survived the root-canal experience. Some tips I picked up:

1. Brush and floss regularly to avoid having experience this procedure.
   
2. Don’t have it done while tripping on hormones.
   
3. Take appropriate painkillers before hand.
   
4. Don’t jump – it’ll piss of your dentist.
   
5. Don’t have it done while tripping on hormones.
   
6. Do your shopping before hand so you don’t have to walk around the grocery with an oversized lip.

The only other notable thing about the experience was having to get re-shot with Novocain because it wore off too quickly and then hearing a doctor tell you that I now had enough stuff to ‘kill a horse’. I enjoyed my return quip; “I’ve been accused of being a mule, but never a horse.” Not bad for someone who couldn’t feel the whole left side of her face. Now, it’s back to work so that my co-workers can laugh at my chipmunk-cheeks some more.

My eyes hold themselves open with great effort, my room awaits attention, and the dryer carelessly tumbles the jeans washed yesterday. Despite all the things around me demanding my attention, I sit in my favorite recliner and strain to release the narrator in my head. Remind me to take my amox when I finish here. I’ve been writing here for six weeks now, and the addiction binds me closer to the keyboard. I’m actually looking forward to the flight up to Boston this Friday, it will give me a chance to free think without the threat of interruption. Well, they’ll probably bring breakfast biscotti and soda, but that doesn’t require thinking or listening and paying attention to other people.

On the drive home today, I wished that people would learn how to drive corners properly. Actually, I think that thought often. If you want to learn how to drive with multiple turning lanes, confusing streets, and an amalgamation of drivers who learned to drive in the far reaches of civilization, than the ATL is your place. The state’s rules for a four way stop make about as much sense as driving around with mud on your windshield. In most places, the person at the intersection first goes first, and in the case of two cars arriving at the same time either the driver to your right or left goes first – I don’t remember which direction, it’s been a while since drivers education. In Georgia, the law (as I remember it) only says that vehicles at a four way stop should transverse in the order in which they arrive to the intersection. This lack of distinction makes the route from work to home and back again more dangerous than I’d like.

Oh, and for those of you who haven’t snagged a gmail invite yet, I find it to be worth the effort. The pain of switching systems sucks, but the filing of the messages and the interface made the energy worth wile for me.

I really wanted to ‘go off’ on this article regarding the Supreme Court’s ruling regarding marketing and ‘adult’ sites. The tag summary on MSN struck me the wrong way because I read it to quickly to pick up all of the words. The price of free speech turns my stomach way too often, I know it’s required that free speech applies across the board, but some of what passes the free speech bar offends my puritanical sensibilities, and is way too much information for me. I was a gift from the stork.

Speaking of reading things too quickly, that is another one of my main flaws. It pops up just in time to make a complete fool of me. Though every once in a while it can be amusing, especially when the miss-read never fixes itself, despite catching it often. The most amusing reading of late substitutes In Flavor of Thinking for In Favor of Thinking. Two very different ideas.

Today’s oneword. is Giraffe:
Tall with long skinny necks and beautiful brown spots. We used to go to the zoo every year, and Dad would pick me up to look through the circle so that you could see the giraffes. I wonder what it’s like to have such a thin neck.

oneword contuiation:
I remember being scared of giraffes because they were so tall and gangly. Foreshadowing of the structural engineer I became, I guess. The difference between their height and width/depth concerned me, I was afraid they would tip right over. Not that I thought they would roll anywhere as they have legs on one side of their torso and a neck on the other, but they frightened me. I didn’t get to observe much of their behavior, because alas, I couldn’t see into their enclosure w/out help, it’s possible that that would have helped me be less fearful. Information can sometimes reduce fear.

I left yesterday’s zen quote of the day up for an extra 20+ hours just because it disturbs my 0/1 thinking pattern.

“Truth is always paradoxical.” - Henry David Thoreau

Even attempting to get my brain around that one makes my head spin.

I’m switching over to Haloscan comments, so please bear with me as I try to work out any issues I might have.

Dude, I really have to watch taking painkillers. The dentist handed me a prescription for some heavy duty Motrin yesterday, and I took one just before going to bed. I had the weirdest dream.

Imagine if you will, a large square room, the walls a dark oak door finish with frosted glass panes above the chair line. Fill the room with desks, books, colorful coffee cups, and odd maps - essentially the office of half a dozen professors. The dingy room receives light from overhead fluorescents and filtered hall lighting. I couldn’t read the labels on the three hallway doors, two of which lead to the main hallway. At the back corner of the room, was a darkened cloth accented entry. Into this static spaces comes rushing a tall woman followed by two friends, in a panic they rush to lock the doors bouncing from one door to another opening and closing them quickly. I never figured out what we were running from, but we decided to ‘hunker-down’ in the office and resist all efforts to draw us out. Other women given entry into the room, and we made our stand. Somehow, without the threat of violence, the powers that be allowed us to stay, making no effort to rush us in any way. After a while, we made our way back through the darkened opening. Through a narrow musty library, down a long flight of dimly lit stairs, we traversed the path into a great home.

I woke up then, my arm having gone numb. Disappointment coursed through me, I wanted to know what happened, what we were hiding from and how it would all turn out. My second dream continued the story, but in a weird and violent way. Richard Dean Anderson showed up, shot up the house. We escaped through diversion and miss information, forwarded some information to somewhere, and turned ourselves in by walking movie style down the middle of the street. What a very unsatisfying ending to a vibrant dream.

Good news waited for my return home. Upon my arrival home from Boston next Monday, the house will sport a new washer and dryer. Finally, my bathroom will not look like a clothes- line and I won’t have to move the clothes every morning.

There is this part of me that wants to write. I, however, don’t know what to write. I picked up new DVD’s at the red circle boutique, but they are not new releases, I stopped by the store that services my addiction, but I’m not ready to yet comment on those books - I haven’t even cracked the spines. Craving the ability and living with the urge to write, but having little to say drives me batty. I could write about this evening’s episode of The West Wing, but I cannot even begin to articulate how my heart responds to the idealism of Sorkin. Something pure and magical permeates from his written work. While he may be a man possessed, like us all, by his own personal demons, his view of the possibility of man’s will do be about the good of this world inspires me. I know, I cannot leave this topic untouched for any length of time, but in an age of drowning in cynicism, disbelief and low expectations, the inspiration I find in this television show floors me.

Super short defines my hair, usually. However, the last time I sat in Randy's chair I told him to leave it longer than usual. Today, I'm regretting that decision. My hair flops in my face, tickles my ears and irritates the back of my neck. It disturbed me so much that I asked a co-worker of mine before lunch if it looked all crazy or out of control. Apparently, it looks better longer. I know I look less like a guy, given my shelf and curves this hasn't been a real problem since I was thirteen, and feel really unkempt. I've pulled up the sides and now I can feel my pulse in my head. Would someone please tell me why women do this?

PS. If you follow the link to the salon, you will discover that I pay a ridiculous amount of money to get my hair cut.

PPS. I actually had a dream last week about taking black handled paper shears to my hair. I didn't do a very good job of cutting it.

I made it back from the dentist chair. He dispensed bad news with great aplomb and little lecturing. I get the privilege of having a root canal on Wednesday and then of course there will be a crown added. I’m frustrated with myself for not taking better care of my mouth. My gag reflex is so strong, that brushing my teeth causes me to cough hard enough to hurt my brain. I don’t know how to fix this. It is one of those things that I routinely think about doing better, that I just never actually do better.

The key to my self-distrust reveals itself. I drive myself crazy, think less of myself, don’t see myself as responsible, and in general give myself a hard time because I do goofball things like not take care of myself even when I know how. I can’t take a compliment because Chester (the devil on my shoulder) keeps reminding me how much I can’t do correctly or right in the first try or two. My friends wonder why I don’t consider myself disciplined – its all the little things that start adding up in my head.

It’s Sunday and I feel this need to write something. Just so, I don’t go three whole days without adding something here. The weekend hasn’t been too exciting – mostly because I wanted it that way. I tried to sleep until late in the afternoon yesterday but Alm came in to see if I was dead; she woke me up and I couldn’t get back to sleep. I was in a very bad mood yesterday because of it. I sleep odd hours when I get a chance, and I’d much rather sleep during the day than through the night. The darkness soothes me and keeps me from flying off the handle. I’ve been trying to find someone to talk with about the feelings that welled up inside me on Thursday as a result of the visit to the hospital, but I cannot seem to get it to come out – especially given that dumping on Alm about that topic is verboten. It’ll have to come out soon or I’ll end up being shut down.

It’s pouring outside now and given that I just came into the office to pick up some stuff to take home and mark up - I’m annoyed. I can’t carry drawings outside in the rain, the consequences of getting wet are drastic – everything will bleed all over. Oh, well, I think I’m going to gather everything up and head out.

As I get older, I find the physical ticks and nuances that define my mom spilling out of my body. Every time a new one surfaces, I get a little weirded out. I began small – the tilt of my head, the position of my hand on my chin during contemplation but last night I hit the big time. I walked like my mom.

Big doesn’t describe Mom; but she barrels through life and people move to get out of her way. As I strode in to the hospital last night, after parking the car, my mind pulled my point-of-view from my eyes to a point ten feet off the ground at 10 o’clock. From there I saw it: a stride filled with bravado that doesn’t mask the weight on my shoulder, the odd bend at the waist that has my head and feet leading the way with my gut protected by tightly distinct swinging arms, and the piece-de-resistance, a gray sweatshirt draped over my shoulders, glasses propped on top of my head, and multiple bags thrown over my shoulder. It was me and it was my mom at the same time.

Trying to entertain my brain while waiting for the final consultation of the doctor, I was reading Lord of the Rings, again. In the middle of The Two Towers, Gandalf summarizes the situation to date, comments on who knows what, and speculates on the possibilities for the future. It struck me that for the story to work a lot of things had to happen in a specific order or in a manner that doesn?t let hand A see what hand B is doing. So many things to go a specific way for the victory to happen, I think of all of the stuff of which I complain, or all of the misadventures in which I?ve participated and all the things - the chips fell, because that’s wehre they fell. The story isn’t won or lost.

I don’t think the above makes any sense, I’ll read it over later and decide to elaborate as necessary.

BTW, Alm is fine, just a little vertigo - five and a half hours later.