2 posts tagged “dentist”

I have a cracked tooth.

This is highly unfortunate, seeing as I would rather go to the gynaecologist three times one day, every day, than go to the dentist once in one day.

I know I've already bitched about my fear of the dentist before, but I feel like it's a subject that can be explored over and over again. Sort of like Britney Spears's life.

Reasons I don't like the dentist:

A) When I was five, I needed to have my tooth pulled and they used that laughing gas shit. I saw all five years of my life flash before my eyes in a psychadelic acid trip and woke up clawing through the glass wall that I thought they were trying to hide my mother behind. "MOM! THEY WERE TRYING TO HIDE YOU FROM ME!!!!" It was a very traumatic experience.

B) I wasn't taken to the dentist very often as a child, so when I did go, it was always like, "Oh hai. You have 13 cavities." And then we would have to stand barefoot on the streets and try to sell our cows and chickens so that we could pay off the massive dental bill my pretty little mouth accumulated.

C) When I was old enough to have my own dental insurance I needed a root canal, so, I paid for it myself, drove myself, did everything myself. However, the nice dentist I went to underestimated the pain I was under, and started to drill away while I was still able to feel. I saw stars, gurgled bloody murder, and almost passed out.

So, now I'm afraid that every time I go to the dentist it will be incredibly painful, and incredibly expensive. What does this add up to? Rotting teeth that will break in half.

I have an appointment tomorrow at 2:45 and GEE WHIZ I'm excited. I'm even more excited as I have a cold and am feeling like death.

It's an initial check up, but they know about the half-tooth I'm sporting, so I'm guessing they'll do the first stages of  a root canal (*shudder*) so that I can actually, you know, eat and stuff.

For those of you who have a cracked tooth, or teeth that could fall out of your head if you so much as think of candy apples, here are some things to not eat:

How do I know all this? Because these are things I've either tried to eat today and couldn't, or something in the past that has ripped off a bit of my teeth.

Pain? I can live through it, I've done it in the past. But when something, ANYTHING, gets in the way of me and eating whatever I want, that's it.

This mother-fucker of a tooth is going to get the SMACK DOWN.

(I say that all tough, but I'm really curled up in the fetal position moaning. Loudly.)

So, I read on this dentist's website that they help out phobic freaks like me:

Nervous patients can be offered a sedative medication, (Intravenous Sedation or IV) or ‘gas and air’ (Relative Analgesia). Both treatments leave you feeling relaxed and although you are still awake you are unconcerned by your surroundings and recovery time is quick.

Now, while I freaked out 17 years ago while using that crazy laughing gas, I will gladly use it again. The place I'm going to tomorrow doesn't have it, but they said after our initial appointment, they can always recommend me to their other locations where they give people the meds.

I plan on getting through tomorrow by taking 3-38 tablets of Valium, and by bringing my iPod. They better let me listen to my fucking iPod. It's mainly the sounds of the drills that bother me, so, if I make it clear to them that THEY BETTER FUCKING NUMB ME ENOUGH and BETTER FUCKING LET ME BLOCK OUT THE NOISE WITH SOME HEAD AUTOMATICA....I think everything will be okay.

I wonder if they'll let me bring in Sock Monkey for comfort.

Wish me luck. If I die, you guys can sort it out with Iain which of my possessions you'd like. I don't have much, but it's all yours. Dirty underwear and all.

Here I am!

I took a little blog hiatus, as for the past couple weeks I didn't really have anything other than gratuitous amounts of bitching to offer on the internet...so I just kept my mouth shut, and my fingers far away from the Compose link.

I take myself too seriously in my own head and heart, the last thing I need to do is to puke it all up in a post, and have my inner bashing and Emo moments of shame published online.

That's what my frantic emails to my old therapist, and midnight phone calls to my imaginary friends are for.

However.

I had a lot of strange, yet utterly fantastic, things happen to Iain and I this week. I find myself either laughing hysterically or crying in disbelief that we have finally reached this point in our lives, and have actually arrived at this stage in our "Ultimate Plan To Take Over The World"™.

Last February, I was still waking up at 3:30 every single morning, making Matcha green tea lattes, and wallowing in a pit of long distance relationship despair. (I was also suffering a suspicious elbow injury which I later figured out was probably do to all those late night "special phone calls" to England, but that's beside the point.)

My head was full, my heart was heavy, and my stomach so anxiety ridden that it was constantly angry with me for only feeding it espresso, taco bell, and croissants; thus causing it to seek revenge by giving me horrible cramps and numerous fits of constipation, or its counterpart, diarreaha. (Isn't sharing fun??!!!)

Throw in a bit of sexual harassment from my customers, a boss that hated me, and the never ending fretting over how the hell I would-

A) Afford the move to England
B) Quit my job without my Boss slicing my throat and beating me to death with spoiled Frappuccino mix
C) Explain to my mother that I was moving to England...like for reals.

Never mind everyone asking me where I was going to live,

("With my Internet boyfriend! DUH!)

Where I was going to work,

"Um...I have a couple of ideas."

(...Which actually meant: "Fuck no. All I know is I'm getting the hell out of this place, and never making someone a 'Ven-tay, 'atra Crrramel  Frappachacha' ever again...ever!")

And what kind of Visa I was getting,

"Um, a Working Holiday Maker's Visa...well, I should be getting that anyway. I'm just waiting to hear back from the Consulate"

....Which I did a few days after I sent my application off:

"Dear. Miss.CupCate. Your application for Working Holiday Maker Visa was denied, as you are a US National, and are therefore NOT PART OF THE COMMON WEALTH."

What I thought 'common wealth' meant when I read over the initial application, I'll never know. My ($200) bad.

How I lived through the stress, judgement, disapproval, and disappointment from others regarding my move, I really don't know. Well, I do, actually. It was probably due to my blind faith that everything would work out, Iain's practical planning, and the fact that we could no longer be apart from each other.

We were actually at the point where if we had to be separated for one more month, we would sell all our possessions, buy a small house boat, and live along the canals of Amsterdam. By day we would juggle and recite beat poetry to tourists (Iain's mad crazy on the bongos). And by night I would do nude interpretive dances to Iain's "Afro Celt Sound System" CD in the Red Light district...

Thankfully for us, and sadly for Amsterdam, it never got to that point.

Considering that our online romance originally sparked while I was flaunting myself under the name Adzurro on MyForeignBride.com (I think it was my offer to "take in lover man who presend me apartment in spa plase of egypt" that hooked him), marriage was always in our plans. **

When I moved over to England, I had just over $1,000 in my US  bank account -er- make that £500 due to the US Dollar's incredibly astounding strength as a currency! Thanks Georgie!

Iain and I knew that until I could get a visa that allowed me to work, we would be living off of dented cans of chicken broth and boiled pots of rain water.

That's just how it was going to be.

However, the thought of financially depending on Iain, and having to ask him to buy me tampons every 28 days was so traumatic that the idea of shaving my head and assaulting innocent vehicles with golf umbrellas seemed totally plausible.

I was an independent woman! The shoes on my feet? I bought 'em! The car I was driving? I bought it! The watch I was wearing?? I bought it! Cuz I depend(ed) on me!

If I wanted to go out to dinner, buy an appetizer AND a dessert, and then go to a movie....I could totally afford it.

But no. Not any more.

The shoes on my feet? He bought 'em. The house I live in? He bought it. The clothes I'm wearing? He bought it.

Cuz I depend on him.

(All the ladies! Who are Dependent! Throw your hands up at maaaaaaeeee!)

Iain and I weren't exactly thrilled with the idea, as he's had past partners do the, "Oh I'm sorry, when you said that we would both have jobs, I thought that meant that my 'job' was to sit at home all day coloring and writing haikus about Xena ...." thing. While our poverty situation was based on the fact that I could not work because it was THE LAW, it was still difficult for me to have to depend on him, and to be draining our financial funds, rather that contributing  to them.

My god, the things we have learned about patience these past 10 months...

We've learned that you cannot force things to happen against their will, or speed time sensitive processes that are  simply that: time sensitive.

We've learned to accept our financial situation. We don't like it, as, well,  it makes EVERYTHING hard.

Not having money makes everything panicky.

Gah! The cat has fleas, we can't afford to take him to the vet!

Blarg! Does my tooth hurt? I think my tooth hurts. Holy shit. We can't afford the dentist!

And then I would lay awake at night imagining having to take our cat to some backstreet vet from Compton who's office consists of an ironing board used as a examining table and keeps his medical instruments in a tool box...or having to knock out my tooth with an ice skate like Tom Hanks in Castaway.

I think my worst moment was when my STUPID ASS FUCKING BANK (Washington Mutual) decided that July 3rd would be a good day to charge me $75 worth of "International Cash Withdrawal Fees", which depleted my account. Why is July 3rd significant? OH Washington Mutual FUNNY you should ask! July 3rd is significant because it was 2 days before Iain's BIRTHDAY and I was buying him his fucking birthday present. Needless to say, I cried in front of the cashier, all the way home, and then to the cats.

Never mind my HOME MADE birthday gifts, or Iain's self-paid Christmas gifts from me, there are also the effects it has on your own entertainment, social life, and self-esteem.

I'm almost ashamed to admit it, but one of the greatest financial obstacles I've had to overcome would be having to start a new life, make new first impressions, and try to give off my impression of who "Cate" really is to my new community....without any of the usual suspects.

For example...Starting a new year at school always involves shopping, doesn't it? Buy a new binder, new backpack, new glasses, new shoes, new tops....this is the NEW ME, and every accessory and possession must represent that.

Our accessories tend to define us, don't they?

Our appearance, our clothing, our fashion tells a story about us.

How many occasions do we run out and buy a new dress, T-shirt, or complete outfits for?

Job interviews, cocktail parties, dates, weddings, birthdays, Fridays, bad days, dinner parties, award ceremonies, meeting the parents, travel days....

I've had to go through every single one of these occasions, and let me tell you, our bank account hasn't exactly let me go shopping for them. "Recycle, re-wear, reuse!" has been my motto. And it's been fucking difficult.

I've had to make my very best impressions be about ME.

I haven't had a new manicure or haircut to make me feel empowered at a job interview.

I haven't had that new, sexy dress to surprise my husband with on his birthday.

Not even the new, posh sweater to help me "feel sassy" when walking into a room full of new people.

I've had to try and repress those, "God, I'm wearing the same jeans as I did last time I saw them, and I hate this stupid shirt that I've worn a thousand times..." feelings that I used to convince myself that I was ugly, unattractive, and therefore unworthy of everything.

Around the time I wrote my "Real Beauty" post I had a meltdown in our local Starbucks (Yes, that was me in the corner crying into my chai) because I thought I needed a hair cut. I needed new jeans. I said I needed a new shirt, a dermatologist, a gym, a house full or organic lowfat hippie food, new shirts, new underwear, a new bra, etc, etc. Basically, the message I was sending Iain was,

"Hand over your credit card and let me buy and fix everything wrong with my wardrobe, body, face, and hair. Money will fix how ugly and fat I feel."

I never actually said that. But my message was basically, "Money will fix how ugly I feel about myself." He offered to get my hair done, cut out our already limited funds so I could join a gym, take me shopping if it would make me feel better.

 I stopped crying. I looked at him. And something snapped,

"No, thank you, sweetheart...but no. If it's not my hair, it would be something else."

And it would. All of the money couldn't turn off the negative, horrible things I was telling myself.

I then told myself that if I couldn't feel pretty and good enough about myself in my old jeans, Converse, and worn out tshirts...then there's no way I could feel beautiful and worthy of love even if I were wearing the Burberry Prorsum dress of my wet dreams.

However, on the same token, I'm starting to learn that just because you're leaning on the "our credit card debt is large enough to fund a small country" side of things...doesn't mean you can't enjoy life.

Iain and I don't have a TV.

Truth be told, we'll like to have one, and will have one when we can justify spending the money on a TV license...

But we talk to each other. We go for walks, because HEY! walks are free.

We still go out for drinks, even if we can't afford it, because Iain and Cate going more than 1 week sober = getting the shakes, cold sweats, and severe hallucinations.

("Honey?...Do you hear the bagpipes? Is there a man playing bagpipes in bathroom?")

We've tried to focus on the future, and that this stint of surviving off of one income is only temporary.

However, as level headed and accepting as we've tried to be of our situation, it's caught up with me the past two weeks. Probably, because I knew the end was near.

'The end' meaning that our second round of 'Will she or won't she get deported?' would be happening in the form of our  appointment to get my Spouse visa.

This appointment was scheduled for this past Friday, and considering what a hot fucking mess our last appointment in LA was, we weren't exactly all warm and fuzzy with the idea of going in front of yet another UK government official and having him decide the fate of our lives.

However, this time, I didn't get us lost, or break out in hives, NOR did I have diarrhea! (high five!)

In fact, we were so prepared, and on time, and organized that I feel like I could now teach a "How To Stay In The UK As A Foreign Bride" class.

The whole process only took 2.5 hours, and unlike last time when they practically demanded a blood sample and pound of flesh...the only documents they asked for were my application, our passports, and our fucking marriage certificate.

That's it.

The immigration officer -who I love dearly and plan on sending a naked Christmas card to- was efficient, quick, and didn't treat me like the Ukrainian Bride Con-Artist.

Amazing.

And now, here I am, a legal UK resident who can stay for 2 years (after which I can apply for settlement) and...

I! Can! WORK!!!!

Me! I can work now! I can work and make moneys and buy things and pay bills just like a real grown up!

And I can even stay up as late as I want!

We just sat there staring at my visa.

"Dude. You're a resident, now."

"Dude. I know. I can like...work."

"You can buy things!"

"Holy fuck...I can buy my own tampons...."

Of course we're excited that I can stay here legally for the next tour years...but I CAN BUY MY OWN TAMPONS, NOW!!

The ultimate glory of all this is that I actually have my new gig all set up!

As of late, I've been doing some oober freelance  writing/blogging (I think the legal term would be 'Volunteer Writing') for the lovely folks at Shiny Media, who found me a few months ago on Vox, and were like, "Hey, do you want to write for us?" to which I was like, "Dude!  Totally!.......As long as I don't have to make you Frappuccinos!!!!...Wait, I can't actually work yet. How about I work for free for a couple months! Cool?" and then we laughed, high-fived, and did a super secret handshake.

How super neat is that?

They have saved me from said head shaving and the "umbrella on car" action I described earlier, and I like contributing to their blogs <<<<<<THIS MUCH>>>>>>>>>.

So now, I'm trying to wrap my mind around having a grown-up writing job, being a freelance writer, and now doing things like going to swanky awards ceremonies in Soho, drinking free wine, and being asked to accept a Shiny Award on behalf of Vox.

(No really, you guys will get your award. Sure it looks nice on my coffee table, but I swear! You'll get it!)

I even have BUSINESS CARDS.

Okay, I may have had business cards before, but these say "Freelance Writer"....not "Assistant Manager/Coffee Master/Espresso Wench".

The only problem is, is that basically, my brain and psyche like to do this really cool thing where I like to tell myself that I'm a horrible, undeserving, useless, worthless human being when anything good happens to me.

Hmmm, maybe this would be because ever since I was little I was given the impression from my "supportive friends" that if I did anything deemed praise worthy -such as getting all 'A's, being the lead in the school play, or never getting detention- that I didn't deserve it, must have cheated, and was an unworthy, greedy, miserable bitch.

...And that NO I wasn't going to be invited to Shannon's birthday sleepover.

Now as an adult, I have this whole "I don't deserve this" complex and can often be heard moaning, "SHANNON! INVIIIIIIIITE MEEEE?!?!?!!" in the night...

However, it's ironically getting better as my successes become greater, despite the counter affect of my "supportive friends" getting greener and faithful "out for blood" haters (kisses to y'all, by the way) become more psychotic.

The beginning of this new week, marks something wonderful. It's the end of the "emotionally trying but positively influential" prologue, and the beginning of the REAL chapter one.

Our second month of marriage, my first month of pay, and the end of dented cans of chicken broth.

And now we can finally buy the cats new shoes!

** I kid, I kid. Marriage was in our plans because I was a knocked up. I somehow convinced him it was his, so then he decided to marry me. Sucker.***

***Seriously, though. We met on MySpace. I wasn't really knocked up. But, for some reason, he really did want to marry me. Go figure.