The Luddite versus the Megabyte

“Great news!” the email from my CPA’s assistant informed me.  “We’re going green and paperless this tax season!  Click here to download and print your necessary forms at www.blah, blah, blah”.

Hmmm...

“Register online to receive your W-2 forms from this payroll company!” another email reveled joyously; who too, had apparently jumped upon the save-a-tree bandwagon.  “Click here!” I was prompted to access the website and divulge all of my personal data including my social security number to be transmitted to God knows where (a “cloud”?), so as to minimize paperwork.

(Yeah, NO.)

But by the third letter in my email inbox regarding the extraordinary importance of all things digital from yet another source (of EIGHT previous employers!) who blissfully track my Residual checks for payment of re-run television episodes, and who were equally lauding the vital preservation of paper (versus the protection of my private information?), I was prompted yet again to “click here!”; visit a website, set up a user name and create a password.

Again:  yeah, NO!

As I’m currently the possessor of a list of nearly fifty disparate (unrelated) websites with passwords (that aren’t even actually WORDS); handfuls of security question answers in case I have a “senior moment” (seriously, I had to think for a second to even recall what I ate for breakfast yesterday); not to mention a gazillion different user names (none of which I can remember without a cheat sheet), I chose to “click THERE” and simply turn off the computer.  

Granted, this Luddite (me) started this blog in a quiet effort of trying to make sense of the world as it pertains to my moderately eccentric, occasionally neurotic and rather unusual life in the “glamorous” world of Tinsel Town; but frankly I don’t ever recall clicking a hearty universal “OK!” as to the approval of scattering my personal information regarding every single penny (if you will) that I’ve ever earned, all willy-nilly into megabytes across the stratosphere of the internet for any bored hacker to access after he or she has lost at a multi-media role-playing game and would like to tap into my finances to digitally purchase ogre-repellant armor for their fierce warrior ostrich avatar.

Yet facing the rather undeniable and formidable future of the ridiculous technological crappy hoops that we are all apparently destined to jump through , I chose to take a step back and looked scholastically to the past for guidance.

“Our new Constitution is now established, and has an appearance that promises permanency; but in this world nothing can be said to be certain, except death and taxes.”  ~Benjamin Franklin (1789).

Granted our ‘new Constitution’ in the USA of “Reality TV” and “Non-Fiction” programming has most certainly taken over the air-waves (an unfortunate amendment to my personal delicate dietary constitution of ingesting quality writing/acting/directing);  additionally I’ll likely have to continue to slam on the brakes of my car (even though I drive like a slow-poke granny) as throngs of ear-budded pedestrians mosey like utterly oblivious cud-chewing cattle whilst jay-walking/texting with no regard to their personal safety; and yes, worst of all for a Luddite like myself, at some point in the future, I suspect that I too, will have no choice but to be Borg-like assimilated as a cybernetic organism into the Collective, as apparently “resistance is futile”.  (Hey, my aversion to current technology has absolutely nothing to do with my love of watching old repeats of “Star Trek:  The Next Generation”!)

But by golly, as an eternal optimist, I still felt that there existed a few Luddite battles well worth fighting for!

>>><<< 

Conceding to a potential “middle ground” of the Luddite versus the Megabyte, I surrounded myself with all due necessary paper documents as to my legal claim regarding my rights as a temporarily laid off Actor with the Unemployment Department. 

“If all of the other out of work people in California can figure this out, I can do this too!” I rallied my spirit as I attempted to complete the online EDD form from my home laptop.

I’d logged in successfully!

I’d found my World Wide Web Official history of existence and employment!

I was sooo on my way to completing said form! 

Only TEN more pages to go (after half an hour) of confirming the initial questionnaire that I’m indeed a US Citizen; no, I’m not involved in Military Service; no, I’m not a primary share holder in a major corporation; nor I am not currently attending school, nor am I an ‘illegal alien’ (I’m not yet a cybernetic Borg!), when suddenly I found myself abruptly stymied by Page Five regarding my income...

Hmmm...

Yes, I got paid by Sony Pictures.  Yes, I received multiple checks from NBC Universal.  But where was the little computer online box to record that I haven’t physically worked on those shows for eight (or twenty) years or even visited those Studios?   And where, oh where might I find a teeny tiny two-space block wherein to reply that yes, I received income from a previous on-camera performance on a cable show, wherein I was ostentatiously compensated for the whopping amount of seven cents?  (Yes, that would be BEFORE taxes, of course.  The US Government took three cents.  No joke!)

Quite frankly, I was loathing this whole Internet ‘meshugas’ once again. 

And so yet, with another defiant “click THERE”, I shut down the computer and unplugged every cable.

Perhaps there are some battles that you just can’t win...

But by golly, this Pen would still attempt to be mightier than the sword of the Megabyte, darnit!

So in true dramatic Hollywood fashion, I went Postal!

>>><<< 

Wandering about my CPA’s website the next day, I finally found a “Contact us!  Click here!” link (FFS); and promptly alerted the assistant via email that I’m still a stead-fast Luddite; sans scanner, sans printer; and if they wished to continue my yearly business since 1991, they would most necessarily appropriately print out my designated paperwork and kindly forward said proper documents through snail-mail.

Additionally (not particularly sure when I grew a set of menopausal metaphorical testicular balls), I brazenly attempted to tackle the Unemployment Office via landline all the way to Sacramento, CA to open a new claim with the EDD; as despite my Bachelor’s Degree from an accredited University, I’m still apparently too phenomenally digitally-stupid to accomplish the task on my own.

“Do you have any disabilities?”  I totally lucked out with the world’s most patient Government employee “Sarah”, who gently guided me through the process for the next forty-five minutes over my landline telephone.

(Do I have any disabilities?  Umm... Would that include technological challenges?  Am I ‘disabled’ when my tablet suddenly refuses to send an email, yet promises that all information is either stored in an inaccessible outbox or on a “cloud”?  Or am I ‘disabled’ when my laptop opts to take a nap, and spins an endless visual wheel cog whilst I sit for twenty minutes?)  

“I wear prescription glasses and occasionally contact lenses”, I thought it best to confirm to Sarah, lest the Government fine me an additional three cents.

>>><<< 

With my (ever-so-reluctant) appointment rescheduled (four times over) as to the appropriation regarding the technological up-grade of my landline and laptop to fiber optics by a complete stranger re-wiring my bat-cave, I steadfastly ponied up the street for a chocolate shake (with whipped cream!) and brought home a Swiss cheeseburger with french fries to properly sturdy myself as to the oncoming futile resistance...

After all, I wholeheartedly deserved a reward as I’d accomplished a preliminary extraordinary week of tidying, dusting, vacuuming - as well as Dirt Deviling obscure areas - and by all accounts, I’d achieved the perfectly designed, properly desired, Hollywood façade of successfully disguising my (in this case, “house-keeping”) less than-ideal flaws. 

And thus, sans the red carpet, sans the paparazzi, I welcomed (fifteen minutes of fame early!) my very own Oscar into my Tinsel Town abode.   (OK, seriously?  What are the infinitesimal odds that for the second consecutive year during the week of the Academy Awards, The Universe presents me with an “Oscar” in a supporting role of upgrading my home?  Pinch my cheek, and call me Meryl Streep!)   

Spelunking with his bald (just like the golden statuette!) bright head-light above his full beard (not at ALL like the golden statuette, but very rock-n-roll Hollywood) as he explored every cavernous nook and cranny of the clusters of my inner-sanctum dust-bunny walls and closets in search of phone jacks, I sat rather anxiously on my pristinely covered bed as my award-winning Oscar casually tossed half of his cable equipment from the bowels of his service truck onto my comforter.  (My retinas are still burning from the visual assault upon my beloved Sanctuary...)

“Do you mind if I move your dresser?” Oscar asked politely as he propped open a drawer and hefted my heavily-laden firmly-implanted 1988 “Brobdingnagian” behemoth of a bureau away from the wall.  (Uck!  I didn’t even want to THINK about what he might find lurking behind that particular curtain of Oz!) 

But two hours and forty-five minutes later, having escaped the possibility of drilling a hole through the wall behind one of my regal bedside lion sculptures poised upon its Corinthian column, and with only a staple gun to secure my fiber-optic cable running from an outlet in my hallway up and over the door, right through some seriously fierce dust-bunny congregations (Hello?  Who looks up there?  Had I known, I would have Swiffered!); Oscar firmly affixed and relocated my land-line to a better and more secure location closer to my new (second) “wireless” computer modem.

>>><<< 

Frankly, this Penny is rather uncomfortable with “change” (pun intended), but I’m truly (slowly) attempting to adapt to the new Constitution of Technology.
Don’t get me wrong kind readers; I’m certainly not racing out to purchase a smart phone any time soon as I’m still ridiculously befuddled by the world of data plans, megabytes, fiber optics and what-not; nor am I in any rush to leap into the baffling world of social media.  (God love you all, but to each, his own!) 

And granted, it totally sucked that whilst loyally Luddite-ishly tearing out a crossword from a perforated Simon and Schuster book of 300 challenging puzzles, I suffered a wee paper-cut on my pinkie...  (TRAITOR!) 

But at least I managed to complete all of my snail-mail tax forms, joyfully drive to the US Post Office, and with Certified Mail ensuring my vitally secure signed-for delivery; my eventual refunds shall be successfully processed and electronically deposited into my checking account sans any further “Click Here!” promptings.

And as to Oscar?

Well, I’d like to thank the Academy of fiber optics, as I just discovered that for the first time since 1988, I have “call waiting” on my landline!  (I don’t yet know how to properly use this feature, but perhaps eventually I can assimilate?) 

Forever bordering tentatively on the collective Borg,

~One Penny of the Millions

P.S.  Logging on this morning, I was joyously surprised and happily overwhelmed to discover that a similar post to this one (that I published two years ago in January titled “OOOGH!”), had received over a hundred hits in just one day last week from somewhere in Europe.  Thank you, my fellow Luddites!  We shall neither be ashamed nor admonished for feeling digitally-challenged! 

Oh Bother...

 

“But his arms were so stiff ... they stayed up straight in the air for more than a week, and whenever a fly came and settled on his nose he had to blow it off. And I think – but I am not sure – that that is why he is always called Pooh.”  ~A.A. Milne

With the majority of my beloved sit-coms down from production for the Holidays, I lumbered Penny-the-Pooh-like into my yearly den of hibernation for a long winter’s nap. 

As Mother Nature commands before such a state of metabolic inactivity, I’d fed shamelessly and relentlessly from Craft Services on my last show, pawing and devouring as much free hearty food as possible at every catered meal, complimented by the inhalation of a variety of pies, cakes, cookies, cream puffs and brownies for desserts.  (There were actual CREAM PUFFS!)  And with my tummy nice and round for the seasonal slumber, our last sit-com already picked up for another run (again – no guarantee of steady employment for me), but never fearing that work will always come, I did my best to ignore the creepy little canker sore under my tongue...

“This is a prescription for an oral paste” the gentlest Dentist whatever lived finished his butterfly-like inspection of flitting wispily around inside my mouth.  “Just apply it with a Q-Tip at night, and it will form a nice barrier for the sore to heal” he assured me. 

And fifty bucks later at the pharmacy, he was quite right!

Well, for a week or so...  Until...

Waking up at 2:00am with bright red spittle on my pillow and face, I “calmly” called the phone service to see just when my Dentist would be available in the office that morning.  “I’ll be there at 8:00am” I ever-so professionally informed them, Spock-logically prepared for nothing more than maybe an antibiotic, refusing to let my anxiety get the best of me.

After all, I had plenty of time to hop in the shower, put on some make-up, style my fabulous ponytail, select my wardrobe and sit quietly for FOUR MORE HOURS.

Oh, bother...

But there were more tasks I could achieve!  And rather than dealing with the hooker who lives upstairs and parks behind my car, I pulled out a leopard print change purse, and counting out quarters, I made certain that I had enough bus fare for a ride to the Dentist (maybe two miles down the Boulevard), a jaunt to the pharmacy if need be, a secure amount of coinage to ensure my arrival home, and just to be on the safe side, an extra $1.75 for any error in metro miscalculations if necessary.

Additionally, I’d recently received some sort of new-fangled missive from my Insurance company for ordering prescriptions on-line (I think), but not knowing for sure whatever importance the cut-out thingy might entail, I promptly pulled my wallet out of my purse and added it to the Las Vegas hand of medical cards that I’ve been dealt of late.  (Did I win?!  Is that a Royal Flush?!)

And so I sat quietly and “calmly” for another three and a half more hours.

...OK, BLATANT LIE!  My mouth was still full of bright red spittle, my anxiety was peaking and I’d already begun to mentally write my last will and testament!

>>><<< 

“Let’s have a look, shall we?” the once again gentlest Dentist whatever lived used his gossamer fingertips to peer as possibly unobtrusively at my newly formed multiple canker sores under my tongue.  “Oh sweetie, I’m afraid you’re going to have to see an oral surgeon...” he sighed despondently.  “Can you do that today?” he fretted, genuinely rueful that he was unable to help me.

“Yes of course” I nodded.  “Bring him in here!” I cheered, already exhausted from the morning and more than happy to just lay there like a lump.

“No, no, no, he’s in Beverly Hills.  Shall I call and see if he can squeeze you in today?”

“But, but, but, I came here by bus...” I whimpered.

“He can see her right away!” someone from the inner office piped up whilst holding the phone.

>>><<< 

And thus Penny-the-Pooh was destined for yet another unwelcome adventure...

>>><<< 

With a reliable cab company on the contact list of my NOT-smart-phone, I piled into the taxi for a ride into the zip code of the rich and famous. 

To be sure, there exists a certain amount of “entitlement” in Beverly Hills if you will, and perhaps my utter fatigue had propelled my inner self-preservation to a higher level than I’m generally accustomed to. 

Why, I was literally chauffeured to the surgeon’s office! 

I was hand-delivered to the building by my driver!   

And wallowing sanctimoniously in the fact that I possess a credit card with which to scuttle my royal highness ass to and fro, I unzipped my purse to compensate my charioteer only to discover that my wallet was nowhere to be found...

Oh bother...

FUCK!!! 

(Please forgive my obscenity, but sometimes, there are no more appropriate words.)  (And thank God, that my Mom always insisted that I hide a twenty dollar bill somewhere separate inside my purse!)

“I don’t have my wallet with me” I explained Un-Spock illogically to the oral surgeon’s receptionist, suddenly panicking that perhaps my twenty gazillion pound wallet had somehow been miraculously pick-pocketed during metro transit.  “But here’s the card from my Dentist with his notes.  I’m sure that they can vouch for who I am and my insurance” I mumbled, curling up most unpleasantly into a teeny tiny ball of nerves in the waiting lounge.

But with the opening of the door, and a rather officious “we have an appointment for him”, the matriarchal wife indicated her rather annoyed husband in tow; oddly, I suddenly didn’t feel quite so nervous.

“May I please have his photo ID for our records?” the receptionist asked pleasantly.

“Photo ID” the wife elbowed her hubby, who harrumphed loudly at the entire intolerable process. 

“I’m standing right here.  Take my picture if you need it” he Spock-logically suggested.  (My hero!)

And having been led into a Dental Chamber of Doom for whatever fresh hell awaited me, I couldn’t help but tune in to the sounds of the nurses leading my Hero to a separate room. 

“How tall are you?”

“How tall am I?  I'm five foot four”.

“Do you know your weight?”

“Of course I know my weight.”

“Can you tell me your weight?”

“Yes I can” he snarked.  “What, do you need my shoe size too?”

>>><<< 

As luck or The Universe would have it, I’m delighted to report that my wallet was indeed at home (*whew*), I was rescued by a friend who was able to give me a lift back to my apartment (nothing like being stuck somewhere in the heart of Beverly Hills with only eight dollars in your pocket, FFS) and I’d even successfully made a follow-up appointment with the oral surgeon for a CT scan and possible surgery. 

But as the surgeon was running hours behind on my return visit with his paws in someone else’s gaping maw (yikes), the staff and I managed to achieve two more tasks – one being my CT scan (I don’t care how heavy that leaden x-ray apron is, I still almost managed to Houdini my way out of the room!); and two, being the successful uploading of the movie “Airplane!” from Netflix onto a wide screen TV to keep me cheerful!

Until...

Muting the movie as “Dr. Giggles” entered the room (someone really does need to create a “sarcastic” font because the man has NO sense of humor); I listened patiently to my prognosis and gaped in awe at the 360 degree pictures of the insides of my head.  With a circle and a swipe on the computer, my spinal column (well, my neck) disappeared; another circle/swipe and my nose had been erased (insert obligatory Hollywood rhinoplasty joke here) and with some fancy-schmancy finagling of every angle of my teeth, Dr. Giggles confirmed my rather common condition of having “Torus”.

“No, I’m a Capricorn” I attempted light-hearted humor; the response to which was nothing more than stoic blinking.  (Geez!  Talk about a tough audience!)

Yes, apparently, “torus mandibularis” is a bony growth in the mandible along the surface nearest to the tongue which occurs generally on both sides of the lower part of the mouth.  “It’s a simple procedure.  I’ll just slice open your gums and sand down the bones.”

Wait, whaaat?

“You may also have an infected tooth, but I won’t know for sure until I get in there.  If I have to pull it I will, but we’ll just do a bone graft if need be.  Okay, I must go back to surgery now” he deftly tossed his latex gloves into a bin and vanished into thin air as a nurse led me into an intimate consultation room.

“Would you like to go over everything one more time for clarity?” the nurse asked, as apparently my pea-brain was sort of visibly spinning.

But with my insistence of the typing of a signed waiver that my parents can call and ask any questions that they need to; meticulous note-taking of all possible procedural activities; a rough financial estimate of costs lest my insurance carrier doesn’t approve the surgery, and somewhat calmed by the fact that nothing invasive would occur that day (I’d ingested no food or drink for eight hours lest I might be put under sedation) I slurped down two bottles of water in the office, contemplated a hearty (yet SOFT!) rewarding dinner for my bravery and asked only two more questions.

“So can you show me what Torus surgery looks like?” I queried “calmly” as the nurse had already logged on to her computer to print out my legal waiver.

“NO, NO, NO!  Don’t look at THIS page!” she squealed as I nearly threw up in my mouth at the visuals.  “Here!  See?!  Just a few simple stitches, warm salt water rinses and you’ll be all better in just a few days!” she reassured me serenely.

“OK then” I Spock-logically regained my composure after I stopped hyperventilating with my head between my knees.  (I’m not particularly proud of such moments, but we’re all human, and sometimes we falter. Still, I choose to own these experiences, even if they’re not necessarily the societal norm.)  “No bother” I nodded ever-so Penny-the Pooh calmly, supplicated by the nurse in the Hundred Acre Woods of Beverly Hills. “So, last question just out of curiosity?  Where does the bone graft come from?” I wondered most innocently and secretively if there existed some manner of unmentionable epoxy in “Area 51” that genius scientists had rendered in a laboratory from aliens wherein of which one not dare governmentally speak.

“Oh, that would be from medically donated cadavers”.

Wait, WHAAAT???

>>><<< 

According to my lifelong Fortune 500 Executive friend RJ (who blissfully shares my macabre sense of humor) and who was savoring a cocktail in a hot tub somewhere at a New York casino, clearly I’ve been asking all the wrong questions...

“Do you get to select your cadaver?  Can you decide if you want a dead man or woman?  Do you get to know the person’s name?  I’d want to hand pick just who’s going to be in my mouth” he asserted duly and forthwith.  “For the love of God, I had to special order the turkey chili for dinner!  And what if they pour some dead guy’s bones into your gums who liked sushi?  You don’t eat sushi!”

“True!” I chimed in.  “But I’d never eat another meal alone for the rest of my life!”

>>><<<

To date of publishing this post, I’m holding off on the oral surgery pending my insurance.  And with the approval of my oral surgeon that I’m permitted a soft (not just liquid) diet of soup, I’m gnawing cheeseburgers once again relentlessly.  I’ve too become an addict of milkshakes from my local Fatburger (yes, I DO want whipped cream on top, thank you very much!) which entail 910 calories and 45 grams of fat and wicked delicious chocolate frothiness; but with gauze in my mouth nightly so as not to irritate anything and lots of warm salt water rinsing, I choose to believe I’m on the mend!

As to the surgery, I suppose I will eventually have to have the Torus (Tori plural?) removed, but certainly not without a second opinion and/or financial comparisons of oral surgeons who are not located in the heart of the wealth of Beverly Hills. (Yipes!  It’s an immediate ten dollar co-pay just to walk into the Suite!)

And as to my beloved sit-coms, I’ve been pre-booked for a pilot on a cable network, scheduled somewhere around the last week of February or beginning of March; all hopes being that the Writers from one of my previous shows will find great success and I can hop on their gravy train for a few years at my favorite Studio!

As always, thanks for popping by kind readers, and I’ll do my best to extricate my head from of the “hunny” jar and get back to writing more frequently.  Sincere apologies for not keeping you posted, but sometimes, you just have to unplug!

Wishing you all a prosperous and healthy New Year,

~Penny-the-Pooh-Toothed-Bear

"Don't Speak", Quoth the Actor

Having inserted quarters three times over in a desperate attempt to score an icy cold can of “diet cola” (that highly resembled a trademarked Diet Coke) from a vending machine on the back lot at a film studio on one of my first days of work in Hollywood, I wasn’t about to back off my attempts at retrieving said caffeinated beverage, despite the barely inaudible giggling of a rather crusty Hollywood old-timer covered in paint who seemed ridiculously amused by my misfortune.

“You DO know that that’s just a prop machine, young lady” he wheezed, snuffing out his cigarette on the sole of his heavily treaded boot. 

“Yes of course!” I nodded with all due manner of tut-tutting and proper wrist-denials of ‘pshaws’.  (I may have been fresh-from-the-turnip-truck naïve, but I was well-armed with a plethora of extraordinarily arcane vernacular such as “pshaw” loaded for bear!)

“Why, who could possibly be that gullible?” I queried palms-up to the painter as I sucked in my chin stupidly whilst bobbling my head overly-dramatically (secretly searching for an ounce of dignity apparently abandoned on the turnip truck). 

“I mean, duh?!” I think were the last extraordinarily erudite words that tumbled unceremoniously out of my mouth.

Yeesh.

Four and a half years of higher education in the USA and abroad, and all I could come up with was “duh”.

Humiliated?

Check.

>>><<< 

“But, but, but, “words”  have always been my “go to”” I explained Spock-logically decades later to a friend of mine who sat ever so patiently waiting for me to temporarily shut the f**k up.

“Back in the day” I rambled on like a finger-wagging point-making elderly geezer sans the paint on my clothes, “I bonded with my very first Stage Manager who would shout out my name haphazardly at any given moment, only to compare our answers in the daily crossword puzzles!” I presented my puny plaint quite judiciously.

“Um-hum” my quiet listener replied respectfully, rising up in a rally to meet my eye, yet sinking back into her chair as I blathered on relentlessly.

“Why, on one sit-com in particular a decade and a half ago, I was blessed with the extraordinary power to call out to an actual  Executive Producer for queries, who, by the way, had an actual personal assistant race up to the offices for internet access should the EP and I be baffled by a ‘variation’ of an arcane answer!”

“I’m sure you did, prior to everyone having a smart phone” my friend tolerantly placated me.

“And did I mention too, that not only do my fellow multitudes of Crew members still solve crossword puzzles today?” I continued self-righteously.  “We share a fiercely tacit understanding as to the complexities of deciphering cruciverbalist constructions, wherein there lies a palpable accomplishment of personal achievement without said digital cheating” I perfunctorily, professionally and rather petulantly buttoned my ‘etui’.

“Anything else?”  I heard a snort; naturally assuming I was in the beloved presence of one of my High Horses (although somewhat taken aback that one of my spectacular ponies suddenly spoke English.)

But as my High Horses tend toward maintaining an aura of strength and silence (albeit the occasional whinny) when randomly appearing to arrive to my rescue, I snapped out of my self-indulgent pity-party to listen patiently to the advice of the acquaintance to my left who had obsequiously taken my hands as a measure of comfort from a confidante.

“Penny, I love you, but I’m just going to say the thing you need to hear, and then you can hate me if you want to.  You’re a freaking open book.  You tell people everything, and like it or not, people don’t really like that.”

Wait, whaaat?

“Everybody has their extraordinarily well-protected dirty little secrets in this town, and you just parade yours around shamelessly like it’s a freakin’ badge of honor.  And I gotta say, your blatant openness may make others feel, well, how should I put it, extremely uncomfortable.”

Hmmm...

And so, once again, this “One Red Cent Trying to Make Sense” was plummeted onto a crossroads, sans warning of the possibility of an actual train wreck.

Now, having my relatively unknown deep, darkened personal space on a Google blog location somewhere in the depths of the Internet netherworld, I’ve always embraced this sacred place where I could share thoughts, secrets and true personal honesty. 

Like every other humanoid toddling about the planet I’m FAR from perfect, and quite frankly, I’ve become enthralled by the camaraderie of absolute strangers visiting this page, who maybe too, just suffered a totally crappy day and out of the kindness of their hearts will send me an email from all over the world.

Ergo, if I’m capable of bringing at least a smile to one of you somewhere in The Universe, then by all means, I’m going to fight for my voice here!  

However, as to my friend’s advice?  Yes, for a solid month, I chose to shut the f**k up.  (Not particularly an easy task for a blabberer like myself!)

>>><<< 

“Can you open your mouth any wider?” Mimi, the Hygienist scrunched her forehead as I attempted to spindly weasel my way toward the exit and out of the dental chair.  (What can I say?  It’s an extraordinary gift that I inherited from my Dad’s side of the family.)  “I can’t take the x-rays if you’re going to keep squirming, my dear!” she offered patiently.  “Can you just gently bite down here?” she asked pleasantly as I lost grip of the instrument of the mechanical apparatus gauging my gums whilst Mimi trotted over to the computer.  “Okay then!” she chimed happily to the Dentist, whom after one full hour, could only provide 13 of 18 successful x-rays.

“Let’s have a look then, shall we?” he smiled before pulling up his obligatory mask.  “Good hygiene, your gums are fine, no cavities, your teeth are strong, bonding of veneers looks okay too, but you do have some serious staining on the top right tooth” he nodded, creepy hook-shaped metal gizmo in hand .  “You DO need a deep-cleaning.  You’re plaque is 6 millimeters deep, and that’s a threat to periodontihominahah which entails obligatory “scaling” and “planing” of the deep root tissue to prevent the loss of blah, blah, blah, periodentihominaha...”

(I mentally processed absolutely nothing after eyeballing the crooked tool shank...)

“And just where do you think you’re going?”  he asked gently as I once again attempted a desperate eel-like exit strategy half way down the chair.

(Yes, yes, yes, I’m a bad patient.  Sue me.)

>>><<< 

“So, here’s the list of everything the Dentist suggested” the Office Manager delineated my statement, reviewing my charts and providing me with the financial responsibility of my Insurance carrier vis-a-vis my actual checkbook.

Hmmm...

“As I’m officially unemployed over the holidays, can we NOT buy the Cadillac before Christmas?” I asked, negotiating my way into nothing more than the somewhat terrifying but necessary “scaling”.  (Insert visual of catching actual fish off the pier at our lake house where I grew up.  Blechh!)

“Yes of course!” the Office Manager beamed.  “Just initial here, and here, and here, and here and here.  The last one is the nitrous oxide” he winked sublimely.  “And by the way, there’s a ten percent discount if you pay in advance.”

Well slap my ass, give me happy gas and call me Sally!

>>><<< 

I suppose that hard-learned lessons are a day-to-day experience.

1.  I’ve only had one quadrant of my teeth deep-cleaned, with my next visit to the dental practice appropriated to the entire left side; scheduled to endure  a two hour period of relentless scraping.

2.  “Happy gas” is well worth the investment if you’re a spindly expert escapee like me who can slide out of any medical chair, but they DO gauge the breather bag thingy; and properly “pshaw” you if you don’t breathe entirely through your nose.  (I was soooo half out of that room before they caught me!)

3.  Should you choose the nitrous oxide and topical numbing agent, be sure to run a finger over your teeth four hours later after you think that you have successfully gnawed your dinner.  I myself was surprised to dislodge an entire meal of kale salad with butternut squash and sliced almonds, as well as a hearty portion of potatoes au gratin that I thought I had adequately chewed. 

Additional note:  whilst kale salad may be extraordinarily beneficial health-wise, it’s just plain creepy if it’s visibly dangling from a frontal incisor.

>>><<< 

Nevertheless!

I was still quite intent at repeatedly, professionally, keeping my mouth shut aside from extraordinarily performing to the best of my ability at work.  With only two weeks left of guaranteed employment, I understood far too well the importance of sharing my deepest, darkest secrets with only true friends. 

(Again, this was a difficult lesson for a blogger, as words generally allow us to vent!)

>>><<<

Unfortunately, no one bothered to mention this to my moderately menopausal carcass, which quite literally has begun to speak for itself...

Sure, my newfound activities involved some surprising unpleasant bodily functions – the most surprising to me being that should my allergies kick in with a random sneeze, so too does my ass abruptly choose to fart in agreement.

Awesome.

Where I once could have won an Olympic gold medal for hard-core sleeping, I now find myself in an ongoing war of night sweats, a constant battle of forever feeling cold, yet blasting my air conditioning around 4am lest I give in and change my t-shirt for the third time as I’ve become an award-winning sweaty puddle, emanating fantastic odors of my dinner the evening prior.  ("Had some garlic last night, did ya, Pen?") (But I showered!!)

Excellent!

And despite laying wide awake at any given hour listening to an infomercial recommending an actual nightgown for equally sweaty ladies, I logged on to the poot, credit card at the ready, only to be assured that the website didn’t actually exist.

But Heaven forbid we should discuss such things!

>>><<< 

The more I think about everything, the more I feel the need to regain my Voice.  And so, despite some uncomfortable bullying in my tiny niche of the netherworld, I’m choosing to officially take back this page on the internet.  As I stated, I'm far from perfect, but by all means, I’ll keep writing here so long as you ever-so patient visitors allow me to do so, and I cannot possibly thank you enough for your kindness.

>>><<< 

“You needn’t report tomorrow, but you must call again after 5pm yet before Midnight’ the automated server informed me before clicking into a dismissive dial tone.

And this is precisely why I love The Universe and Its unfathomable Sense of Humor.

Yes, kind readers, for this entire week that shall encompass Christmas and my Birthday, I’m on call for Jury Duty!!!  (And before you need to ask, yes, I've stashed a crossword puzzle in my purse!)

~Wishing you Happy Holidays and a very Merry Christmas, Juror P