Category: First-World Problems
This would be the category in which I bitch about my ridiculously privileged life.
Unsure of Everything
I watched a robin die this morning.
Maybe a robin. I’m not good at identifying birds. At identifying anything. Trees, flowers, feelings, appropriate mates.
Redford was barking at the ground. I thought, “That’s about right.” But when I went out into the yard, there lay a flickering, floppity robin, its mouth opening in quick, wide yawns. I shooed Redford away and ran inside to get some Saran wrap. I didn’t have any rubber gloves, and I had heard that birds carry disease. Did I hear that? Maybe. Maybe I made it up.
I covered my hand in the plastic and picked up the bird. Its body was warm and weighed nothing. Nothing. How does an animal survive when it weighs zero pounds, zero ounces?
Its bird friends shrieked at me as I took it out of the back yard and placed it on the mulch. “I have to get ready for work,” I thought, but I stood there in my bathrobe, in my driveway, watching its beak open and close.
When I was eight or nine, I watched my cat Scratch (sister of Patch, of course) do the same thing. A speedy CRX came around the blind curve in front of my house and tagged her. She sprinted out of the road, which made me think she was OK. But when I followed her, I found her lying behind a tree, mouth opening and closing.
What is that? Why do animals do that? Will I, when the time comes?
Anyway, I watched a robin die today.
It wasn’t a very good day.
Protected: How Old Would You Guess This Guy Is?
Agita
It’s been more than two weeks since Violet’s meniscus surgery. Sixteen since her ACL surgery. I’ve had her cooped up in the spare bedroom for four months, and she’s been beleaguered by the Cone of Shame for, it seems like, forever.
And she’s still limping.
It would be one thing if she were limping in a different way, if it looked like a recovery limp. But it doesn’t. Her limp looks EXACTLY the same as before I spent close to five grand, and many moons wringing my hands, and before I consumed whole days’ worth of calories in minutes. Which is what I’ve done pretty much every day for the last six weeks. (Because if your only tool is a hammer, the whole world looks like a nail. My only tool is overeating, so all my problems look like they could use some pudding.)
I’m getting a little…what’s the word?…
Vexed.
Perturbed.
Disquieted.
Edgy.
Goats and monkeys!
Remember When I Said I Was Handy?
Previously, on the Avid Bruxist blog, our heroine had bought a new gas-powered motor because she had allegedly killed two electric mowers in five years (we’ll get back to that part). She had hesitated at buying a machine with a pull-cord because pull-cords that, when pulled, don’t result in engines starting make her throw a goddamn rod.
Her brand new mower had revved up like a dream the first time, and she mowed to her heart’s content….
Then came the second time.
Goats and monkeys! Fuck if that thing wouldn’t start.
Now it’s possible that my shed is a little cluttered. And, when putting away the mower, I may or may not have struggled to find room. So it could be that I sort of picked up the back wheels and set them on top of the broken electric mower. And if I did all that, perhaps I left it like that—slanty—for a week or more.
When I took it out to start it, not only would the motor not crank but some semi-viscous liquid began dripping out of a part that didn’t look like it should have any semi-viscous liquid dripping out of it.
I called my brother-in-law, who swooped in with a screwdriver and can of
What had happened was, when I supposedly left the mower tipped up like that, oil spilled into…I don’t know. Whatever. He got it started.
AND he picked up the carcasses of my electric mowers to see if he might tinker ’em back into shape. Turns out, the more recent one just had a whosie-whatsit popped off its anchor, making the ass end drag on the ground. No wonder it was so hard to push. E re-attached it, and it was good to go. The older mower, well, he took off the blade and it looked like
Yeah, I may have hit a tree root. Once or twice. And a rock. Perhaps a coral reef.
And I guess I had taken the blade off at some point? Because it was installed upside-down. That’d make it run a little rough, I suppose.
One time I was visiting my dad at his office, and a colleague of his said, “When it comes to technology, your father has the opposite of the Midas touch. Everything he comes in contact with turns to shit.”
I’m feeling remarkably like the Scott paterfamilias right now.
I Gave at the Office
I’m going to be 36 in September. Let’s say I meet someone tomorrow. We do the dating thing and discover, miraculously, that we’re perfect for each other. That would take—what?—minimum a year, right? Let’s pretend he proposes, and we plan our wedding. That’s another year. And then imagine that I’m Fertile Myrtle, which I’m not convinced that I am, and I conceive on our wedding night. Grant all that, and I’m going to be 38 when I have my first child.
Now, let’s say I don’t meet him tomorrow. Or for another year, or two years, or five years, or ever. Which is totally plausible, because there’s clearly something very, very wrong with me.
How long do I wait before I have kids? I don’t really want to be a single mom, but I don’t want to be an ancient mom, either. And it’s not like I wouldn’t have help. Last year, when I was in a relationship and had that random 6-week stretch between periods, and I called my sister to freak out, I could hear her smiling over the phone. “…I’d help you raise it!” she cooed.
And yesterday at brunch, I saw this dude. Guy I’ve known casually for years. He doesn’t even live in Durham anymore, but he comes back frequently to visit. He’s fucking gorgeous. An artist. And he gives hugs that make your panties fall off. I thought when I saw him, as I have many, many times in the past, “I want to have his babies.” If I could whisk his sperm and my eggs together, I think the result would be a ridiculously cute tan-skinned artist/writer baby omelet.
You may be wondering, if I like him so much, why I don’t just ask him out. The answer is, I kinda did. A few years ago, I basically told him I was gonna make him my boyfriend, and he was totally flattered and ultimately just not down with it. I don’t know. One of my friends says he has some relationship baggage, but most likely he just didn’t find me attractive.
But he’s clearly got some phenomenal genes, and if I could get ahold of some of them and a turkey baster….
How would he react if I asked him though? Two friends of mine, a lesbian couple—no, not them…not them either…not them either…jeez, I have a lot of lesbian friends— Anyway! They’re trying to start a family. They thought about going to a sperm bank but decided instead just to ask a friend who they thought was really awesome to donate. He said he would do it gladly.
But is their friend the exception? Would most men be into it? Or would they be uncomfortable, or horrified, or upset?
So this question is for the dudes out there (and I know there are so many of you who read this blog):
How would you feel if someone asked you to be their sperm donor?
Feel free to answer anonymously.
Protected: Because Your Wedding Was All About My Chafing Issues
Million Dollar Baby
Violet was such a rock star during her ACL surgery. Even though she came out all bruisey and swoll and pitiful, she was a total tough guy.
The surgery went well. They removed the torn ligament and implanted a metal plate into her knee with screws. No breezing through TSA checkpoints for my pit bull!
She came home, I doped her up as much as possible, and she seemed to be getting better.
And then she wasn’t.
Maybe it was when that neighbor dog was loose and jumped on her; maybe her brother knocked her ass-over-tin-cups while I wasn’t looking; maybe…I don’t know, could be anything.
When I took her in for her follow-up, the vet student took one look at her and said, “Yeah, she shouldn’t be limping at eight weeks.” Could be three things, they told me. Plate breakage: unlikely, because she would have been in a lot more pain. Torn meniscus (which would require more surgery): well, no telltale clicking, so probably not. Osteoarthritis: most likely, due to all that extry bone she grew trying to stabilize the joint. They sedated and manipulated and x-rayed her. The prescription: anti-inflammatory drugs and cross your fingers they work. If they do, then it’s osteoarthritis, and it’ll be chronic but she won’t need to get sliced n’ stitched again.
After a few weeks, she was still gimpy. I called one of the surgeons. “Do you hear a clicking?” she asked. No, thank goodness. “Just keep giving her the Rimadyl and call us back in a couple weeks.”
Last weekend, we went up to Boone to cheer for Wa as she ran a marathon. Saturday morning, I gave the dogs some breakfast, and we were out the door to hit—our very favorite—Swift’s Hill before heading over to the race course. As soon as we stepped out the door, Redford off the leash, Violet on,
kuh-POK,
kuh-POK,
kuh-POK.
That. Was Violet’s knee.
When I spoke to another surgeon on Monday, he said it was most likely a torn meniscus and that they had a cancellation on Tuesday. They could evaluate and, if need be, surgerize her on the same day.
Tuesday morning, the doc talked baby-talk to her as he pulled her leg back. Kuh-POK, it went. Surgery then.
This operation was less aggressive than the first, and because it happened within the recovery period, they would just charge me anesthesia and administrative fees. Surgical costs were waived. So it was only $1,200. Ha!
And I just got the pink slip at work. Which is not as bad as it sounds. The early allocation numbers are done based on last year’s enrollment, and my school is going to have way more students next year, so my principal is “very confident” I’ll still have a position. And of course, I was planning on leaving this job in a year anyway. But still. Timing.
Money, man. I know it’s fiction, but it feels like truth.
Thing is, I was talking to this dude after Violet’s first surgery and he said, “It’s great that you’re doing that for her.” I cocked my head. He continued, “A lot of people would just put her down.”
!!!!!
WTF?! No! That had never even occurred to me!
I guess he’s not the only one who thinks that way. My neighbor stopped by yesterday. He asked how much Violet’s surgery was and when I told him $4,700 so far, he said, “I’d put my kids down for that kind of money.” That was pretty funny.
More Power!
Last Tuesday, I looked on the CrossFit Durham website and found that the owner had scheduled a Painstorm. I’d list the elements here, but suffice to say it was Lift a Bunch of Shit Over Your Head Until You Can’t Anymore Then Do Fifteen Rounds of Some Other Crap Then Lift the Same Shit Over Your Head Again.
I decided to mow my lawn instead. Little did I know I’d have a Painstorm, mostly psychological, of my own.
See, for years, I owned
I had two of these mowers, actually. Kilt ’em. Kilt ’em both dead.
The reason I had gotten electric instead of gas-powered was I wanted to reduce my carbon footprint.
Lies.
In truth, I got electric because yanking on the cord of a mower that won’t start makes me want to put a foot through somebody’s ribcage.
But after I broke two electric mowers in five years, I decided I would really be ecologically conscious.
Lies again.
In truth, I was just being cheap. I bought
Every blade of grass gets cut using only human energy! Problem is, human energy is crap. I mean, it would cut, but not very much and certainly not anything high. I have a special mixture of grass and weeds in my yard that proved too much for the Silent Scott. I’d go over a tall weed—it would flatten out under the blade and pop right back up to full salute.
Every time he saw me out there grunting behind my “mower”, my 70-year-old neighbor insisted on lending me his self-propelled beast of a gas-powered machine. But I was terrified I’d hit a rock or a stump and mess up his blade, or worse.
So Tuesday, after work, I put on my Big Girl Panties, stopped by Home Depot, and picked up
The cheapest one they had, natch. It came mostly assembled. All I had to do was attach the handle and the rear wheels and add some oil. I’m handy. I had no problem with the mower.
I did, however, have a problem with
“Just turn, and click—you’re ready to go.”
Lies.
In truth, turn, and click, and nothing comes out. Turn the other way, and click, and still nothing. Turn really forcefully, and curse at it, and click, and nothing. I must’ve messed with that thing for half an hour. And it was starting to get dark. If there had been a ribcage around that didn’t belong to my dogs, my foot would’ve been through it. I finally poured the gas into a glass measuring cup and transferred it to the tank.
I mooshed the little rubber button to get the gas to flow in, held my breath, and yanked on the cord. Raaarrrrrrr! It started up on the first pull! But it was cutting REALLY SHORT. I realized I needed to change the level of the wheels. Because I’d bought the Piece of Shit model, there was no lever to change the height. I had to take off every last wheel and reattach them in a different hole. Argh.
First wheel, done. Second and third, done and done. Fourth…fourth…fourth. Won’t. Come. Off. I was using the only tool I had: plier/wire snip combo thingy. I knew my neighbor would have a wrench or something, but I was afraid it was too late to knock on his door.
Lies.
In truth, my pride was saying, “You don’t deserve those Big Girl Panties! Turn the fucking bolt!”
After 20 minutes, I told my pride to shove it and tromped over to my neighbor’s house. Sure, he had an adjustable wrench. Even better,
That bolt came loose like nothing.
I’d like to say that I adjusted the wheels and mowed and everything was wine and roses. Truth is, two of the wheels kept falling off as I mowed. I had to keep stopping to reattach them, and one of the washers got lost in the process. At this point, it was 8:45 or 9:00, dark. My neighbors probably thought I was on meth.
But that grass got mowed! Those weeds got chopped! And I missed remarkably few spots considering that it was dark as pitch when I finished.
So what did I learn and gain from my Painstorm?
Adaptabililty…gas can nozzle doesn’t work? Use something else.
Humility…I should’ve asked my neighbor about 30 minutes earlier for the wrench.
Economics…spend the extra twenty bucks to get the adjustable mower.
Physics…I need to buy a pair of vice grips.
Wisdom…that sage of sages, Tim Allen, was right: sometimes you need more power.
A Shot of Tequila and a High Five
I remember, after seeing the movie Amélie for the first time, having a conversation with someone, probably my mom, about how we should re-watch it every Sunday night before we had to go back to work on Monday. I know exactly jack shit about cinematography so I’m not sure how Jean-Pierre Jeunet rendered the colors that bright and the soundtrack that poignant and the characters that sublimely flawed and the story that enthralling and delightful. All I know is I walked out of the theater all teary and smiley, repeating “Bredoteau! Bretodeau!” in a distinctly Le Pewian accent to myself, wanting to go out and live life! Do good deeds! Find love!
Last night, I decided to watch The Road.
So the opposite.
I mean: enthralling story, yes. But Jesus. I wanted to crawl into my bed and pull the covers over my head. Which I did. But before I did, I checked Facebook one more time and saw the news of Osama’s bin Laden’s death.
Some people were rejoicing (“Bin Laden is DEAD!!! Rot in hell you dirty piece of shit!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”). Some were sober (“No death is worth celebrating.”). Some questioned others’ Christianity (“Christians, we have been called to live a life that is pleasing to Jesus Christ. How does harboring so much hate glorify our Lord and Savior?”)
My first reaction was surprise—I never thought we’d get him—followed by relief, that this guy who orchestrated a movement that has killed thousands finally got his. And then I had a little Toby Keith moment, where I was like, “And at the hands of the Amurricans goddammit!” I shook that off but quickly realized this little operation would greatly increase Barack Obama’s chances of getting re-elected in 2012. So I posted something like: “Ten years. Obama ftw! Seriously, men and women of the U.S. Military and Commander-in-Chief Obama, I’m awed.”
Of course, what followed was quotes from MLK Jr.: “Returning hate for hate multiplies hate, adding deeper darkness to a night already devoid of stars. Darkness cannot drive out darkness: only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate: only love can do that.”
And videos from Ground Zero and DC, where people were straight up celebrating, and it reminded me of the footage from Muslim countries around the world, of crowds rejoicing as the Twin Towers collapsed. And I thought, “What are we doing?! We’re doing the same thing we found reprehensible!”
The horror of The Road, combined with the ambivalent feelings I had about the assassination, made for some pretty extraordinary bruxercising for me. I woke up this morning and felt like someone had punched me in the ear infection. That’s right. Like I had had an ear infection and then someone punched me in it. I ground my teeth so hard that my jaw’s still all tender on the left side.
I was grumpy all day. One of my students was doing everything in her power to be my Buddha, and my uterus started causing me my monthly strife. I ate too much. Carbopalooza. I got home to find Violet’s limp not any better than it was yesterday. The WOD kicked my ass. And not one of you, MY SO-CALLED FRIENDS, had told me that my nostril hair had gotten completely out of control.
Downtrodden.
But then my friend (the one I quoted at the beginning of this post) updated her status to: ok, y’all: i get and agree that the death of any human, yes even osama bin laden, is not to be taken lightly, and that his death marks the beginning of yet another period of uncertainty, but before we get all “spiritual” and “now, now kids…”, i think we as americans, and for fuck’s sake definitely our troops, deserve a shot of tequila and a high five. we can go back to being “the better person” tomorrow…
It wasn’t Amélie, but it sure made me feel better.