We already have a pretty good scope on the depth of my overall immaturity but my attitude toward professional dental care would require construction equipment. I have declared publicly that I would rather endure the trials of labor than visit my dentist, who, by the way, is a friendly and patient man with a penchant for the latest and greatest innovations of his field. There are few things more thrilling than watching a mold of your own tooth being carved right in front of you in a 3-D printing machine. It would come in a close second to sorting my kitchen storage container lids.
Dentophobia is the least of my countless ridiculous afflictions. Toss claustrophobia and agoraphobia into the neurosis blender and you end up with quite a nutty little concoction. My self-esteem probably wouldn't be able to handle all the notes scribbled in my dental file. But the staff handles my childish anxiety with such professional care and compassion that I have had to interrupt my wild sobbing to instruct them to continue whatever awful procedure was being conducted at the time.
Just getting me into the dental chair is a major victory. The office staff are very persistent and inventive, employing every tracking device known to man to find me. I had no idea the accuracy of google earth extending to finding me, cowering, under my desk at school. Impressive.
Yesterday's visit was accompanied by the usual amount of whining and foot stomping. But, to my delight, yesterday's visit also signified a possibly ground-breaking shift in the way I feel about getting my teeth professionally cleaned. My dental hygienist, Michelle, a well-read woman with a wicked sense of humor, puts up with a lot from me and yet tries to remain positive. It's tough given my severe gum sensitivity that inevitably results in oral hemorrhaging. The relaxing, body-contouring dentist chair does not inspire me to lounge comfortably during procedures. I have two positions: fetal and the arched-back/pointed-toes/hands-clenching-the-arm-rests position. The very sight of dental floss curls my toes.
But yesterday, rather than lament the inches-thick build-up of plaque; rather than anticipate my blatant lie responding to her question regarding the last time I'd flossed (I love Ellen DeGeneres's response to that question: "Religiously...Christmas, Easter..."), rather then bemoan the fact that I'd waited months to report my broken/abscessed/missing tooth, Michelle instead implemented the "self-fulfilling prophesy" strategy. "What are you doing differently, Amy? Your teeth look great," she remarked enthusiastically. "You must be rinsing, right," she asked, not giving me any verbal maneuvering room in which to lie. By the time I left Michelle's care, I felt like the bravest, prettiest, more dentally-responsible patient in the whole world. This was the first time that I left a dentist office not feeling like a completely irresponsible loser incapable of understanding the writing on my toothpaste tube warning me against ingesting the contents. I felt great! This was the first time I've left the dentist office not dreading the next time I would have to return. That's progress. This just proves that a little sugar isn't all bad. Look what being sweet accomplished.
Wednesday, March 26, 2014
Tuesday, March 25, 2014
One more word about Russell Stover Chocolate Marshmallow Bunnies
Ok...one more word on the Russell Stover chocolate marshmallow bunny. As you may already know (if you managed to make it through my last ridiculously long blog submission), my friend, Amanda, at my request, is good-naturedly holding my cache of candy hostage. So today, when I hurried down to the opposite end of the school building to visit her (and my bunnies), I was unprepared for what accompanied my arrival. Waiting until I had happily by-passed the second marshmallow-filled ear, Amanda gently broke the news. "After today, there are only four left." I flew through the five stages of grief in about five seconds flat. Amanda had pre-planned for the accusations and blame stage by having carefully documented the distribution of each rabbit. As a result of the hyper-fit I threw today, that was accompanied by some pretty unforgivable language, my signature will now be required prior to future disbursements. "I'm sorry, Amanda. I didn't mean to call you all of those names," I apologized later. "I know," she replied softly, "It was the grief talking."
What was I going to do? The answer came to me, ironically enough, later that day in the dentist chair. I ventured into the neighboring Rite-Aid and perused their impressive selection of Russell Stover products. Disappointed but determined not to leave empty-handed, I headed over to the candy bar section. I was pleased to see Skor bars (another difficult to track down treat). Sharing this small victory with the cashier, Arlene (my Rite-Aid Well-Being Ambassador), she responded by congratulating me before asking if I had found everything I needed. "Well, actually, Arlene," I confided, "I was really hoping to find Russell Stover chocolate marshmallow bunnies but you didn't have any." "Yes we do," Arlene responded, already heading out onto the store-floor. "No," I said, certain that I was right and unwilling to allow even a ray of hope to seep into my heart, "Russell Stover chocolate marshmallow bunnies wrapped in blue foil." "Yeah," Arlene, my Rite-Aid Well-Being Ambassador, yelled over her shoulder, "Over here."
And there they were. Arlene, my Rite-Aid Well-Being Ambassador, and I stared at the generously-filled box of blue foiled-wrapped Russell Stover chocolate marshmallow bunnies sitting on the shelf like they'd been waiting just for me. I wrapped Arlene, my Rite-Aid Well-Being Ambassador, in my arms in a heartfelt embrace. Words weren't necessary. Then she left me alone with my thoughts and my bunnies. I had already formulated a complicated equation to address how many bunnies were necessary for purchase. My magic number was seven. My four existing bunnies would see me through the remainder of this week. I have seven school days before I depart for Paris. As I was starting to develop a bit of a "bunny belly," I planned to use my ten-day trip to Paris as a sort of cold-turkey (cold-bunny) rehab program.
I approached Arlene, my Rite-Aid Well-Being Ambassador, who was waiting at the check-out counter with my Skor bars, carrying my carefully calculated eight bunnies (one extra for when I wasn't under the watchful eye of Amanda). "Why don't you just buy the whole box so your bunnies won't get crushed." asked Arlene, my Rite-Aid Well-Being Ambassador, who was also obviously concerned about the well-being of my bunnies as well. And that's how I ended up buying fourteen more Russell Stover chocolate marshmallow bunnies. Don't worry, by this time tomorrow, thirteen of those little guys will be safe in the hands of Amanda.
What was I going to do? The answer came to me, ironically enough, later that day in the dentist chair. I ventured into the neighboring Rite-Aid and perused their impressive selection of Russell Stover products. Disappointed but determined not to leave empty-handed, I headed over to the candy bar section. I was pleased to see Skor bars (another difficult to track down treat). Sharing this small victory with the cashier, Arlene (my Rite-Aid Well-Being Ambassador), she responded by congratulating me before asking if I had found everything I needed. "Well, actually, Arlene," I confided, "I was really hoping to find Russell Stover chocolate marshmallow bunnies but you didn't have any." "Yes we do," Arlene responded, already heading out onto the store-floor. "No," I said, certain that I was right and unwilling to allow even a ray of hope to seep into my heart, "Russell Stover chocolate marshmallow bunnies wrapped in blue foil." "Yeah," Arlene, my Rite-Aid Well-Being Ambassador, yelled over her shoulder, "Over here."
And there they were. Arlene, my Rite-Aid Well-Being Ambassador, and I stared at the generously-filled box of blue foiled-wrapped Russell Stover chocolate marshmallow bunnies sitting on the shelf like they'd been waiting just for me. I wrapped Arlene, my Rite-Aid Well-Being Ambassador, in my arms in a heartfelt embrace. Words weren't necessary. Then she left me alone with my thoughts and my bunnies. I had already formulated a complicated equation to address how many bunnies were necessary for purchase. My magic number was seven. My four existing bunnies would see me through the remainder of this week. I have seven school days before I depart for Paris. As I was starting to develop a bit of a "bunny belly," I planned to use my ten-day trip to Paris as a sort of cold-turkey (cold-bunny) rehab program.
I approached Arlene, my Rite-Aid Well-Being Ambassador, who was waiting at the check-out counter with my Skor bars, carrying my carefully calculated eight bunnies (one extra for when I wasn't under the watchful eye of Amanda). "Why don't you just buy the whole box so your bunnies won't get crushed." asked Arlene, my Rite-Aid Well-Being Ambassador, who was also obviously concerned about the well-being of my bunnies as well. And that's how I ended up buying fourteen more Russell Stover chocolate marshmallow bunnies. Don't worry, by this time tomorrow, thirteen of those little guys will be safe in the hands of Amanda.
Saturday, March 22, 2014
The most that has ever been written on the topic of the Russell Stover chocolate marshmallow bunny
This a tough time of year for me. It's Russell Stover chocolate marshmallow bunny time. We go way back, that blue-foil bunny and I. Nearly two decades ago, my friend Joan and I stumbled upon the after-holiday sale to end all after-holiday sales. There, left carelessly in a mall corridor, were metal baskets packed with Russell Stover chocolate marshmallow bunnies...for twenty-five cents EACH! Surely, this couldn't be real. It was the equivalent of getting Apple stock on the ground floor. Giddy with delight, Joan and I lugged our loot out to the car. We reminisce about that magical day often.
For the cynical among you who view all chocolate as the same. First of all, and please don't take offense, but you're idiots. You obviously have a slab of liver flesh for a tongue. Those of us with a discerning palate such as myself, could talk for hours about the horrors of cheap wax-y pseudo-chocolate. The chocolate on a Russell Stover marshmallow bunny is rich and creamy and cracks when you bite into it. The thick space where the ears meet is my favorite part. And the marshmallow...oh! the marshmallow! I still wear black during 4-H cookie season in memorial of their cruelly-retired chocolate eclair cookies. In fact, let us please have a moment of silence for this great loss: ...............................................................................................
.................................................................................................................................................................
Anyhoo, fellow fans of the 4-H chocolate raspberry eclair cookie (Hold on, I'm tearing up again) will immediately understand when I say that the Russell Stover marshmallow bunny's filling is comparable in texture and density to the 4-H chocolate raspberry eclair. The marshmallow is packed tight and spongy yet still maintains a delightful airy quality. Should one delicately nibble off all the chocolate from a Russell Stover marshmallow bunny, the marshmallow shape would relentlessly retain its noble rabbit shape. It is the perfect Spring-time treat but is often difficult to find after that first magical encounter twenty years ago. Fortunately, Wegman's can always be counted on to carry this limited seasonal snack but WARNING: there exists an alter-ego: the Russell Stover chocolate-flavored marshmallow bunny. When one is anticipating an original Russell Stover marshmallow bunny, it comes as rather a rude and devastatingly disappointing shock.
Both Brad and my friend Sarah have had similar experiences with me regarding the kind and then cruel distribution of my beloved Russell Stover marshmallow bunny, which, if you haven't noticed by now, I refuse to cheapen with an acronym. My loved ones have, in the past, repeatedly purchased mass quantities of the bunnies, not anticipating that my lack of self-control would blossom into self-destructive bunny binge eating. To save me from myself, Brad strategically hid marshmallow bunnies all over the house and watched, horror-struck, when I ripped the place apart. Sarah locked my bunnies in the trunk of her car and heartlessly doled them out like a one-a-day bunny multi-vitamin.
My daughter Sydney and I wandered into Wegman's the other day and while Syd was distracted, deciding on the perfect shade eye-liner ("You left your mother alone in Wegman's during Russell Stover chocolate marshmallow bunny season," her father yelled at her later when he'd discovered what I'd done. Poor Syd's grounded for a month but really, she should have known better), I hopped over to the seasonal candy aisle. A heavenly light shone over the shiny blue foil of my Russell Stover marshmallow bunnies. I'll just take one, I said to myself. But it's like taking one puppy away from its sad little siblings. I couldn't leave them behind. I found myself crab-walking, clutching bunnies like cord-wood, in search of a basket. The conveyor belt of shame was somewhat mortifying as my billions of bunnies followed a health freak's fresh produce and chicken stock (She was making homemade soup, the bitch).
The reality of what I'd done struck me in the truck. Obviously, I would have to hide these from my husband. And I refused to relegate my rabbits to the trunk of some car. They didn't snitch on the mob, for pete's sake. I am an adult, I told myself. I can handle this. So it was, after a sleepless night thinking about my bag of bunnies, I marched all the way to the opposite end of the school and solemnly handed it over to my friend, Amanda with strict distribution directions. "I MUST walk all the way through the school to receive my bunny and I can only have ONE a day," I told her. "But what if you're having a bad day," she asked, making me wonder if she were too soft-hearted for this endeavor. "You have to be strong," I said sternly, taking careful note of where she placed my treats. But she wasn't. By day two, I had successfully whined my way into a double distribution. I am writing this as both will and warning should you not hear from me again. But don't be sad. This is the way I would have wanted to go.
For the cynical among you who view all chocolate as the same. First of all, and please don't take offense, but you're idiots. You obviously have a slab of liver flesh for a tongue. Those of us with a discerning palate such as myself, could talk for hours about the horrors of cheap wax-y pseudo-chocolate. The chocolate on a Russell Stover marshmallow bunny is rich and creamy and cracks when you bite into it. The thick space where the ears meet is my favorite part. And the marshmallow...oh! the marshmallow! I still wear black during 4-H cookie season in memorial of their cruelly-retired chocolate eclair cookies. In fact, let us please have a moment of silence for this great loss: ...............................................................................................
.................................................................................................................................................................
Anyhoo, fellow fans of the 4-H chocolate raspberry eclair cookie (Hold on, I'm tearing up again) will immediately understand when I say that the Russell Stover marshmallow bunny's filling is comparable in texture and density to the 4-H chocolate raspberry eclair. The marshmallow is packed tight and spongy yet still maintains a delightful airy quality. Should one delicately nibble off all the chocolate from a Russell Stover marshmallow bunny, the marshmallow shape would relentlessly retain its noble rabbit shape. It is the perfect Spring-time treat but is often difficult to find after that first magical encounter twenty years ago. Fortunately, Wegman's can always be counted on to carry this limited seasonal snack but WARNING: there exists an alter-ego: the Russell Stover chocolate-flavored marshmallow bunny. When one is anticipating an original Russell Stover marshmallow bunny, it comes as rather a rude and devastatingly disappointing shock.
Both Brad and my friend Sarah have had similar experiences with me regarding the kind and then cruel distribution of my beloved Russell Stover marshmallow bunny, which, if you haven't noticed by now, I refuse to cheapen with an acronym. My loved ones have, in the past, repeatedly purchased mass quantities of the bunnies, not anticipating that my lack of self-control would blossom into self-destructive bunny binge eating. To save me from myself, Brad strategically hid marshmallow bunnies all over the house and watched, horror-struck, when I ripped the place apart. Sarah locked my bunnies in the trunk of her car and heartlessly doled them out like a one-a-day bunny multi-vitamin.
My daughter Sydney and I wandered into Wegman's the other day and while Syd was distracted, deciding on the perfect shade eye-liner ("You left your mother alone in Wegman's during Russell Stover chocolate marshmallow bunny season," her father yelled at her later when he'd discovered what I'd done. Poor Syd's grounded for a month but really, she should have known better), I hopped over to the seasonal candy aisle. A heavenly light shone over the shiny blue foil of my Russell Stover marshmallow bunnies. I'll just take one, I said to myself. But it's like taking one puppy away from its sad little siblings. I couldn't leave them behind. I found myself crab-walking, clutching bunnies like cord-wood, in search of a basket. The conveyor belt of shame was somewhat mortifying as my billions of bunnies followed a health freak's fresh produce and chicken stock (She was making homemade soup, the bitch).
The reality of what I'd done struck me in the truck. Obviously, I would have to hide these from my husband. And I refused to relegate my rabbits to the trunk of some car. They didn't snitch on the mob, for pete's sake. I am an adult, I told myself. I can handle this. So it was, after a sleepless night thinking about my bag of bunnies, I marched all the way to the opposite end of the school and solemnly handed it over to my friend, Amanda with strict distribution directions. "I MUST walk all the way through the school to receive my bunny and I can only have ONE a day," I told her. "But what if you're having a bad day," she asked, making me wonder if she were too soft-hearted for this endeavor. "You have to be strong," I said sternly, taking careful note of where she placed my treats. But she wasn't. By day two, I had successfully whined my way into a double distribution. I am writing this as both will and warning should you not hear from me again. But don't be sad. This is the way I would have wanted to go.
Tuesday, March 4, 2014
A really crappy Tuesday
It's Tuesday. I already told you about Tuesdays, remember? My opinion regarding this traumatizing day of the week was bolstered during today's faculty meeting as my administrator revealed some riveting data pertaining to referral writing. On which day of the week do you suppose the most disciplinary referrals are submitted? Uh-huh...Tuesdays. But this fascinating little Tuesday-related fact-oid is nothing compared to what I encountered earlier in the day.
My 4th grade line had just snaked its way around the corner to line up at the gym door when my 6th sense alerted me that something afoul was afoot. I heard "ewww...," "gross," and "I don't think that's chocolate." My highly-developed inferencing skills warned me to ignore this situation and instead check to see if the vending machine had been re-stocked with Pepsi yet. But I foolishly joined the group of gawking spectators. What I saw repulsed me but I employed every device in my arsenal to outwardly appear professional. There, on the hallway floor, lay a lopsided poop pebble about the size of a walnut. "I'm sure it's just a clump of mud," I said reassuringly. We should have no worries about the intelligence level of this generation because not a single kid in that circle bought it. "Mrs. Mosiman, it's 10 degrees outside," one witness helpfully informed me. "Yeah. And the ground is frozen with snow," a budding meteorologist added. "Well, maybe it's a malformed Tootsie-Roll," I suggested, frustrated, but not really all that surprised, that no other adults had joined this archaeological investigation. Retrieving a tissue, I casually plucked the poop up. The kids stared at me with a mixture of revulsion and respect as I sauntered off after shepherding them into the gym. Once out of sight, I broke into a blind run to rid myself of the package of poop.
What did we learn from this little story? Well...it's Tuesday, for one. Two, this is further evidence that teachers do not get paid enough. And three, this little episode cemented the rumor that Mrs. Mosiman doesn't put up with any s%*t from her students.
My 4th grade line had just snaked its way around the corner to line up at the gym door when my 6th sense alerted me that something afoul was afoot. I heard "ewww...," "gross," and "I don't think that's chocolate." My highly-developed inferencing skills warned me to ignore this situation and instead check to see if the vending machine had been re-stocked with Pepsi yet. But I foolishly joined the group of gawking spectators. What I saw repulsed me but I employed every device in my arsenal to outwardly appear professional. There, on the hallway floor, lay a lopsided poop pebble about the size of a walnut. "I'm sure it's just a clump of mud," I said reassuringly. We should have no worries about the intelligence level of this generation because not a single kid in that circle bought it. "Mrs. Mosiman, it's 10 degrees outside," one witness helpfully informed me. "Yeah. And the ground is frozen with snow," a budding meteorologist added. "Well, maybe it's a malformed Tootsie-Roll," I suggested, frustrated, but not really all that surprised, that no other adults had joined this archaeological investigation. Retrieving a tissue, I casually plucked the poop up. The kids stared at me with a mixture of revulsion and respect as I sauntered off after shepherding them into the gym. Once out of sight, I broke into a blind run to rid myself of the package of poop.
What did we learn from this little story? Well...it's Tuesday, for one. Two, this is further evidence that teachers do not get paid enough. And three, this little episode cemented the rumor that Mrs. Mosiman doesn't put up with any s%*t from her students.
Monday, March 3, 2014
Post-Operative Pain: Part 4-The Final Installment
When we last left our heroine, she was bravely facing surgery...inspiring those around her with her calm, unflinching resolve and quietly harmonious nature. "Lauren, dear," our patient said sweetly, "Could we take a brief detour before proceeding to the operating room?" The surgical nurse granted this request, helping Amy to get to the restroom and exiting to afford her a bit of dignified privacy.
Ok...no windows. Who cares if we're on the second floor and I'm tethered to an IV line? I can shimmy down a drain-pipe with the best of them. I quickly scanned the ceiling for a convenient sliding panel where I could slowly scoot myself along a drop-ceiling pathway. Nope. I was going to have to knock out my surgical nurse, Lauren, and make a run for it. Blast the luck. They used this room as an alternative stock room but the heaviest item in my arsenal were paper towels and toilet paper. My time was up and Lauren was back to guide me firmly back to my chair.
A long-time student of Grey's Anatomy, the operating room came as quite a shock. Where was the viewing gallery where the hospital interns hang out in their spare time. Or, old school, the gallery where Kramer and Jerry watched a surgical procedure while snacking on "Junior Mints" until one of the tiny mint candies gets away from them in a big way and gave new meaning to the word "cavity." My imagined operating room was more narrow than the patronage aisle of "Carlo's Bakery" (which appears MUCH bigger on TV).
I believe that, as my thoughts weren't very far from Jesus at this time, I was inspired to make a biblical connection as my arms were laid out, crucifixion-style and strapped down which didn't freak me out, AT ALL. Dignity and self-respect immediately exited the room and I wept silently. Lauren materialized at my side, apparently forgetting that I had rudely dismissed her earlier offer to pray with me. As she quietly held my hand, I tried to gather my wits enough to ask if she gets paid by the hour because, if so, she should probably at least be wiggling power cords to make sure all the life-saving electrical gadgets were working properly but unfortunately I was crying too hard to form a coherent sentence. Also, I had a death grip on Lauren's hand that would have required the Jaws of Life for any hope of extraction.
Fast-forward to the following Sunday (skipping days of excruciating--for me, anyway...because I am a HUGE wimp--pain) where I tried shuffling frantically away from Lauren who was busy hurdling church pews to get to me. She hugged me and then shared with my family how brave I was. When my family was done laughing hysterically...this took awhile...Lauren then told me what a strong Christian witness I was. Well, that was a stumper. Seeing my confusion, Lauren asked what I remembered during the recovery time following the surgery. That would be a great, big, ol' fat nuthin'. Smiling, Lauren happily informed me that I spent the twenty minutes emerging from anesthesia reciting The Ten Commandments. And that's not all...oh no...not for Amy Mosiman. Not only did I recite The Ten Commandments; I recited The Ten Commandments BACKWARDS. I have to admit, I am oddly proud. If you'd asked me beforehand (thanks, by the way...for NOT asking me beforehand), I would have predicted that I would have been reciting an impressive list of other words not necessarily affiliated with the bible.
So...it's over. This experience has inspired me to never have surgery again. I am addressing my " Monkey Arm" condition holistically. Step One was, despite having had three holes punched in my stomach, re-arranging all the furniture in my classroom so that my right arm would rest comfortably while using the computer mouse. "Why didn't you just switch the mouse over to use it with your left hand instead," Brad asked. "What...so I can exacerbate the other arm," I responded defensively (because I don't know how to switch my computer mouse capabilities). Step Two is to pretend the pain doesn't exist and that everyone is awakened from a sound sleep every night, clutching their arm and crying. Someone who obviously doesn't know me very well (and, SHOCK!, obviously doesn't read my blog) suggested a doctor's visit. Please allow me to refer you to "Post-Operative Pain: Parts 1-4: The Mini-Series." Suggest it again and yes, I'll be happy to recite the reasons why you should keep your medical opinions to yourself.
Ok...no windows. Who cares if we're on the second floor and I'm tethered to an IV line? I can shimmy down a drain-pipe with the best of them. I quickly scanned the ceiling for a convenient sliding panel where I could slowly scoot myself along a drop-ceiling pathway. Nope. I was going to have to knock out my surgical nurse, Lauren, and make a run for it. Blast the luck. They used this room as an alternative stock room but the heaviest item in my arsenal were paper towels and toilet paper. My time was up and Lauren was back to guide me firmly back to my chair.
A long-time student of Grey's Anatomy, the operating room came as quite a shock. Where was the viewing gallery where the hospital interns hang out in their spare time. Or, old school, the gallery where Kramer and Jerry watched a surgical procedure while snacking on "Junior Mints" until one of the tiny mint candies gets away from them in a big way and gave new meaning to the word "cavity." My imagined operating room was more narrow than the patronage aisle of "Carlo's Bakery" (which appears MUCH bigger on TV).
I believe that, as my thoughts weren't very far from Jesus at this time, I was inspired to make a biblical connection as my arms were laid out, crucifixion-style and strapped down which didn't freak me out, AT ALL. Dignity and self-respect immediately exited the room and I wept silently. Lauren materialized at my side, apparently forgetting that I had rudely dismissed her earlier offer to pray with me. As she quietly held my hand, I tried to gather my wits enough to ask if she gets paid by the hour because, if so, she should probably at least be wiggling power cords to make sure all the life-saving electrical gadgets were working properly but unfortunately I was crying too hard to form a coherent sentence. Also, I had a death grip on Lauren's hand that would have required the Jaws of Life for any hope of extraction.
Fast-forward to the following Sunday (skipping days of excruciating--for me, anyway...because I am a HUGE wimp--pain) where I tried shuffling frantically away from Lauren who was busy hurdling church pews to get to me. She hugged me and then shared with my family how brave I was. When my family was done laughing hysterically...this took awhile...Lauren then told me what a strong Christian witness I was. Well, that was a stumper. Seeing my confusion, Lauren asked what I remembered during the recovery time following the surgery. That would be a great, big, ol' fat nuthin'. Smiling, Lauren happily informed me that I spent the twenty minutes emerging from anesthesia reciting The Ten Commandments. And that's not all...oh no...not for Amy Mosiman. Not only did I recite The Ten Commandments; I recited The Ten Commandments BACKWARDS. I have to admit, I am oddly proud. If you'd asked me beforehand (thanks, by the way...for NOT asking me beforehand), I would have predicted that I would have been reciting an impressive list of other words not necessarily affiliated with the bible.
So...it's over. This experience has inspired me to never have surgery again. I am addressing my " Monkey Arm" condition holistically. Step One was, despite having had three holes punched in my stomach, re-arranging all the furniture in my classroom so that my right arm would rest comfortably while using the computer mouse. "Why didn't you just switch the mouse over to use it with your left hand instead," Brad asked. "What...so I can exacerbate the other arm," I responded defensively (because I don't know how to switch my computer mouse capabilities). Step Two is to pretend the pain doesn't exist and that everyone is awakened from a sound sleep every night, clutching their arm and crying. Someone who obviously doesn't know me very well (and, SHOCK!, obviously doesn't read my blog) suggested a doctor's visit. Please allow me to refer you to "Post-Operative Pain: Parts 1-4: The Mini-Series." Suggest it again and yes, I'll be happy to recite the reasons why you should keep your medical opinions to yourself.
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