Are All Princesses High-Maintenance?

The 1989 movie When Harry Met Sally spent a lot of time on these three deep, dark secrets about relationships between men and women:

1. Men and women can't be friends. The sex thing always gets in the way.

2. Women love to fake orgasms. Especially in restaurants.

3. There are high- and low-maintenance women. Note: The movie implies at first that you are supposed to want to be the low-maintenance woman, or at least the medium-maintenance woman with a good repair history.

I was pondering secrets #1 and 3 recently, in the context of wondering if perhaps I had bothered my previous cubemate too much. Example: My favorite pen that had fallen apart. This wasn't an especially a fancy pen or even a sentimental favorite received on a special occasion. It was a nice Pilot with dark pink ink - a color that is less threatening than red if you have to proofread someone else's work.

I asked the nice guy in the cube next to me if he was good at fixing things such as this. He took a look, saw my sad face, and said, "I'll give it a try." After a few minutes' fiddling, my pen was back in business. I profusely thanked my cubemate and then we both went back to work.

About an hour later, I became bored and decided that I hadn't played KnockOver with my cubemate in a while. KnockOver is when he puts unbreakable things on his desk, and I engineer various hooks, probes, and sticks-like devices to knock over just one thing on his desk. He had put one of those stupid "Hi! I'm a stress relieving object from a random consulting company!" objects in plain sight. Game on!

But later that same day, I wondered how much time I spend bothering this poor man. This is the list of stuff with which I have kindly asked his assistance in the past month:

1. Untangle the wildly snarled chain of my pendant necklace. I didn’t have time to put it on at home and just shoved into my pocket.

2. Tell me whether my hair looked better this day or the day before.

3. Debate why there isn’t a phrase for “good afternoon” in his home language. Hey, I'm trying to learn some of his home language for our next trip to India, and "good afternoon" seems to be suspiciously missing if you ask me. Why don't they care if their friends and neighbors are having a good afternoon? The people who speak this language place a VERY high value on manners and etiquette.

4. Pick up cheap tea bags for me at the cafeteria because the 'fancy' Tazo ones tasted like grass clippings and made me gag.

5. Loan me $20 when I forgot my wallet.

6. Tell me whether a particular new hairstyle I attempted should ever be repeated outside my home.

7. Lend me various plastic forks, spoons, knives, salt and pepper packets, and stirring sticks.

8. Tell me that the resulting swelling from my wisdom teeth extraction actually makes me look younger.

9. Fix any number of highly stupid things I’ve done to my computer by accident (such as making my Start bar disappear forever) that I was too embarrassed to call the Help Desk about. I mean, I don't want to get a reputation for being one of those annoyingly high-maintenance customers does ridiculous stuff to ther computer every day... even if that might be true.

10. "So I am trying this new makeup thing that is supposed to cover up dark circles better. Do I look any better rested today [this was during a 2 week insomnia marathon]?"

I'm going to blame some of this on my cubemate. I would never normally pester a male (or female) cubemate about most of this stuff. He had cheerfully offered feedback - thoughtful feedback - instead of some guys, who will just scream, "This is a TRAP!" and run. No, this guy would say, "That is such a pretty outfit. I think it might look really good with the hairdo you had last week when your hair was all straight and you wore one of those headband things." And yes, he's straight as an arrow, and newly married.

I shared this list with my husband. He immediately said, "That guy has my sympathy. Now he knows what it is like to be married to you!"

If I Knew Then What I Know Now...

I would have asked the the oral surgeon pull ALL of my teeth out and then bought some really cool dentures. Then I wouldn't ever have to worry about enduring another painful dental procedure. What if there is a root canal waiting for me out there? I could have to go through this hell -again-.

I am too old to appreciate a diet consisting solely of ice cream and pudding. I hope I don't have a cholesterol test any time soon. I'm way past the age at which chipmunk cheeks are cute.

If I were breaking in a new set of pimpin' dentures, I would never again have to consider, "Can I open my mouth wide enough to eat this?"

But I would also have to give up caramel apples. So scratch the denture idea.

I Think We're Going to India Again

Today, my niece Becky is leaving for a year in India. I'm going to miss her like crazy. Though she lives in Chicago and I don't see her very often, there is something so comforting knowing that this awesome person is nearby. Now she will be several thousand miles away.

In 2006, Becky went to India for 6 months for a study abroad. She studied in Jaipur and did volunteer work in the state of Rajasthan. The focus of her volunteer work was interviewing women in rural desert villages about their healthcare needs.

Since Ross and I love to travel, we couldn't pass such an opportunity up. I have wanted to go to India since I knew it existed. And we just had to go see Becky since she was so far from home. A friend of Ross' was also going back home at the same time for a long visit. We were able to combine the experience of visitng Becky and also traveling with Ross' friend and his entire family to one of the holiest temples in India - Tirupathi.

We flew from Des Moines to Chicago to New Delhi, India. After spending a few days in New Delhi, we took a train to a town near a UN-protected bird sanctuary and the Taj Mahal. Next stop: take train to see Becky in Jaipur.

The last time I had seen Becky was a few months before she left for India. She was this beautiful, brilliant, and somewhat bashful girl dressed in typical American college student clothes. And dare I say she loved to slouch?

When our train pulled into the train station in Jaipur, I saw a confident, tan, blonde, beautiful woman who stood leaning up against a pillar waiting for us. I almost didn't recognize her. She was dressed in a salwaar kameez (the long tunic with baggy pants typical for an Indian woman her age). And she looked like she belonged in that place.

After hugs and hellos, she promptly took us outside the station to find an autorickshaw - imagine a 3 wheeled Jeep without all of the metal that makes you think a Jeep could survive a collision. Becky haggled with the autorickshaw driver over 25 cents just like a good Indian girl should, and off we went to our comfortable hotel. The night before she met us, she had stayed in a one-room hut in the desert with a family. Now she had switched to city girl mode. The girl had grown up on us. I was thrilled to see it.

In the picture above of the two of us, we are in the Pink City in Jaipur, Rajasthan, India. This was the first day I had ventured out in the Indian clothes that Becky had helped me to buy in Jaipur. The scarf worn across my shoulders is called a dupatta. I couldn't figure out how to wear the dupatta gracefully. In fact, it is still a challenge for me. Indian women who have grown up wearing a dupatta always seem to have it flowing around their shoulders just so. I always look as though I am about to choke - if I haven't lost or left it somewhere. And it is immodest not to wear it - which is my way of saying I look like the stereotypical Western whore if I am not wearing the damn thing.

After trying to wear the dupatta with style, I gave up. I realized that first day that the dupatta would win. It was going to end up in a ditch somewhere, or perhaps draped over a cow. I asked Becky to safety pin it discreetly to my shirt.

At that moment, I remembered when I first met Becky. She was about six years old and had come out with her family to visit Ross and I when we were living in Washington, DC. I remember this time with her when we toured DC because she was simply the coolest six year-old kid I had ever met. This was a kid who already loved pickled ginger. She was willing to try a few bites of Ethiopian food. She said hilarious things. She loved to read. She fought with her mom over what clothes she had to wear - no dresses, please. And fifteen years later, Becky was pinning my dupatta on me as though I was the six year-old.

I'm a total sucker for this niece of mine. But at least I admit it.

Becky's trip to India this year will be different. Her first three months will be spent in New Delhi, India. She will be part of an intensive Hindi/Urdu language program through the US Department of State. Then, she'll be off to Jaipur, Rajasthan to work on her Fulbright program. She is going to spend months shadowing what we would call nurse practioners/midwives in the Rajasthani desert. Some of these women have received formal training, and some haven't.

Becky will undoubtedly see things that most people would turn their heads away from in denial. It is impossible to live or visit India without turning your head daily away from things that would break your heart forever if you looked for even a moment. I am sure this experience will change her as much as her previous experience in India brought out her confidence.

Ross and I are planning to do everything we can to visit Becky again in 2008. We don't want to miss a thing.

More fascinating details on Becky's past work in India and what she will be doing during her Fulbright program: http://www.blogger.com/post-edit.g?blogID=5780352420351837532&postID=7392565174999937170

Wisdom Teeth Begone!

I won't say the experience of having my ancient wisdom teeth extracted was pleasant, but it was far more cheerful than, say, decapitation. However, I started the month of November with five more teeth than I have now. And frankly, I think that is significant and that a pity party should be scheduled immediately.

I don't remember much. I sat in a nice chair with a beautiful view. The nurses hooked me up to the laughing gas. And suddenly, I felt so amazing. Who cared about the view? The view must be intended for the staff. Every single nerve in my entire carcass waved in unison like grass in the wind with the most intense pleasure. Why had I been dreading this experience so much? And why don't I go to the dentist for any silly reason and demand this laughing gas stuff at least once a week? That was some really good shit.

If I had access to laughing gas all the time, I would never be able to hold down a job. Ever.

The last thing I remembered is the dreaded oral surgeon poking me in the shoulder like a cow and asking the nurses, "Is she asleep?" They answered no, and then he popped the stupid bite block in my mouth. This time I didn't mind the bite block. It allowed me to relaaaaaaaxxxxx my jaw. And that's when my mind shut down quickly and gave in to whatever happy juice was coming through the IV. I didn't need to squeeze the surgeon's balls or anything.

When I awoke, I demanded to know when the IV was going to be started because I wanted to be sedated - damn it! But it was all over. All I could do at that point was begin fussing about when I could go home. They wanted to keep me because my blood pressure was too low. I didn't want to explain that the low blood pressure was because I was prepared to do anything - including acting dead - if it meant getting more of that delicious laughing gas.

Maybe I will get lucky and a cavity will be discovered during my post-surgery checkup next week?

Did Santa... Change?

Today at work I received an announcement that my office is having a Secret Santa event. I would have just snorted with disgust and trashed the message - if not for the graphic that accompanied the message. Instead, I had to put my head down to hide the snorts and tears of laughter.

Why on earth, at a company that values diversity, was Santa made to look like one of those wretched jockey lawn ornaments? Or perhaps Aunt Jemima after she's had a few too many drinks at the company holiday party? It's a visual slur. Clearly, others felt the same way. The message was recalled five minutes later and was remailed without the graphic. The image itself reminds me of the 'special' Christmas wrapping paper that Alana used to use.

Stumped for Gift Ideas?

I've had a cow, bought the farm, and gone whole hog on occasion. Yet until today, I've never bought anyone chicks.

Yep, that's right. I bought my niece Becky chicks for Hanukah. The fuzzy pecking kind. The kind that grow up to be McNuggets.

If you are struggling to think of a cool gift idea for that person who has everything and says they need nothing, here's an idea:

Heifer International - http://www.heifer.org/

If you have seen poverty first hand in the United States and in Asia, Africa, South America or many other 'Third World' countries around the world, then you will learn a shocking truth: what we call 'poor' here is comfortable middle-class elsewhere. Do you have a car? And an apartment with indoor plumbing? And a TV? And free medical care? Do you get enough food through work, food stamps, and other government assistance? And shoes? And clean water? I don't feel sorry for you any more. A few billion people on this planet would love your life. Step aside.

Heifer's model for economic growth is based on the old chestnut that if you give a man a fish, he'll eat for a day - but if you teach a man to fish, he'll eat for a lifetime.

In this case, the man (or woman) and his family will learn farming skills from Heifer International. The family will learn how to care for the baby chicks. As chicks become chickens, the family will have eggs to eat. And when the family pimps out the chickens to other families with roosters, the flock will grow. Dare I say some of the egg layers might become... food? Mmm, chicken.

This Work Thing Sucks

Even princesses need to work. Among the many freak shows I work with, one particular project manager irks me and has frankly set my crown off center on many occasions. We work together on a doomed project that grows and grows, and never really seems to get ahead.

Recently, this project manager has whined about the number of hours I billed on his project. Fine. I immediately cut back on the hours I was spending on the project, including going to silly meetings that were very boring and a waste of my time. The project manager smirked and was thrilled to see the cost of his project going down. As you will soon see, this was short-sighted.

Today, I reviewed minutes from a meeting I didn't attend and discovered an oopsie: the project team thought there was a major problem that could stop the whole show. If I had been able to attend the meeting, I could have told them that I had resolved the issue quietly two weeks ago. It certainly wasn't worth getting your pores clogged over. I quickly informed the project manager that everything was fixed and everything was fine. And after months of verbal beatings, he finally sent me praise worth of a princess:

"Princess is good, Princess is great and we thank her for her analysis....AMEN!"

Words to the Wise about Wisdom Teeth

I'm displeased about my impending wisdom teeth drama.

I've met the oral surgeon already. The last time I saw him, he was nice. Yet he clearly had no intention to stop cutting, stabbing, or using pliers on me because of this niceness.

This time, I intend to set clearer boundaries.

Communicating those boundaries could be difficult since the surgeon tends to appear after the pre-surgical prep show is over. A patient knows this show is over when your mouth has been stretched into odd shapes and a bite block has been inserted by a cranky nurse. A cranky nurse who has been bitten a few times, but still... an accomplice.

And that is unacceptable, because princesses love to be seen and heard.

Here is my plan: if that doctor irks me again, I will simply lean over from my reclining chair and squeeze his balls. Firmly. I'm going to squeeze his balls so firmly that he will NEVER forget my 12 year molars. Ever.

I believe this will level the playing field.

The Politeness of Technology (and Rudeness of Fish)

I've had many aquariums, and I confess to being impatient with them. I don't want to wait for this or that cycle to be safely established before adding fish. I don't wait until I learn the language thoroughly before I visit a new country, so I think the fish should be as hardy as I am. They aren't, though. Over the years I've come to the conclusion that the word 'tetra' is Latin for 'kill me.' Many tetras have died under my watch.


I thought the best solution for everyone (fish included) was to install an aquarium screensaver. The cats love it, no cleaning or feeding is required, and I can change the number and type of fish in the tank at whim. If I need to vote a fish off the island for unsatisfactory behavior, there is no need to ask around to find that one soulless, heartless person who won't fuss about flushing a fish out to sea for me. Ah, bliss.

Unfortunately, even the most perfect plan has its downsides. Instead of the upside-down fish common in a real aquarium setting, I received an error from the aquarium screensaver: "Prolific Gold Fish has encountered a problem and needs to close. We are sorry for the inconvenience."

What relationship between human and pet could fail to benefit from such politeness?

"Prolific Dog encountered a problem and unfortunately defecated on the rug. We are sorry for the inconvenience."

"Prolific Bird encountered Prolific Cat and experienced a problem. Please reinstall Prolific Bird. We are also very sorry about your sidewalk."

Princess Needs Normal Work Buddies, Pronto!

At my current kingdom, the king decided everyone should have the same kind of cube setup. It's really quite Socialist when you think about it. (Have you ever noticed that there are no royal families in Communist or Socialist countries? It's no small wonder that I spend half of every day wondering if I am in the right place.)

Instead of having tall walls around each cube, we are all out in the open. With everyone out in the open, I had wished for a nice hum of background noise while I write thank-you notes for parties held the previous evenings. Unfortunately, the opposite occurred: the open office cube walls have everyone speaking in respectful, funereal whispers. That's bad news - there is certainly not enough enough background noise to cover the sound of nail filing, applying nail polish, counting my money, and perfecting my blow-out!

There is a very nice lady who offers me a selection of potential work each day. We'll call her 'my boss' because that just sounds so outrageously blue collar, wouldn't you agree? This whole work game is so fanny. Next thing, I'll need to keep my crown from tipping when I bend over to have my timecard stamped!

At home, it is very quiet because the servants do all of the noisy tasks while I am away. The quiet at home is driving me absolutely mad!

I'd love to ask the Hanukkah Fairy (yes, I am a Jewish-American Princess) to bring me some clever cube neighbors. But in my experience, you have to be super-specific about such requests. Sometimes you get someone who meets your requirements perfectly but has 99 other problems to boot. Such as my cube mate last year...

I'd been innocently craving chai (spicy Indian tea). Lacking a full-time butler to make it, I had looked up some chai recipes online until I found one that would help me. Each day the nice Indian girl who sat next to me would taste it and say, hmm, it needs more milk or less tea.

One day though, two hours after the chai taste testing, in a meeting with a senior project manager in a cube so small we could see into each other's pores, the nice Indian girl audibly and smellingly farted. She acknowledged the fart with a brief "Sorry!," then went back to work. After the meeting, she did it again. I tried to write it off by thinking perhaps my chai really was lethal, or perhaps I put too much milk in the chai and she was lactose intolerant. But that would not explain why she just did farted again that day. Twice.

This was just all too much for my delicate nose. So this is a great example of a nice cubemate can go off the rails: quiet (except for her bowels), makes some background noise (albeit with bowels), and I suppose if I fed her a cheese plate and a gallon of milk, we could have our very own Philharmonic going on in here. She was really a very sweet girl if not for the overactive bowels.

Her nose picking wasn't appreciated much, either. It's really too bad, because she was a total champ at it.

Six Stupid Ways to Manage Anxiety

The following are exceptionally annoying suggestions I received from trained professionals regarding how to avoid or stop a panic attack:

1. Take a walk with your dog. I don't know this works for other people, but they must not have my dog - the ones who barks as though rabid at children on bikes, solitary leaves floating by, adults on motorcycles, and anyone who rings the doorbell - even if the doorbell is on TV.
2. Read a good book, such as Chicken Soup for the Soul. This might be one of the few books that I actually would recommend people burn.
3. Volunteer your time with people less fortunate. This made me more anxious because it gave me more details about what life would be like if I was ever so unemployed that I had to move into a shelter.
4. Take a relaxing drive in the country. There isn't anything relaxing about this. Cows in the road. Horses potentially on the loose. Amish people who do NOT want to race you in their horse-drawn buggies. See? No relaxation anywhere.
5. Remember any of the helpful phrases the trained professionals had taught me, such as:
- "No one ever died from fear."
- "Give yourself permission to feel anxiety. It's normal."
6. Counselor: "Have you read any of the Chicken Soup book I told you to buy?" Me: "Well, no, I, er, didn't get around to doing that quite yet..."

My Really Great-Nephew

On June 29, 2007, I became a great-aunt. My niece Holly had a son - JayShawn Lawrence Ward. He's so cute. Though she is 19 and a single mom, my niece is over the moon about her son. Everything that would have freaked me out only seems to add to her happiness. Single mom? So what. Baby daddy is a jerk? That's fine, because she gets the baby all to herself!

Holly has been a champ about many things since the baby arrived. This is a picture of JayShawn and Holly taking a nap. Is there any purer love to be had?

I expected my niece to freak out eventually. Sure, newborns are pretty cute. It's the next best thing to carry around a bag of flour. Newborns can be toted around in their little car seats wherever you might want to go - the mall, restaurants, Target - but then they wake up. They teethe. They develop personalities. They go through growth spurts. They fuss. They do all of the things that I imagined any offspring of mine would do should I have been unlucky enough to conceive - head spinning around while projectile vomiting, for example.

But if my great-nephew done these things, it doesn't seem to rattle my niece. He is a mellow baby, according to reports from my niece and my mom. He doesn't scream. He's not shy. He loves meeting new people. He eats well. He has big brown eyes. He doesn't spit nails. I'll finally get to meet the little guy over New Year's. And I can't wait to meet JayShawn and know him.

Since he lives in Alabama, I won't get to see all of his firsts: first word, first steps, and maybe even the first time a policeman brings him home for scurrying away too far on his Big Wheel. Somehow, I need to find a way to make sure he knows that I love him every day, even though I'm far away.

I have to make a GREAT first impression when I meet the baby, so he won't mind that I carry him around all weekend long. And perhaps months later, he'll throw down his toys and say, "I want Aunt Amy to babysit me! No one else!"

Somewhere in a long talk with my niece, we discussed what it is like to be a mommy. My niece told me that being a mom is one of the happiest feelings in the world. There is nothing else like it. Everything else pales in comparison. She even encouraged me to have a baby.

Me? I've long known I would accidentally leave the car seat and baby on top of the car while I'm driving down the highway. My own mom has snickered at the idea of me having a baby.

And then there is that one freaky dream I had eight years ago. Ross and I take our spawn to Target for the obligatory family pictures that relatives demand. We all wear versions of the same outfit to make the picture extra snarky. The 8x10's turn out great except for one thing: Ross, little baby Cyclops with his one big brown eye, and I certainly make an interesting-looking family.

The mommy gene seems to have skipped me entirely. I don't mind mommying grown-ups, cats, dogs, and other people's offspring for limited periods of time. But there is something in my DNA that apparently said, "Yeah, we better stop production on this line. We've had some major issues with this. Remember the crazy heart thing? And this one is even allergic to most common dental anesthetics. Do I even have to ask for a raise of hands on this one to get a go/no-go?" And hence my mommying gene won't ever wake up.

I'm really proud of my niece for being such a good mommy.

Anxiety's Got Me on the Run

I think I have always been an anxious person. When I was in second grade, I can remember being unable to sleep because I just realized that I had an overdue library book. Where was the library book? Under my bed. Why didn't I just take the book in? I don't know. I had the solution within my control but for some reason I didn't take action.

My father was very ill with heart disease starting when I was around five years old until his death some twenty years later. There were numerous opportunities to become anxious during those two decades: surgeries, close calls, and certainly my dad experienced the the isolation and depression that comes with being chronically ill when your other friends still go to work every day. Other than a few isolated occasions, anxiety was a term I would have rarely applied to myself. Anxiety was something that happened to other people, particularly those who didn't know how to plan. Or maybe anxiety happened to people who just didn't have something far more serious to worry about.

About a year ago, I went through a very unexpected change in my employment status. Afterward, I started having paralyzing anxiety attacks. This time, anxiety became a ball and chain. Until I had the right medication, there were few times I wanted to leave the house. What if I saw someone or something that reminded me of the old work group? People don't know what to say or how to handle situations when one person has been laid off and one person has escaped such a fate. I know the survivor's guilt well.

These attacks were much worse than worrying about an overdue library book. Some of the concerns I had at the time were real: will I find another job soon? Will the job be a good one? Will I have to take a big pay cut? Will I have to work for someone I don't respect? What if I have 'lost it' and don't have the same career drive that I once did? Will I perform as well as I did before? Will I still receive 5/5 on my performance reviews? Will employers see me as used goods? What if I have to take a job that has a really long drive? What if I take a job that requires extensive travel? What if the new boss isn't understanding that I have more doctor appointments that the average bear?

The panic attacks came more and more frequently: at night and during the day; when I was alone, and when I was with others. These panic attacks kept me from doing what I needed to do, which was find another great job.

I talked to my doctor about anti-anxiety medication. Then I started seeing a counselor to determine how I could stop having these awful panic attacks. The panic attacks were like a train, and once that train started, that train wouldn't stop on a dime. Sometimes I couldn't get the train to stop at all - it would run all day and all night. Going to a counselor seemed like a great idea so that I could understand what my mind was doing, and how I could make it stop.

After confirming that I knew most of the mind distraction techniques that can help with anxiety, she also tried to teach me some self-calming meditation techniques. Meditation makes me really sleep. The counselor wanted to learn more about my family - not so much my immediate family, but how my parents grew up, what my parents' siblings lives were like. What were my grandparents like when they were young? The counselor wanted to learn whether the root of my anxiety was tied to any specific situation, or whether my entire upbringing was charged with anxiety. I didn't think that either of those statements were true.

Providing the counselor with answers to her questions was difficult. My immediate family was very close, but once you step into great uncles, cousins, and my dad's pre-parenthood years, I didn't have the answers needed to explore further.

(If you know me well, you know that I can give a smile when I feel like I'm dying inside, and usually do. The Smiling Stoic mask I have has been a source of trouble before - managers who didn't think I was taking them seriously, doctors who thought if I am smiling then surely I don't feel that badly. Naturally, I wasn't going to give that counselor any useful information that would be helpful in her task of trying to help me. That would have made her job too cliched and then my time and money would have been well-spent. Best to keep up my stoic smile and create an expression that would keep the sessions with the counselor cheerful.)

Eventually, the counselor and I ran out of things to talk about. You could say she gave up on me when she hit a will and I wasn't forking over any new territory. The counselor's recommendation was to do more research on my family. I wasn't about to tell her why I might be anxious. She seemed like one of those Chicken Soup for the Soul people who might toss a copy of it at me at any moment. I kept shields up so I wouldn't even have to slap the book away.
I wasn't ready to start digging until the tenth anniversary of my dad's death. On that day, it seemed a loving tribute to want to know more about my dad's life and those of our extended family. The details I'm discovering are so wonderful to know - how could I not smirk when I learn that my dad had a similar sense of humor to mine? I know I will have to write about some of what I learn. I believe that part of me will escape the anxiety trap if I can tell the story - and not pretend everything is fine as I do so.

A Toothsome Discovery

You really can't blame me for skipping that old rite of passage - wisdom teeth extraction - can you?

There I was, studying international affairs in college. I had just been reading about Hungarian history - in particular, about an evil Hungarian dictator. I came home to Cincinnati for a visit, a visit that included seeing the dentist to plan how those menacing wisdom teeth would come out. I would be seeing a new dentist, though. I didn't care to ask his name beforehand - what did it matter? It was just a dentist.

And then I met him - and his last name was the same as the Hungarian dictator's! He had a menacing Eastern European accent to match. When he said, "I vill zee you ven you come back for ze extraction," it wasn't that hard to close my eyes and imagine all of the people the Hungarian dictator had tortured to death. I may have imagined that his eyes widened with pleasure when he said extraction. Yet I didn't want my name at the end of a list that began with, "Even in exile, this former Hungarian dictator continued to kill innocent people - namely..."

That's how removing my wisdom teeth conveniently slipped to the end of every To Do list I've had since I was 19.

Now I'm 36. That which was whimsical to avoid in my late teens, early twenties, mid twenties, late twenties, and early thirties has become just plain foolish. I rarely meet anyone else who still has wisdom teeth at my age. This year I discovered that my wisdom teeth have been leading another perfectly fine tooth astray. This good tooth erupted in pain this week, a pain that I hoped was just a fixable cavity. The pain kept me up at night and eventually prevented eating - leading to the need for an emergency tooth extraction last week.

Did you know that emergency tooth extraction has changed little since times when barbers performed the service in the 1400's? No? Me neither. I'm sure the oral surgeon meant well when he gave me six shots of local anesthetic in my gums and throat. I tried so hard to be grateful while he told me I was such a good patient over and over, and I also tried hard not to feel like a dog being heaped with praise for sitting still on command. If you have an enormous needle in your mouth, a bite block between your teeth, and a very bright light in your eyes, you won't want to go anywhere. You might begin to think about Hungarian dictators and human rights violations, though.

Sooner or later, the fancy technology ends and then the terrible truth is known: pliers and yanking are needed to remove a stubborn tooth. During the yanking part, you might imagine yourself being a chew toy and the oral surgeon being the dog. Having your head shook around a bit will change your life perspective.

I was sent home with a cheerful pile of sterile gauze to plug up my bloody toothless gum hole. This was thoughtful in a Martha Stewart sort of way.

I have succombed to the inevitable. My wisdom teeth will come out on November 30th, 2007. You probably won't be surprised that I have requested full IV sedation. I believe this is best for all involved, including the surgeon.

I'm also kindly requesting that no one tell me ANYTHING about their wisdom teeth extraction experiences lest I cancel the appointment. You might say I have a history.

The Last Temptation of Cuticles

I'm not really a vain person. I'm sometimes a catty person - why wear Crocs when there so many other more comfortable, appropriate shoes out there? - but not vain. I am aware that habits such as nail-biting are perceived poorly in business. Running around wit bleeding stumps on the ends of your stumps isn't considered stylist, either. I'm trying to stop, for the 8th time this year. Laugh all you want, but you have no idea how much I really love... chewing my cuticles.

If I was so happy, you might ask, why give up such a good thing? Well, would you want to shake paws with princesses bearing bleeding cuticle stumps? There is something about all of those staph and HIV stories that has made some people a bit touchy about this sort of thing.

I consider myself a real princess, and real princesses don't smoke, drink, or do drugs. Yet every girl needs a vice, and cuticles are quite useless. I want to smite them; they beg to be destroyed. Cuticles always forget to bring the wine to dinner parties, and they don't even vote. If you are dating a cuticle, you will definitely be sleeping in the wet spot.

Should I ever be so unlucky as to be malnourished someday, and my brain can only either a) feed the leftover scraps of protein from my Red Cross TV dinner to my hair or b) feed same to my cuticles, the proper choice is clear: off with my cuticles. Need I put this in my living will?

Let's consider the many benefits of cuticle chewing:
1. Cuticles are fat-free. By the time you get done chewing the cuticle, I'm sure you have expended any calories they might contain. Think of cuticles as being lettuce made out of people. 2. I never need to go to the grocery store to stock up on cuticles. I always have them right on hand (ba dum bump).
3. Ziploc bags are never required to take cuticles on the road should I need to do some really deep thinking.
4. Cuticles require no condiments to taste great, although you might want to avoid highly scented soaps.
5. They're free: no cost, taxes, or shipping.

What's more, they deserve to die.

You see, my cuticles are really quite awful. Unlike the obedient, pink cuticles of other princesses, my cuticles don't respond to gentle nudging after a warm bath. Quite frankly, my cuticles balk like mules. They scoff at potions claiming to remove cuticles and swarm wildly like feral cats that can never be herded. My cuticles trash-talk; they dare me to bring on the pain. Left to their own devices, I am certain they would spread like kudzu. If I don't do something about my cuticles, I know that I will awaken one morning to find they have grown several feet overnight.

Normally, I would just chew them. It's cheap, fast, and fun. Chew, chew, chew. Oh, the simple pleasure of finding a juicy hangnail during a tedious conference call! Unlike smoking, there is no monkey on my back demanding a cuticle break. I can chew whenever and wherever I want, and can even type while chewing if needed. A real princess has this sort of delicate coordination.

I still think about chewing, though. I think about it a lot. It's so hard not do it.

When I need to look presentable to the commoners for big meetings or interviews, I go to nail salons whose employees speak a language I don't understand. It's better that way. When they see me coming, the nice ladies who work at the salon get a can of something strong from the back room. Between you and I, I think it might be leftover Agent Orange. I don't ask, and they don't tell. I may be growing a tail from the exposure. Am I a nice or naughty princess if my cuticle remover comes from a can emblazoned with a skull and crossbones? That's what it takes to bludgen my cuticles into submission.

The nail ladies fight over who gets to work on someone else. I don't blame them. The cuticles scream like lobsters in a pot when they go down, and believe me, they always go down fighting. Injuries are common.

Don't feel sorry for my cuticles, though. The bitches had it coming.