Imagine this:
You're driving down the road, enjoying the lovely scenic beauty of the mountains with your window down just enough to tussle your hair softly by a cool, comforting breeze and the radio playing a groovy little number on your radio. You're relaxed, no one is driving like an ass and you're able to cruise on down the road. Just then your favorite hip-hop song comes on and you crank up the volume (for those of you anti-hip hoppers out there, just humor me here).
Maybe it's Lady Gaga's new tune and you're singing away when the best verse comes on..."there's only three men I'ma serve all my life and that's my daddy, Colorado and Jesus Christ..." Wait... Colorado? What would Lady Gaga be doing dedicating herself to Colorado? Nothing, that's what. And here you thought the original lyrics were "Nebraska" for some dude from that state.
What is up with this new, irritating trend in music on the radio stations? It seems like every song that remotely hints at a person or place gets changed by the local DJ's to fit their station, names or location. And most of the time it doesn't even sound good - it's a flat, dubbed statement that hiccups the flow of your groove.
Ugh. I'm so over it. Just leave the songs alone already so I don't get stuck trying to figure out why they did that to a perfectly good tune and then spend the rest of it desperately grasping for what the original lyrics were.
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Monday, October 17, 2011
The Perils of Implants
Ah, the pleasures of implants - selected size, perfect shape... You can find yourself brazenly showing off more than you would have before, revealing glimpses of your new side, a little more bubbly, a little more cheerful. No one can deny that you've had something done. For some it's a preference, a choice to enhance the appearance; for others a necessity to correct a blatant absence.
For me, I was one of the latter folks. I had a need to fill a lack and all because of a meatball. Yes - a meatball. A moist, flavorful, healthy buffalo meatball. I made the whole batch that fateful night by myself. Knew every ingredient that went in, anitcipated the succulent taste and aromatic smells...everything was to be perfect. And then it happened. First bite in and I felt it on the inside. I heard it within my mouth. A loud CRACK! My jaw uncontrollably sagged open, amongst my daughter's disgusted exclamation of "Ew!".
The next few days I tried desperately to convince myself that it wasn't serious. But finally a trip to the dentist was required. Only that wouldn't be my easy solution, oh no. Then an appointment to an oral surgeon (not my first by any means). But that wasn't to be the quick fix either. Instead of a thirty minute, two-stitch ordeal to remove a broken tooth and replace it with an implant, I woke up 45 minutes later with a corset stitch running up the back of my lower jaw, donor bone to correct a dangerously thinned jawbone, and an implant to screw a new molar on to in the near future. That slight change in expectation should have been my warning flag - that subtle hint to tell me that my life would be inexplicably challenged for years to come over the decision to go with an implant.
The next week, while traveling for the holidays, the cap fell off. Then the following week the surgeon had to burn my gums away where they had grown over in the absence of the healing cap. One year later and I sheered off the side of my first crown. Three months after that saw the breaking of my second. And amidst almost constant visits to various dentists, I was also setting my bite off by accommodating the large space of no teeth in my head.
Flash forward, now several years later and I'm still battling the crown curse. As it turns out, the implant was done impeccably well; the original crown, not so much. So, now I've got the right people on task. Only once we finally got the crown built out of the correct material, it was made too long and didn't fit. Then, it fit (with a little finagling) but wouldn't seat correctly because my gums had grown over the implant site again. So, I found myself once again in the oral surgeon's chair and humoring stitches in my mouth. Then, when the crown could be seated correctly, the screw was stripped and one bite down the next morning, had the fake tooth sliding up and down in my mouth like a hobby horse on the merry-go-round. Lovely. Another weekend spent not chewing on the left side and not biting down (really? how do you eat without biting down?) and I was back in the dentist's chair (a two-hour drive round trip, by the way).
Now, I find myself awaiting another trip to the dentist's office to hopefully conclude my implant crown trials but with one more little surprise venture to overcome while there. It would seem that although we may have put my implant issues to rest, because of the offset to my bite, I've once again cracked a tooth. On the other side.
Who knows? Maybe I'll go with an implant.
For me, I was one of the latter folks. I had a need to fill a lack and all because of a meatball. Yes - a meatball. A moist, flavorful, healthy buffalo meatball. I made the whole batch that fateful night by myself. Knew every ingredient that went in, anitcipated the succulent taste and aromatic smells...everything was to be perfect. And then it happened. First bite in and I felt it on the inside. I heard it within my mouth. A loud CRACK! My jaw uncontrollably sagged open, amongst my daughter's disgusted exclamation of "Ew!".
The next few days I tried desperately to convince myself that it wasn't serious. But finally a trip to the dentist was required. Only that wouldn't be my easy solution, oh no. Then an appointment to an oral surgeon (not my first by any means). But that wasn't to be the quick fix either. Instead of a thirty minute, two-stitch ordeal to remove a broken tooth and replace it with an implant, I woke up 45 minutes later with a corset stitch running up the back of my lower jaw, donor bone to correct a dangerously thinned jawbone, and an implant to screw a new molar on to in the near future. That slight change in expectation should have been my warning flag - that subtle hint to tell me that my life would be inexplicably challenged for years to come over the decision to go with an implant.
The next week, while traveling for the holidays, the cap fell off. Then the following week the surgeon had to burn my gums away where they had grown over in the absence of the healing cap. One year later and I sheered off the side of my first crown. Three months after that saw the breaking of my second. And amidst almost constant visits to various dentists, I was also setting my bite off by accommodating the large space of no teeth in my head.
Flash forward, now several years later and I'm still battling the crown curse. As it turns out, the implant was done impeccably well; the original crown, not so much. So, now I've got the right people on task. Only once we finally got the crown built out of the correct material, it was made too long and didn't fit. Then, it fit (with a little finagling) but wouldn't seat correctly because my gums had grown over the implant site again. So, I found myself once again in the oral surgeon's chair and humoring stitches in my mouth. Then, when the crown could be seated correctly, the screw was stripped and one bite down the next morning, had the fake tooth sliding up and down in my mouth like a hobby horse on the merry-go-round. Lovely. Another weekend spent not chewing on the left side and not biting down (really? how do you eat without biting down?) and I was back in the dentist's chair (a two-hour drive round trip, by the way).
Now, I find myself awaiting another trip to the dentist's office to hopefully conclude my implant crown trials but with one more little surprise venture to overcome while there. It would seem that although we may have put my implant issues to rest, because of the offset to my bite, I've once again cracked a tooth. On the other side.
Who knows? Maybe I'll go with an implant.
Saturday, October 1, 2011
Downtime and Dogs
My other half has gone out camping - just overnight. This is the first time we've been separated for the night in quite a few months. But, in preparation of his upcoming yearly hunting week, he's out testing the new tent, guns and other fun man/boy toys. So, it's just me and the boys tonight.
As you may know, I've started this 30 for 30 challenge (exercise 30 minutes every day for 30 days) and today marked the beginning of this new venture. To kick my part off, I decided I would take my boys for a stroll through the neighborhood. We were enjoying a wonderful walk when of a sudden, the largest blue pit bitch I have ever seen, ripped her anchor out of the wall on the porch to our left and came across the lawn at the boys. The man reclining came out of his chair so quickly that he tipped it over, stumbled and dropped his drink. She was coming at us so fast and was so formiddable that I froze. Then he barked out a command and just like that the dog dropped to the ground, spinning around to face her master.
The not-so-frightening bulldog he also had kept coming amidst shouts from the man dragging the other dog into that house that he was friendly. The dog ran up to us, but a car was also gaining ground and concern that the little fellow might become asphalt had me grab on to his collar to keep him safe.
That's when I noticed my guys. Sam, the pit boxer, had moved in so close to my right leg that he was leaning on me, his hackles up along his entire spine, his stance bearing for a fight. Mac, our black laborador whom we refer to fondly as our "Meth Lab", had lost all signs of goofiness. He had placed himself directly in front of me, the ridge of his spine also standing on end and he bared his teeth and hunched down as though he were going to launch himself in the direction of the beast that had come at us. I have never in my life seen a black lab look fearsome. I was impressed. Then the little dog made the mistake of stepping a tad too close to Mama. Sam lit in to him, Mac backing up so close to me that he crushed my toes. It took me a minute to get Sam calmed down, much to the relief of the bulldog, I'm sure.
I patted them both profusely and nonchalantly mentioned to the neighbor that he might want to take some time to assess just what takes to control a large, dangerous dog before attempting to look as though he knew how. If that thing would have hurt me or the boys, I would have sued him out of the neighborhood.
Of course true to form, just a mere 5 minutes farther and Mac returned to his usual self - not wanting to stop to pee, he began to pee as he walked, flooding the sidewalk and getting so shook up when I called him on it that in his haste to make it right, that he pissed right across the top of my foot. I was in flip-flops. Lovely. My hero.
As you may know, I've started this 30 for 30 challenge (exercise 30 minutes every day for 30 days) and today marked the beginning of this new venture. To kick my part off, I decided I would take my boys for a stroll through the neighborhood. We were enjoying a wonderful walk when of a sudden, the largest blue pit bitch I have ever seen, ripped her anchor out of the wall on the porch to our left and came across the lawn at the boys. The man reclining came out of his chair so quickly that he tipped it over, stumbled and dropped his drink. She was coming at us so fast and was so formiddable that I froze. Then he barked out a command and just like that the dog dropped to the ground, spinning around to face her master.
The not-so-frightening bulldog he also had kept coming amidst shouts from the man dragging the other dog into that house that he was friendly. The dog ran up to us, but a car was also gaining ground and concern that the little fellow might become asphalt had me grab on to his collar to keep him safe.
That's when I noticed my guys. Sam, the pit boxer, had moved in so close to my right leg that he was leaning on me, his hackles up along his entire spine, his stance bearing for a fight. Mac, our black laborador whom we refer to fondly as our "Meth Lab", had lost all signs of goofiness. He had placed himself directly in front of me, the ridge of his spine also standing on end and he bared his teeth and hunched down as though he were going to launch himself in the direction of the beast that had come at us. I have never in my life seen a black lab look fearsome. I was impressed. Then the little dog made the mistake of stepping a tad too close to Mama. Sam lit in to him, Mac backing up so close to me that he crushed my toes. It took me a minute to get Sam calmed down, much to the relief of the bulldog, I'm sure.
I patted them both profusely and nonchalantly mentioned to the neighbor that he might want to take some time to assess just what takes to control a large, dangerous dog before attempting to look as though he knew how. If that thing would have hurt me or the boys, I would have sued him out of the neighborhood.
Of course true to form, just a mere 5 minutes farther and Mac returned to his usual self - not wanting to stop to pee, he began to pee as he walked, flooding the sidewalk and getting so shook up when I called him on it that in his haste to make it right, that he pissed right across the top of my foot. I was in flip-flops. Lovely. My hero.
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