I have just one enemy: Mr. Coffee.
Twice this past week, this pain-in-the-butt coffee machine has managed to humiliate me and upset me enough to make me want to smash it to smithereens.
Mr. Coffee is simple to use; that’s why I liked it – key word being “liked.” Some coffee machines are too complicated, and although they might make better coffee, Mr. Coffee had the advantage that an idiot like me could figure out how to use it, as it only has five buttons and two moving parts.
But that simplicity is devious, especially in the hands of an idiot, like me.
On Saturday, making a fresh pot of coffee to complement the omelet breakfast I was making, I was surprised to see a half-empty (half-full for the optimists) decanter after it was done dripping. I had put a full decanter in the water reservoir, so it should have made a full one.
Examining it, I removed the decanter from the machine, only to have coffee come pouring out of the brew basket, all over the counter. It made a coffee mess I wasn’t too happy about having to clean up.
Upon further examination, the brew basket got plugged because I did not put the coffee filter in it correctly. It had folded over and some of the coffee grounds spilled into the brew basket, plugging it. When I removed the decanter, those grounds became unplugged, unleashing a torrent of coffee.
Sunday night my wife asked me to set up Mr. Coffee so it could serve her a fresh cup in the morning. I was happy to oblige, because a fresh cup for her also means a fresh cup for me, and black coffee in the morning is the perfect way to jumpstart the day.
The delay brew is easy to use with Mr. Coffee. One just needs to hit the delay brew button after putting water in the reservoir and the filter and coffee grounds in the brew basket. As long as the clock and timer are set correctly, coffee should be ready in the morning at the time it’s requested to be made.
When my wife went to get a cup in the morning, she didn’t find any coffee. She woke me up and asked if I noticed anything weird about the machine.
I was confused at first, thinking the brew basket had gotten plugged again. I was then worried I would be left with an even bigger mess than I had on Saturday if a full basket became quickly unplugged. As I got closer to it, my wife laughed at me when I saw a full pot of hot water.
A problem like this can occur when one of those key elements, like coffee grounds, is forgotten. In my case, I was so worried about the coffee filter not folding over like it had Saturday that I spent extra time making sure it was spread out nicely in the brew basket, and I completely forgot about the coffee grounds.
I honestly believe Mr. Coffee was laughing at me the entire time during both of my mistakes, as it probably doesn’t like me because I don’t like its decanter. I’ve cursed at the decanter many times because it takes a rocket scientist’s expertise to pour it correctly. If you pour it too fast or too slow, the coffee or water in it will drip down the side and miss its intended target completely.
I would have thought decanter makers would have perfected the design of it by now that one could pour it as quickly or as slowly as one should desire without worrying about where the liquid in it was going, but apparently this one job they have is too difficult. Mankind can invent an air mattress that uses a matching set of repelling magnets in the bed and floor below to float in the air and support 2,000 pounds, but it can’t invent a decanter that can pour correctly.
Mr. Coffee quickly took advantage of my two little mistakes to get revenge for my curses against its decanter, and it also gets the last laugh in knowing that no matter how much I want to pick it up and smash it to the ground, it knows I won’t because I love the product it makes too much.
Coffee addiction. Sometimes it will drive you mad.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Don't be scared just because H1N1 is here
Prior to last week, I didn’t know anyone who had been diagnosed with H1N1, also known as the dreaded swine flu as many in the media have portrayed it. Since then, it seems like all sorts of people around me, including my own son, have gotten it. And guess what? It’s not as bad as I feared it would be.
I learned early last week the son of a former co-worker was sick for a week with H1N1. She told me her son was sicker than he’s ever been before, and the headache associated with it lasted for days. Her other son, however, only got mildly sick from it, she said.
As someone who’s never gotten the flu, and I’m knocking on wood right now, learning firsthand that people I know have been infected with it, and the sickness was bad for one of them, sent waves of fear through my body.
I didn’t want to get sick like that but, more importantly, I didn’t want my 4-year-old son, Braden, who’s exposed to dozens of kids nearly every day at daycare who pass germs back and forth to each other, to get sick like that. It’s a fear most parents probably understand.
It’s also a fear that became a reality last Friday when I got a call from my mother-in-law saying he suddenly developed a fever and a cough.
Braden was with his grandma, following a day at daycare, because my wife was in a wedding and I had to take photos at Empty Bowls the following day. The plan called for her to watch him so my wife could attend the wedding rehearsal in Winneconne Friday night and I could do my job the following morning. I would then meet Braden and his grandma in the early afternoon so all of us could go to the wedding together.
Those plans changed, of course, when Braden got sick. My wife still did the wedding stuff she needed to do, and I still took the Empty Bowls photos, but following that I picked him up and took him home, skipping the wedding entirely.
Fortunately, Braden wasn’t as sick as I feared he could be. After taking some medicine, his fever dropped, and at times he was as energetic as he normally is, which is to say he could wear me out in just a few minutes worth of playtime with him.
His appetite diminished greatly, though. That wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, because at 4 I feel like he’s already eating our paychecks away. I didn’t think that would happen until he became a teenager, but the boy can eat with the best of them, as some days it seems like he can out eat me, and I’m 200 pounds heavier than him.
Hoping it may have been a one-day thing, that night, after my wife returned from the wedding, his fever returned. His temperature spiked to more than 102 degrees, causing him to sweat while sleeping in his bed. This in turn caused him to get the chills, which in turn caused both my wife and me to worry.
We called an on-duty nurse at Marshfield Clinic at 11:30 p.m. to see if we should come in, or what actions we should take. She returned our call at 12:30 a.m., apologizing for the length of time it took to get back to us but noting it was because of the large amount of people like us calling with similar questions.
She said we should continue to monitor him, and if the cough or fever continues for several more days we should bring him to the doctor.
The next day the fever went down and his energy returned again, although a family plan to see “Where the Wild Things Are” was cancelled. That was a good thing, as the film wasn’t appropriate for a 4-year old (see my review on page 12) nor as good as I had hoped it would be.
We kept him out of daycare, as we were told we should by the nurse and common sense, but since Braden’s cough continued for several more days, I took him to a pediatrician at Marshfield Clinic Tuesday.
After examining him and having a chest X-ray taken to make sure he didn’t have pneumonia, a doctor said Braden more than likely had H1N1, as that is the only flu going around right now, but he was well on his way to recovery. Staying home several more days was all he needed to do.
In addition to Braden, three of his cousins have gotten the flu, as well as a number of other children we know. Fortunately, my wife and I have stayed H1N1-free, despite close contact with him – again, I’m knocking on wood – and I’m thankful Braden’s experience with it was fairly mild compared to what it could have been like.
And hopefully by sharing this experience, others who haven’t come into contact with it won’t be as scared as I had been.
I learned early last week the son of a former co-worker was sick for a week with H1N1. She told me her son was sicker than he’s ever been before, and the headache associated with it lasted for days. Her other son, however, only got mildly sick from it, she said.
As someone who’s never gotten the flu, and I’m knocking on wood right now, learning firsthand that people I know have been infected with it, and the sickness was bad for one of them, sent waves of fear through my body.
I didn’t want to get sick like that but, more importantly, I didn’t want my 4-year-old son, Braden, who’s exposed to dozens of kids nearly every day at daycare who pass germs back and forth to each other, to get sick like that. It’s a fear most parents probably understand.
It’s also a fear that became a reality last Friday when I got a call from my mother-in-law saying he suddenly developed a fever and a cough.
Braden was with his grandma, following a day at daycare, because my wife was in a wedding and I had to take photos at Empty Bowls the following day. The plan called for her to watch him so my wife could attend the wedding rehearsal in Winneconne Friday night and I could do my job the following morning. I would then meet Braden and his grandma in the early afternoon so all of us could go to the wedding together.
Those plans changed, of course, when Braden got sick. My wife still did the wedding stuff she needed to do, and I still took the Empty Bowls photos, but following that I picked him up and took him home, skipping the wedding entirely.
Fortunately, Braden wasn’t as sick as I feared he could be. After taking some medicine, his fever dropped, and at times he was as energetic as he normally is, which is to say he could wear me out in just a few minutes worth of playtime with him.
His appetite diminished greatly, though. That wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, because at 4 I feel like he’s already eating our paychecks away. I didn’t think that would happen until he became a teenager, but the boy can eat with the best of them, as some days it seems like he can out eat me, and I’m 200 pounds heavier than him.
Hoping it may have been a one-day thing, that night, after my wife returned from the wedding, his fever returned. His temperature spiked to more than 102 degrees, causing him to sweat while sleeping in his bed. This in turn caused him to get the chills, which in turn caused both my wife and me to worry.
We called an on-duty nurse at Marshfield Clinic at 11:30 p.m. to see if we should come in, or what actions we should take. She returned our call at 12:30 a.m., apologizing for the length of time it took to get back to us but noting it was because of the large amount of people like us calling with similar questions.
She said we should continue to monitor him, and if the cough or fever continues for several more days we should bring him to the doctor.
The next day the fever went down and his energy returned again, although a family plan to see “Where the Wild Things Are” was cancelled. That was a good thing, as the film wasn’t appropriate for a 4-year old (see my review on page 12) nor as good as I had hoped it would be.
We kept him out of daycare, as we were told we should by the nurse and common sense, but since Braden’s cough continued for several more days, I took him to a pediatrician at Marshfield Clinic Tuesday.
After examining him and having a chest X-ray taken to make sure he didn’t have pneumonia, a doctor said Braden more than likely had H1N1, as that is the only flu going around right now, but he was well on his way to recovery. Staying home several more days was all he needed to do.
In addition to Braden, three of his cousins have gotten the flu, as well as a number of other children we know. Fortunately, my wife and I have stayed H1N1-free, despite close contact with him – again, I’m knocking on wood – and I’m thankful Braden’s experience with it was fairly mild compared to what it could have been like.
And hopefully by sharing this experience, others who haven’t come into contact with it won’t be as scared as I had been.
Friday, October 16, 2009
'Boo who?': Simple joke can be potent weapon
I like to think of myself as a comedian, but the truth is I only have one joke in my repertoire. However, that one joke is a powerful weapon that can reduce one person I know to tears.
“Knock knock.”
“Who’s there?”
“Boo.”
“Boo who?”
“Why are you crying?”
I know. It’s about as simple as they come, and even little kids know that one. And honestly, the only reason I remember it is because I taught it to my 4-year-old son, Braden, as a joke he can say to amuse people. And coming from the mouths of a youngster and his goofball father makes it dangerous.
That’s because he often screws it up.
“Knock knock.”
“Who’s there?”
“Boo who?” he says, going directly to the next line of the person he is telling it to.
This mix-up on his part gives the intended subject a chance to improvise. “Boo who who?”
Braden, realizing the joke is different now, starts laughing and doesn’t say his next line. His laughter is infectious, though, and results in both parties going into hysterics.
Once in awhile, I start the joke, and he still goofs it up in a funnier way.
“Knock knock.”
“Who’s there?”
“Boo.”
“Why you crying?” he asks, stealing what is supposed to be my next line.
“I’m not. I’m a ghost.”
It’s silly, and not even that funny nor witty of a response, but he loves it. “You should be crying,” he’ll say when he’s done laughing.
“Braden,” I’ll tell him. “I didn’t say boo who, because you skipped my line, so I’m not crying.”
“Oh. Say it,” he’ll demand.
So I do, and he finishes the joke properly, laughing the entire time.
We’ll often repeat the joke several times, each of us exchanging leads and more often than not getting it wrong in hilariously different ways. As someone who can get quickly tired of repeated questions he often asks me – “Is the cemetery where people died?” he’ll ask anytime we drive past one – this joke amuses me every time, even when repeated four or five times.
Maybe that’s because my main mission in life is to make people laugh – yes, I was the class clown – because whether or not someone is laughing at or with you, it means that person probably enjoys your company. And for people like me, who can’t stand it when someone doesn’t like me, that feeling is addictive.
Fortunately, my addiction serves me well, unlike most addictions. It’s the reason I write this column, it’s the reason I don’t have any enemies (or at least I don’t think I have any) and it’s the reason I’m happily married.
My wife could probably find plenty of reasons to be upset with me on any given day, but those stupid things I say and do often disappear the several times an hour I make her laugh.
If I were a marriage counselor, I would tell couples to enroll in a comedy class, which would probably be much cheaper than my service. Learn how to make each other laugh, even if you only have one joke in your arsenal.
After all, that’s all you really need, especially if it’s a good one.
“Knock knock.”
“Who’s there?”
“Boo.”
“Boo who?”
“Why are you crying?”
I know. It’s about as simple as they come, and even little kids know that one. And honestly, the only reason I remember it is because I taught it to my 4-year-old son, Braden, as a joke he can say to amuse people. And coming from the mouths of a youngster and his goofball father makes it dangerous.
That’s because he often screws it up.
“Knock knock.”
“Who’s there?”
“Boo who?” he says, going directly to the next line of the person he is telling it to.
This mix-up on his part gives the intended subject a chance to improvise. “Boo who who?”
Braden, realizing the joke is different now, starts laughing and doesn’t say his next line. His laughter is infectious, though, and results in both parties going into hysterics.
Once in awhile, I start the joke, and he still goofs it up in a funnier way.
“Knock knock.”
“Who’s there?”
“Boo.”
“Why you crying?” he asks, stealing what is supposed to be my next line.
“I’m not. I’m a ghost.”
It’s silly, and not even that funny nor witty of a response, but he loves it. “You should be crying,” he’ll say when he’s done laughing.
“Braden,” I’ll tell him. “I didn’t say boo who, because you skipped my line, so I’m not crying.”
“Oh. Say it,” he’ll demand.
So I do, and he finishes the joke properly, laughing the entire time.
We’ll often repeat the joke several times, each of us exchanging leads and more often than not getting it wrong in hilariously different ways. As someone who can get quickly tired of repeated questions he often asks me – “Is the cemetery where people died?” he’ll ask anytime we drive past one – this joke amuses me every time, even when repeated four or five times.
Maybe that’s because my main mission in life is to make people laugh – yes, I was the class clown – because whether or not someone is laughing at or with you, it means that person probably enjoys your company. And for people like me, who can’t stand it when someone doesn’t like me, that feeling is addictive.
Fortunately, my addiction serves me well, unlike most addictions. It’s the reason I write this column, it’s the reason I don’t have any enemies (or at least I don’t think I have any) and it’s the reason I’m happily married.
My wife could probably find plenty of reasons to be upset with me on any given day, but those stupid things I say and do often disappear the several times an hour I make her laugh.
If I were a marriage counselor, I would tell couples to enroll in a comedy class, which would probably be much cheaper than my service. Learn how to make each other laugh, even if you only have one joke in your arsenal.
After all, that’s all you really need, especially if it’s a good one.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Chili hating doesn't last long for new connoisseur
October should be designated as National Chili Month.
It’s that time of year when the weather noticeably changes, for the worse, and to combat this, many people make chili. Or at least the ones who think warm chili will warm the body, and a warm body means a warm, happy soul, so probably say some scientists who have done this type of research for the chili industry.
I’m among those who would agree with these scientists who are paid to come up with this exact theory, although I didn’t always agree with it.
As a kid I hated chili, especially chili with kidney beans in it. The very thought of putting something named after a body part that’s specific purpose is to separate toxins and other wastes from the blood grossed me out, and I literally gagged every time someone made me put it in my mouth.
I managed to avoid chili in the older years of my youth until my senior year in college when I was at my grandparents’ house and they served some chili.
By this point I knew it was rude to gag on my food and even ruder to not eat something they specially made for me. Putting on my best smile, and bracing my stomach for a potential gut-wrenching incident, I put the chili in my mouth and swallowed.
I didn’t gag, and it didn’t come right back up after hitting my stomach. Instead, it actually tasted good, and the kidney beans were something I could tolerate without a problem.
I’m not sure what caused my taste buds to like chili and kidney beans, but I appreciated whatever caused it, much like I did when my taste buds suddenly decided in adulthood they liked nuts after going through my youth avoiding cookies and brownies with nuts in them or when they developed an appreciation for potato pancakes. They still don’t like liver or cooked, mushy peas, but I won’t be offended if they never do.
My newfound appreciation for chili became a full-fledged love when the Rotary Club I belonged to in Wautoma held a chili cook-off during a Winterfest event the club threw one winter. I was put in charge of the event and was delighted when more than 15 people entered their chili recipes in it.
I allowed everybody attending the event to taste the chili and vote on their favorite, and was happy when my favorite one won. But all of the entries were good and I learned chili doesn’t come in just the traditional recipe I was used to eating. Some were hotter than others, some thicker, some used less of a tomato-base, and others were loaded with noodles and meat.
Tasting those chili recipes inspired me to become more daring when making chili. In fact, every time I make chili I use a different recipe. And finding different recipes is a breeze with the Internet. I simply type in “slow cooker chili recipes” on Google and select the first recipe that sounds appealing, or at least uses ingredients I either have or know where to find in the store. And trust me, some recipes contain ingredients I can’t pronounce, much less know what general vicinity they would be looked for in the store.
The chili in my slow cooker as I write this uses several ingredients I’ve never used before in a chili, including cornmeal, French onion soup and barbecue sauce. Cornmeal helps make a great bread, French onion soup is always good, and nothing beats barbecue sauce on chicken, except chicken that is Kentucky fried. I don’t think it’s possible to Kentucky fry chili, although I could be wrong, as it seems like vendors at fairs have found ways to fry all sorts of foods never deemed possible before, like Twinkies and Snicker bars.
The more I think about it, though, Kentucky Fried Chili sounds like a great franchise restaurant possibility. Maybe with my next batch I’ll have to get creative and come up with a way to make this possible. It could be a million dollar idea from someone who used to hate chili. That sounds good to me.
It’s that time of year when the weather noticeably changes, for the worse, and to combat this, many people make chili. Or at least the ones who think warm chili will warm the body, and a warm body means a warm, happy soul, so probably say some scientists who have done this type of research for the chili industry.
I’m among those who would agree with these scientists who are paid to come up with this exact theory, although I didn’t always agree with it.
As a kid I hated chili, especially chili with kidney beans in it. The very thought of putting something named after a body part that’s specific purpose is to separate toxins and other wastes from the blood grossed me out, and I literally gagged every time someone made me put it in my mouth.
I managed to avoid chili in the older years of my youth until my senior year in college when I was at my grandparents’ house and they served some chili.
By this point I knew it was rude to gag on my food and even ruder to not eat something they specially made for me. Putting on my best smile, and bracing my stomach for a potential gut-wrenching incident, I put the chili in my mouth and swallowed.
I didn’t gag, and it didn’t come right back up after hitting my stomach. Instead, it actually tasted good, and the kidney beans were something I could tolerate without a problem.
I’m not sure what caused my taste buds to like chili and kidney beans, but I appreciated whatever caused it, much like I did when my taste buds suddenly decided in adulthood they liked nuts after going through my youth avoiding cookies and brownies with nuts in them or when they developed an appreciation for potato pancakes. They still don’t like liver or cooked, mushy peas, but I won’t be offended if they never do.
My newfound appreciation for chili became a full-fledged love when the Rotary Club I belonged to in Wautoma held a chili cook-off during a Winterfest event the club threw one winter. I was put in charge of the event and was delighted when more than 15 people entered their chili recipes in it.
I allowed everybody attending the event to taste the chili and vote on their favorite, and was happy when my favorite one won. But all of the entries were good and I learned chili doesn’t come in just the traditional recipe I was used to eating. Some were hotter than others, some thicker, some used less of a tomato-base, and others were loaded with noodles and meat.
Tasting those chili recipes inspired me to become more daring when making chili. In fact, every time I make chili I use a different recipe. And finding different recipes is a breeze with the Internet. I simply type in “slow cooker chili recipes” on Google and select the first recipe that sounds appealing, or at least uses ingredients I either have or know where to find in the store. And trust me, some recipes contain ingredients I can’t pronounce, much less know what general vicinity they would be looked for in the store.
The chili in my slow cooker as I write this uses several ingredients I’ve never used before in a chili, including cornmeal, French onion soup and barbecue sauce. Cornmeal helps make a great bread, French onion soup is always good, and nothing beats barbecue sauce on chicken, except chicken that is Kentucky fried. I don’t think it’s possible to Kentucky fry chili, although I could be wrong, as it seems like vendors at fairs have found ways to fry all sorts of foods never deemed possible before, like Twinkies and Snicker bars.
The more I think about it, though, Kentucky Fried Chili sounds like a great franchise restaurant possibility. Maybe with my next batch I’ll have to get creative and come up with a way to make this possible. It could be a million dollar idea from someone who used to hate chili. That sounds good to me.
Wisdom teeth extraction comes with painful price
My easiest trip to the dentist office occurred two weeks ago when I had my wisdom teeth removed; the pain didn’t come until the following day.
Some history: Like Jerry Seinfeld, I’m a bit of an anti-dentite. I have painful memories as a youngster of getting a silver cap placed on a molar. Too much sugar, I guess.
Growing up less fortunate in that my parents didn’t have health insurance or much money, trips to the dentist were few and far between. I didn’t mind, but when I did go, it often involved drilling and pain, which could have been avoided if I had gone more often.
I paid a heavy price in adulthood for not seeing a dentist for regular cleanings in my youth. Excruciating tooth aches eventually led to root canals for many of my molars, including my wisdom teeth.
Root canals sound as painful as they feel. Although advances in dental technology and procedures have eased the pain, sitting on a dentist chair for two hours and holding your mouth open the entire time while the dentist and his assistant probe into the deepest parts of your tooth is not a pleasant experience. Doing it for three appointments triples anti-dentite feelings.
The root canals didn’t work as well as hoped, as another dentist told me I should just have my wisdom teeth removed.
The thought of having someone remove some of my teeth brought forth visions of the scene in the film “Castaway” when Tom Hanks’ character yanked out his own ailing tooth and then passed out. I can watch any horror film and not be bothered by gruesome murders or buckets of blood, but watching him do that nearly caused me to pass out.
Others, including my wife, assured me that wisdom teeth removal is painless, so I agreed to go forward with the procedure, much to my reluctance.
I had hoped it could be postponed, though. Several days before having it done, I developed a minor cold, and not wanting to get the dentist sick I called and asked if it should be delayed. No such luck, as I was told the dentist could still do it.
The night before the procedure, several co-workers told me horror stories involving their own extractions. One told me she woke up in the middle of it, and another said she remembers looking at herself in the mirror on the ride home and seeing blood drooling out of her mouth.
By the time I sat in the dentist chair, constant worrying about it had already numbed me enough that I didn’t feel the dentist slip an IV in my hand that soon put me to sleep. It would have been a great sleep if I didn’t wake up in the middle of it, just like one of my co-workers had.
I remember the dentist doing something inside my mouth, but thankfully that’s all, as they must have upped the IV medication to put me back to sleep. I was still half asleep when it was over and when I left the dentist’s office because I don’t remember them taking me to my wife’s vehicle in a wheelchair, or her leaving me in the car while she filled a pain pill prescription at the pharmacy.
That night went quickly. I watched the season premiere of “The Office,” but when I watched it again a couple of days later I discovered I missed most of the episode the first-time around. I went to bed earlier than normal that night, thinking the experience was the easiest one I’ve ever had at a dentist’s office.
It wasn’t until the next day that the pain finally came. It wasn’t a horrible pain, but it was annoying enough that I actually had to take the pain pills and I continued to do so for a week. As a firm believer in avoiding any medication whenever possible, I was happy to go against my principles to be a little more comfortable.
Two weeks later, the pain is gone, but I still haven’t gotten used to the feeling of having just gum where I once had teeth.
In talking about the experience with my mother, I asked her about the time I had a silver cap placed on a tooth. She claims this never took place, that I’m having memories about an event that never occurred. We could have never afforded it, she said.
I remember it, though, and also recall when this baby tooth fell out as I got older. I thought I could get rich selling the silver from the cap.
Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe my anti-dentite feelings have been brewing for so long they’re creating false memories. Besides, I would have been able to afford more dental visits if I really did possess the silver from a capped tooth. And then I wouldn’t have had to have my wisdom teeth out.
Some history: Like Jerry Seinfeld, I’m a bit of an anti-dentite. I have painful memories as a youngster of getting a silver cap placed on a molar. Too much sugar, I guess.
Growing up less fortunate in that my parents didn’t have health insurance or much money, trips to the dentist were few and far between. I didn’t mind, but when I did go, it often involved drilling and pain, which could have been avoided if I had gone more often.
I paid a heavy price in adulthood for not seeing a dentist for regular cleanings in my youth. Excruciating tooth aches eventually led to root canals for many of my molars, including my wisdom teeth.
Root canals sound as painful as they feel. Although advances in dental technology and procedures have eased the pain, sitting on a dentist chair for two hours and holding your mouth open the entire time while the dentist and his assistant probe into the deepest parts of your tooth is not a pleasant experience. Doing it for three appointments triples anti-dentite feelings.
The root canals didn’t work as well as hoped, as another dentist told me I should just have my wisdom teeth removed.
The thought of having someone remove some of my teeth brought forth visions of the scene in the film “Castaway” when Tom Hanks’ character yanked out his own ailing tooth and then passed out. I can watch any horror film and not be bothered by gruesome murders or buckets of blood, but watching him do that nearly caused me to pass out.
Others, including my wife, assured me that wisdom teeth removal is painless, so I agreed to go forward with the procedure, much to my reluctance.
I had hoped it could be postponed, though. Several days before having it done, I developed a minor cold, and not wanting to get the dentist sick I called and asked if it should be delayed. No such luck, as I was told the dentist could still do it.
The night before the procedure, several co-workers told me horror stories involving their own extractions. One told me she woke up in the middle of it, and another said she remembers looking at herself in the mirror on the ride home and seeing blood drooling out of her mouth.
By the time I sat in the dentist chair, constant worrying about it had already numbed me enough that I didn’t feel the dentist slip an IV in my hand that soon put me to sleep. It would have been a great sleep if I didn’t wake up in the middle of it, just like one of my co-workers had.
I remember the dentist doing something inside my mouth, but thankfully that’s all, as they must have upped the IV medication to put me back to sleep. I was still half asleep when it was over and when I left the dentist’s office because I don’t remember them taking me to my wife’s vehicle in a wheelchair, or her leaving me in the car while she filled a pain pill prescription at the pharmacy.
That night went quickly. I watched the season premiere of “The Office,” but when I watched it again a couple of days later I discovered I missed most of the episode the first-time around. I went to bed earlier than normal that night, thinking the experience was the easiest one I’ve ever had at a dentist’s office.
It wasn’t until the next day that the pain finally came. It wasn’t a horrible pain, but it was annoying enough that I actually had to take the pain pills and I continued to do so for a week. As a firm believer in avoiding any medication whenever possible, I was happy to go against my principles to be a little more comfortable.
Two weeks later, the pain is gone, but I still haven’t gotten used to the feeling of having just gum where I once had teeth.
In talking about the experience with my mother, I asked her about the time I had a silver cap placed on a tooth. She claims this never took place, that I’m having memories about an event that never occurred. We could have never afforded it, she said.
I remember it, though, and also recall when this baby tooth fell out as I got older. I thought I could get rich selling the silver from the cap.
Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe my anti-dentite feelings have been brewing for so long they’re creating false memories. Besides, I would have been able to afford more dental visits if I really did possess the silver from a capped tooth. And then I wouldn’t have had to have my wisdom teeth out.
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