Ole to ban on bullfighting.
Shout It
Ole to Banning Bullfighting
What honor? What choice?
by Sandra Staas (Mon Aug 02, 2010)
The recent ban on bullfighting in Catalonia was based on animal welfare grounds. However, those against the ban state that the reasons are actually political. They believe that the ban on bullfighting is simply a means for Catalonia to show Spain how different it is, and how one day they may actually acquire full independence from Spain.
Catalonia does indeed consider itself separate from the rest of Spain as can be witnessed from the tendency of the people to insist on speaking in Catalan to Spaniards from different regions and even to foreigners. Speak in Spanish to a Catalan and the chances are that he'll reply in his own language. I know because I spent three years in Catalonia.
Regional pride is, well, pride, that‘s all. Retaining one's own regional language or dialect, is understandable, but to insist that others speak this regional language is simply not acceptable. The fact that Catalonia is indeed 'different' from the rest of Spain is undeniable, but to therefore assume that the ban on bullfighting is political, is erroneous.
I remember watching debates on Spanish television when I was living near Madrid. They were heated arguments over whether the bullfight should be banned. One argument that came shining forth, through yelling to the point of hysteria, and arms waving like madmen, was that the bullfight proved that man is superior to beast. Let's assume that this is true. Just how many times do you have to prove that man is superior to beast? Does anyone really need or want to prove this, anyway?
Those against the ban cite the fact that the bulls are bred for bullfighting, that it is an honor for the bull to die in the bullring. Bloody hell. I don't think the bull knows this. Whilst the bull is being stabbed by the picador's lance, whilst the blood is spilling out of him, are we supposed to actually believe that he feels a sense of honor? When the matador fails to kill the bull with one single lunge of the sword, and the bull bellows in pain as its legs crumble to the ground, are we to believe that he's feeling even more honor? When the matador gets gored we're expected to feel compassion for him. But, nobody forced the matador to go into the bullring. It's his choice to do so. The bull, on the other hand, has no choice.
What are your opinions on bullfighting?
More or Less
Live It
More or Less
Nothing to it
by Sandra Staas (Mon Aug 02, 2010)
I'm an approximate type of person. I believe in approximations of numbers, of not being accurately accurate. Numbers bother me.
I'll never get a job as a carpenter nor a bank cashier, that's for sure. I wouldn't hire me. Imagine a client asking for their bank account balance. I'd be answering, ‘Well, more or less, $2,500. Sort of, that is, give or take a few dollars, I think.' I'd be cutting wood after measuring it using my fingers and get a rough idea of how long the piece should be. If you cut it big enough then you can always trim it, that's my philosophy. How much has to be trimmed? Just a teeny wee bit, that's all.
People sometimes ask me for my recipes. I tell them, some butter, some sugar, flour, eggs, milk. They have their pens ready, their little notebook open as they await the accurate measurements. Out of luck! I haven't a clue how much butter or sugar or flour or milk. Now, eggs I can manage. It's usually one. Hmm. Sometimes it's two, could be three. Maybe it depends on how much milk I use. How much milk do I use? Now we're going in circles. As long as it tastes good, that's what counts. No pun intended.
Occasionally I have to fill out forms. Those boring ones that include a question about how much you weigh. Who the hell's business is it how much I weigh? On a good day I can weigh not so much. On a bad day I can look like Winnie the Pooh. If my clothes are tight then I know it's time to cut back on the fabulously farty fresh fruit diet of red wine and chocolate strawberries. I don't need to weigh myself. And I'm quite happy with being approximately at an acceptable weight.
I've seen people measure the distance between the flowers they're planting. Are they mad? They're down on their hands and knees, tape measure held taut as they carefully measure the exact length between each plant. They're the ones who probably know precisely how much gas they still have in their car, and what the exact time of day it is, down to the second.
I've never grasped the concept of what zero means either, and therefore I've also never grasped what 1,000,000 means. So many zeros! But if zero means nothing, how can placing a one in front of so many of them make it a great big number? I totally do not understand.
And if figuring out what zero is all about isn't bad enough, what about negative numbers? What numbskull thought them up? Does anyone really know what a negative number means? Something tells me that that silly little zero is involved yet again. Two-faced wimp. Happy and sad at the same time. Causer of untold misery to the masses who strive to be positive. Nobody wants to be negative. Not even a number.
Yes indeed, down with accuracy. Live life dangerously without inhibitions of statistics or those pesky preposterous zeros that are just too difficult to comprehend. Long live approximations. Revitalize your life with more or lesses.
There's nothing to it.
Live It
More or Less
Nothing to it
by Sandra Staas (Mon Aug 02, 2010)
I'm an approximate type of person. I believe in approximations of numbers, of not being accurately accurate. Numbers bother me.
I'll never get a job as a carpenter nor a bank cashier, that's for sure. I wouldn't hire me. Imagine a client asking for their bank account balance. I'd be answering, ‘Well, more or less, $2,500. Sort of, that is, give or take a few dollars, I think.' I'd be cutting wood after measuring it using my fingers and get a rough idea of how long the piece should be. If you cut it big enough then you can always trim it, that's my philosophy. How much has to be trimmed? Just a teeny wee bit, that's all.
People sometimes ask me for my recipes. I tell them, some butter, some sugar, flour, eggs, milk. They have their pens ready, their little notebook open as they await the accurate measurements. Out of luck! I haven't a clue how much butter or sugar or flour or milk. Now, eggs I can manage. It's usually one. Hmm. Sometimes it's two, could be three. Maybe it depends on how much milk I use. How much milk do I use? Now we're going in circles. As long as it tastes good, that's what counts. No pun intended.
Occasionally I have to fill out forms. Those boring ones that include a question about how much you weigh. Who the hell's business is it how much I weigh? On a good day I can weigh not so much. On a bad day I can look like Winnie the Pooh. If my clothes are tight then I know it's time to cut back on the fabulously farty fresh fruit diet of red wine and chocolate strawberries. I don't need to weigh myself. And I'm quite happy with being approximately at an acceptable weight.
I've seen people measure the distance between the flowers they're planting. Are they mad? They're down on their hands and knees, tape measure held taut as they carefully measure the exact length between each plant. They're the ones who probably know precisely how much gas they still have in their car, and what the exact time of day it is, down to the second.
I've never grasped the concept of what zero means either, and therefore I've also never grasped what 1,000,000 means. So many zeros! But if zero means nothing, how can placing a one in front of so many of them make it a great big number? I totally do not understand.
And if figuring out what zero is all about isn't bad enough, what about negative numbers? What numbskull thought them up? Does anyone really know what a negative number means? Something tells me that that silly little zero is involved yet again. Two-faced wimp. Happy and sad at the same time. Causer of untold misery to the masses who strive to be positive. Nobody wants to be negative. Not even a number.
Yes indeed, down with accuracy. Live life dangerously without inhibitions of statistics or those pesky preposterous zeros that are just too difficult to comprehend. Long live approximations. Revitalize your life with more or lesses.
There's nothing to it.
Under the Same Moon
Just have to follow
by Sandra Staas (Tue Jul 20, 2010)
I often find myself following people. When I'm in a supermarket and I hear people speaking in Spanish I ‘surreptitiously' slide over behind them. They could be on another aisle and I still follow them. On occasion I have even been known to accidentally on purpose drop something so that they will turn round and we can strike up a conversation.
Why do I do this? Am I a secret Immigration Officer?
No. I want to speak in Spanish, that's all. I've always told my students that they need to practice their Spanish at every opportunity. And, constantly wanting to improve my Spanish, I follow my own advice, even if it means I have to pursue people and spy on their conversations. Hence the guerrilla warfare on my part. I then give these unsuspecting souls a huge ‘Hola' and engage them in long chatty conversations.
I've met lots of people from different Latin American countries this way, none of whom is in the United States illegally. I've read about the problem of illegal immigration from Latin America in newspaper articles, and learnt about it on television. But, I have no concept of what it must be like to be an illegal immigrant.
The movie, ‘Under the Same Moon' has changed that. It draws you in and gets you involved in the characters' lives. You begin to understand the reasons why people cross over into the United States illegally.
The main character, Carlitos, is nine years old and lives with his grannie in Mexico. His mother, Rosario, lives far away in Los Angeles where she works as a maid to wealthy people. She's illegal and is in the United States to earn a living. She saves as much as she can of her salary and sends the money home to Mexico for her son.
Carlitos is cute and a really good actor who endears himself to the viewer. He isn't the stereotypical illegal immigrant (usually portrayed as being a drug trafficker or arms dealer). He's just a little boy who wants his mummy. His mother is simply an ordinary person following so many others who also have tried to improve their lives.
They're a bit like me, following others in order to improve my Spanish. In fact, Carlitos reminds me of the people I follow in the supermarket. Neither he nor his mother is a bad or evil person. They are innocent.
One awful day, his grannie dies and Carlitos finds himself all alone. He decides to go to the United States to look for his mother. Using his wit and resourcefulness he finds a couple who agree to hide him in their vehicle as they travel over the border.
The love between mother and child is universal and the film helps us comprehend the motivation that pushes both the young boy and his mother into the murky waters of becoming illegal immigrants.
Carlitos encounters many adventures on his journey. He even has to escape from the Immigration officials who find him sleeping on a park bench. When he succeeds in eluding the officials, you want to cheer.
At times, you just want to step into the film and take Carlitos's hand, to help him in his quest. But wouldn't that make us criminals? Isn't it against the law to aid and abet illegal immigrants?
How easy indeed it can be to break the law.
‘Under the Same Moon' is such a very clever film. It deals with the tricky and sensitive issue of illegal immigration in a poignant and compassionate way. And we're left with a deeper understanding of what motivates people to put themselves in jeopardy as they sneak across the border.
Just have to follow
by Sandra Staas (Tue Jul 20, 2010)
I often find myself following people. When I'm in a supermarket and I hear people speaking in Spanish I ‘surreptitiously' slide over behind them. They could be on another aisle and I still follow them. On occasion I have even been known to accidentally on purpose drop something so that they will turn round and we can strike up a conversation.
Why do I do this? Am I a secret Immigration Officer?
No. I want to speak in Spanish, that's all. I've always told my students that they need to practice their Spanish at every opportunity. And, constantly wanting to improve my Spanish, I follow my own advice, even if it means I have to pursue people and spy on their conversations. Hence the guerrilla warfare on my part. I then give these unsuspecting souls a huge ‘Hola' and engage them in long chatty conversations.
I've met lots of people from different Latin American countries this way, none of whom is in the United States illegally. I've read about the problem of illegal immigration from Latin America in newspaper articles, and learnt about it on television. But, I have no concept of what it must be like to be an illegal immigrant.
The movie, ‘Under the Same Moon' has changed that. It draws you in and gets you involved in the characters' lives. You begin to understand the reasons why people cross over into the United States illegally.
The main character, Carlitos, is nine years old and lives with his grannie in Mexico. His mother, Rosario, lives far away in Los Angeles where she works as a maid to wealthy people. She's illegal and is in the United States to earn a living. She saves as much as she can of her salary and sends the money home to Mexico for her son.
Carlitos is cute and a really good actor who endears himself to the viewer. He isn't the stereotypical illegal immigrant (usually portrayed as being a drug trafficker or arms dealer). He's just a little boy who wants his mummy. His mother is simply an ordinary person following so many others who also have tried to improve their lives.
They're a bit like me, following others in order to improve my Spanish. In fact, Carlitos reminds me of the people I follow in the supermarket. Neither he nor his mother is a bad or evil person. They are innocent.
One awful day, his grannie dies and Carlitos finds himself all alone. He decides to go to the United States to look for his mother. Using his wit and resourcefulness he finds a couple who agree to hide him in their vehicle as they travel over the border.
The love between mother and child is universal and the film helps us comprehend the motivation that pushes both the young boy and his mother into the murky waters of becoming illegal immigrants.
Carlitos encounters many adventures on his journey. He even has to escape from the Immigration officials who find him sleeping on a park bench. When he succeeds in eluding the officials, you want to cheer.
At times, you just want to step into the film and take Carlitos's hand, to help him in his quest. But wouldn't that make us criminals? Isn't it against the law to aid and abet illegal immigrants?
How easy indeed it can be to break the law.
‘Under the Same Moon' is such a very clever film. It deals with the tricky and sensitive issue of illegal immigration in a poignant and compassionate way. And we're left with a deeper understanding of what motivates people to put themselves in jeopardy as they sneak across the border.
Live It
Thirteen Things I Love to Hate
And you think I'm kidding?
by Sandra Staas (Mon Jul 12, 2010)
There are so many things that I love to hate. But here are the top thirteen:
1. Having to type the anti-spam word verification code on a website in order to continue. Who the hell can read the squiggly letters and numbers? Takes me three tries sometimes.
2. Being told a representative will answer my call in twenty minutes. Okay, cool. Enough time to take the dog out for a quick pee. I get back and the line is dead.
3. People who go every six months to the dentist, whether they need to or not. They have these perfectly straight, perfectly white teeth. All the better to bite you with.
4. People who can swim. Don't they know it's usually swimmers who drown? Scaredy-cats like me who are afraid of the water never drown.
5. People who simply cannot, or will not, spell my name correctly. Even when I spell it out for them, they get it wrong. Even when I write it down for them, they still spell it wrong. Don't look at me in disbelief as if that's not my name. It is.
6. Fearless freaks who brag about their daring feats. You're only as brave as your fears. Without fears, how could you ever know that you're brave?
7. Those snooty, unoriginal, pseudo-intellectuals who just have to impress everybody with their knowledge and erudition. They'll quote anyone, from Garcia Marquez to Mickey Mouse, as long as it makes an impression. Give me your thoughts, your own words, so that one day I may quote you.
8. People who laugh out loud in movie theaters when nothing is funny. I think they must be best friends with the pseudo-intellectuals (see Number 7, above). They must have a deep inherent desire to be viewed as intelligent oafs.
9. People who chew with their mouth open. I do not wish to see your half-eaten hamburger. If I did, I'd ask you to open wide and spit.
10. Queuing up in the ladies' loo. It makes life more exciting leaping about, all the time pondering whether I could break down the door with one hand or whether I could be audacious enough to pee in the sink.
11. Being called, ‘Hon' by some shop assistant. I'm not a hon, nor a honey. Even if I were, I'm not YOUR honey.
12. Being called, ‘Dear' when I take my car to get repaired. Yes, I do know this repair is going to be very dear. I suggest you wipe the grin off your face, buster; your balls are messing with the wrong woman.
13. Workmen who turn up too early. They step inside with a desire to perform their morning shit in my bathroom. There are trees out back, lots of leaves as well for cleaning up afterwards. Take your bum and dirty boots to the woods.
I also love to hate lists, especially those with even numbers.
Thirteen Things I Love to Hate
And you think I'm kidding?
by Sandra Staas (Mon Jul 12, 2010)
There are so many things that I love to hate. But here are the top thirteen:
1. Having to type the anti-spam word verification code on a website in order to continue. Who the hell can read the squiggly letters and numbers? Takes me three tries sometimes.
2. Being told a representative will answer my call in twenty minutes. Okay, cool. Enough time to take the dog out for a quick pee. I get back and the line is dead.
3. People who go every six months to the dentist, whether they need to or not. They have these perfectly straight, perfectly white teeth. All the better to bite you with.
4. People who can swim. Don't they know it's usually swimmers who drown? Scaredy-cats like me who are afraid of the water never drown.
5. People who simply cannot, or will not, spell my name correctly. Even when I spell it out for them, they get it wrong. Even when I write it down for them, they still spell it wrong. Don't look at me in disbelief as if that's not my name. It is.
6. Fearless freaks who brag about their daring feats. You're only as brave as your fears. Without fears, how could you ever know that you're brave?
7. Those snooty, unoriginal, pseudo-intellectuals who just have to impress everybody with their knowledge and erudition. They'll quote anyone, from Garcia Marquez to Mickey Mouse, as long as it makes an impression. Give me your thoughts, your own words, so that one day I may quote you.
8. People who laugh out loud in movie theaters when nothing is funny. I think they must be best friends with the pseudo-intellectuals (see Number 7, above). They must have a deep inherent desire to be viewed as intelligent oafs.
9. People who chew with their mouth open. I do not wish to see your half-eaten hamburger. If I did, I'd ask you to open wide and spit.
10. Queuing up in the ladies' loo. It makes life more exciting leaping about, all the time pondering whether I could break down the door with one hand or whether I could be audacious enough to pee in the sink.
11. Being called, ‘Hon' by some shop assistant. I'm not a hon, nor a honey. Even if I were, I'm not YOUR honey.
12. Being called, ‘Dear' when I take my car to get repaired. Yes, I do know this repair is going to be very dear. I suggest you wipe the grin off your face, buster; your balls are messing with the wrong woman.
13. Workmen who turn up too early. They step inside with a desire to perform their morning shit in my bathroom. There are trees out back, lots of leaves as well for cleaning up afterwards. Take your bum and dirty boots to the woods.
I also love to hate lists, especially those with even numbers.
Shout It
Elusive Conception
How old is too old?
by Sandra Staas (Tue Jun 01, 2010)
John Travolta's wife, Kelly Preston, age 47, has recently announced that she's pregnant. Now the question being asked on CNN and various talk shows is: Did she conceive naturally, or did she receive a donor egg?
My immediate reaction when I read that she was pregnant was 'that's terrific' but then I noticed her age. How could someone in her late forties be able to get pregnant? When I was much younger than her I couldn't conceive. Huge pangs of jealousy enveloped me for a few seconds as memories of infertility cajoled me back into the past when I was in my late twenties. I did give birth once, thank God, but I always wanted another child. Despite fertility drugs and horrible tests, I never did become pregnant again. Rumour had it that if you drank the tap water of Cambrils, the small town where I lived in Spain, that you'd get pregnant. I drank gallons of the stuff! I even shared a fountain with a donkey hoping that the water would work its magic. After all, the donkeys had no problem in conceiving! But nothing worked.
Fast forward to the present and here are discussions of ‘solving' infertility problems with in vitro fertilization and donor eggs. Woman even up to the age of 50, can be candidates for this procedure. There are also cases of still older women conceiving.
Although I desperately wanted to have another child, and broke so many thermometers in the process as I tried to ascertain when and if ovulation took place, I don't think I'd ever have wanted to conceive using a donor egg. Not at all. If I were going to get pregnant then it would have been with my own egg which contained my own genes. At least that's what I think now, but there again, I was never offered the possibility of a donor egg. I may indeed have leapt at the chance, as keen as I was to become pregnant.
What do you think of conceiving using a donor egg? And up until what age should a woman attempt to conceive?
What do you think?
Elusive Conception
How old is too old?
by Sandra Staas (Tue Jun 01, 2010)
John Travolta's wife, Kelly Preston, age 47, has recently announced that she's pregnant. Now the question being asked on CNN and various talk shows is: Did she conceive naturally, or did she receive a donor egg?
My immediate reaction when I read that she was pregnant was 'that's terrific' but then I noticed her age. How could someone in her late forties be able to get pregnant? When I was much younger than her I couldn't conceive. Huge pangs of jealousy enveloped me for a few seconds as memories of infertility cajoled me back into the past when I was in my late twenties. I did give birth once, thank God, but I always wanted another child. Despite fertility drugs and horrible tests, I never did become pregnant again. Rumour had it that if you drank the tap water of Cambrils, the small town where I lived in Spain, that you'd get pregnant. I drank gallons of the stuff! I even shared a fountain with a donkey hoping that the water would work its magic. After all, the donkeys had no problem in conceiving! But nothing worked.
Fast forward to the present and here are discussions of ‘solving' infertility problems with in vitro fertilization and donor eggs. Woman even up to the age of 50, can be candidates for this procedure. There are also cases of still older women conceiving.
Although I desperately wanted to have another child, and broke so many thermometers in the process as I tried to ascertain when and if ovulation took place, I don't think I'd ever have wanted to conceive using a donor egg. Not at all. If I were going to get pregnant then it would have been with my own egg which contained my own genes. At least that's what I think now, but there again, I was never offered the possibility of a donor egg. I may indeed have leapt at the chance, as keen as I was to become pregnant.
What do you think of conceiving using a donor egg? And up until what age should a woman attempt to conceive?
What do you think?
Shout It
When is it Too Early or Too Late to Call Someone?
Let me sleep! Let me drink my wine in peace!
by Sandra Staas (Mon May 10, 2010)
This morning at 7.18 a.m. - yes, 7.18 in the morning, the phone rang. Who the blazes could be calling at this time? God knows, I need all the beauty sleep I can get.
I let hubby answer the bloody phone. He was already up. Then I burrowed my head underneath the pillow.
The bedroom door opened and hubby sauntered in. ‘It's for you. It‘s the hospital wanting to set up a time for your scan.'
Did I just hear right? Someone was calling me so early in the morning? Before I even had my coffee or my first pee of the day? To set up an appointment? Why the hell couldn't they call at a civilized time? After 9.00 a.m. would be appropriate - but even any time after 8.00 a.m. wouldn't be so bad.
I was extremely polite to this waker-upper, this bright-eyed, annoying person. I had no choice, for I could hardly put two words together. I managed to mumble a few precise words before dismissing this thoughtless dimwit who sounded just too perky and cheery for my liking. Bugger, she even sounded chirpy, like a baby bird singing gleefully as dawn breaks.
I make a good grump, especially first thing in the morning. As the day went on, I did become less grumpy, and by evening, I was in full swing and enjoying a glass of wine - until a telemarketer called at 9.45 p.m.
From one extreme, being awakened and annoyed at 7.18 a.m. to another, being diverted from my wine time at 9.45 p.m. just makes me wonder about the protocol of when it's appropriate to call people.
Any advice will be greatly appreciated - but just don't call me about it early in the morning before I've even flushed the toilet, nor late evening when I'm slapping back my wine.
What do you think?
When is it Too Early or Too Late to Call Someone?
Let me sleep! Let me drink my wine in peace!
by Sandra Staas (Mon May 10, 2010)
This morning at 7.18 a.m. - yes, 7.18 in the morning, the phone rang. Who the blazes could be calling at this time? God knows, I need all the beauty sleep I can get.
I let hubby answer the bloody phone. He was already up. Then I burrowed my head underneath the pillow.
The bedroom door opened and hubby sauntered in. ‘It's for you. It‘s the hospital wanting to set up a time for your scan.'
Did I just hear right? Someone was calling me so early in the morning? Before I even had my coffee or my first pee of the day? To set up an appointment? Why the hell couldn't they call at a civilized time? After 9.00 a.m. would be appropriate - but even any time after 8.00 a.m. wouldn't be so bad.
I was extremely polite to this waker-upper, this bright-eyed, annoying person. I had no choice, for I could hardly put two words together. I managed to mumble a few precise words before dismissing this thoughtless dimwit who sounded just too perky and cheery for my liking. Bugger, she even sounded chirpy, like a baby bird singing gleefully as dawn breaks.
I make a good grump, especially first thing in the morning. As the day went on, I did become less grumpy, and by evening, I was in full swing and enjoying a glass of wine - until a telemarketer called at 9.45 p.m.
From one extreme, being awakened and annoyed at 7.18 a.m. to another, being diverted from my wine time at 9.45 p.m. just makes me wonder about the protocol of when it's appropriate to call people.
Any advice will be greatly appreciated - but just don't call me about it early in the morning before I've even flushed the toilet, nor late evening when I'm slapping back my wine.
What do you think?
A Royal Affair
Have you ever postponed doing something for fifteen years? I have.
I'm scared of dentists. So many mistakes and blunders were made in my mouth that in the end I decided to go it alone. No dentists. Just self-care. For fifteen years I was dentistless.
The inevitable occurred recently. A tooth broke. Maybe if I took more calcium pills the tooth would get stronger? Maybe if I used mouthwash six times a day that would help? There was no other way, I had to go to the dentist.
My legs weren't really shaking when I sat in the dentist's waiting room. It must have been the chair that was wobbling. I gazed at one magazine, and another, then I looked at everyone else to see if they were scared like me. Nope. They all looked relaxed. I told myself that I'd had dental work before and had survived, that when the pain gets going, the going gets pain. I was rambling to myself, on the verge of hysteria, ready to bolt out the door. My name was called.
The dental hygienist smiled. Can't stand those people who smile, especially when I'm about to be tortured. I collapsed into the chair.
‘Let me see your broken tooth.' She spoke to me as if I were a child. I wanted to act like one by refusing to open my mouth. But big brave me let her have a look.
‘We'll take an X-ray.'
‘Won't that hurt?'
‘No.'
"Maybe I should get Novocaine?"
‘No need.'
‘But the dentist is going to scrape and poke.'
‘It will be all right. You won't need Lidocaine.' She corrected me quite respectfully, I will say that.
She shoved a huge plastic thing in my mouth and took the X-ray. I almost threw up in the process. But it wasn't painful.
Sir Galahad, the dentist, appeared suddenly in front of me as the chair was lowered and I lay prostrate, vulnerable as a chicken about to get its head chopped off.
I was pleasantly surprised not to see up his nostrils for he was wearing a large mask.
‘How are you?'
‘Errrr.' I couldn't answer. I was trembling so much. Every cell in my body was shaking.
‘I've had horrible things happen to my mouth.' There, it was out. I blabbered on, relating to him the long list of dental mishaps that had resulted in my staying away from a dentist for fifteen years.
‘You're in good hands now. May I take a peek at the broken tooth?'
‘You can look, but you can't touch.' I actually said that to him!
‘Hmm. Quite a chunk of tooth has gone. Most of the filling is there, but the tooth‘s basically gone.'
Even I knew that. I wouldn't be here, otherwise.
‘We're going to have to put a crown on it.'
A royal tooth?!
‘Won't it hurt?'
‘We'll make you as comfortable as possible.' He patted my arm as if I were some mutt that had just wandered in.
That doesn't answer the question, buster.
I returned two days later to get the tooth prepared for a crown. Novocaine, my favourite friend of daring dental dalliances came to the rescue. I supposed I should say, Lidocaine, now that I'm up-to-date on dental practices. I was actually feeling confident as I lay there, staring at the blank ceiling. I tried to ignore the different drills he used, and that horrible sound of raw nerves being punctured. Suddenly there was an excruciating sharp pain. I raised my hand. He asked what was wrong.
What do you think is wrong? It hurts!
He injected more anesthetic and continued drilling. One hour later I had a temporary crown placed on top of my once-broken tooth. My royal molar.
I was dying to pee. But I had been lying there so long I could hardly get up. Fortunately the hygienist pressed the button and the chair raised itself. I fled to the bathroom mumbling a plethora of thank you's on the way out.
So, no more postponements. I have to go back in a couple of weeks to get the permanent crown. Sir Galahad assured me I won't need an anesthetic. Says who? He even told me I'll probably need three more crowns on the lower jaw. He was a bit too smug when he said that. Maybe I could double up on those calcium pills? Maybe I could use more mouthwash? After all, that worked for fifteen years. Maybe I can postpone the other crowns - at least until I break another tooth.
Have you ever postponed doing something for fifteen years? I have.
I'm scared of dentists. So many mistakes and blunders were made in my mouth that in the end I decided to go it alone. No dentists. Just self-care. For fifteen years I was dentistless.
The inevitable occurred recently. A tooth broke. Maybe if I took more calcium pills the tooth would get stronger? Maybe if I used mouthwash six times a day that would help? There was no other way, I had to go to the dentist.
My legs weren't really shaking when I sat in the dentist's waiting room. It must have been the chair that was wobbling. I gazed at one magazine, and another, then I looked at everyone else to see if they were scared like me. Nope. They all looked relaxed. I told myself that I'd had dental work before and had survived, that when the pain gets going, the going gets pain. I was rambling to myself, on the verge of hysteria, ready to bolt out the door. My name was called.
The dental hygienist smiled. Can't stand those people who smile, especially when I'm about to be tortured. I collapsed into the chair.
‘Let me see your broken tooth.' She spoke to me as if I were a child. I wanted to act like one by refusing to open my mouth. But big brave me let her have a look.
‘We'll take an X-ray.'
‘Won't that hurt?'
‘No.'
"Maybe I should get Novocaine?"
‘No need.'
‘But the dentist is going to scrape and poke.'
‘It will be all right. You won't need Lidocaine.' She corrected me quite respectfully, I will say that.
She shoved a huge plastic thing in my mouth and took the X-ray. I almost threw up in the process. But it wasn't painful.
Sir Galahad, the dentist, appeared suddenly in front of me as the chair was lowered and I lay prostrate, vulnerable as a chicken about to get its head chopped off.
I was pleasantly surprised not to see up his nostrils for he was wearing a large mask.
‘How are you?'
‘Errrr.' I couldn't answer. I was trembling so much. Every cell in my body was shaking.
‘I've had horrible things happen to my mouth.' There, it was out. I blabbered on, relating to him the long list of dental mishaps that had resulted in my staying away from a dentist for fifteen years.
‘You're in good hands now. May I take a peek at the broken tooth?'
‘You can look, but you can't touch.' I actually said that to him!
‘Hmm. Quite a chunk of tooth has gone. Most of the filling is there, but the tooth‘s basically gone.'
Even I knew that. I wouldn't be here, otherwise.
‘We're going to have to put a crown on it.'
A royal tooth?!
‘Won't it hurt?'
‘We'll make you as comfortable as possible.' He patted my arm as if I were some mutt that had just wandered in.
That doesn't answer the question, buster.
I returned two days later to get the tooth prepared for a crown. Novocaine, my favourite friend of daring dental dalliances came to the rescue. I supposed I should say, Lidocaine, now that I'm up-to-date on dental practices. I was actually feeling confident as I lay there, staring at the blank ceiling. I tried to ignore the different drills he used, and that horrible sound of raw nerves being punctured. Suddenly there was an excruciating sharp pain. I raised my hand. He asked what was wrong.
What do you think is wrong? It hurts!
He injected more anesthetic and continued drilling. One hour later I had a temporary crown placed on top of my once-broken tooth. My royal molar.
I was dying to pee. But I had been lying there so long I could hardly get up. Fortunately the hygienist pressed the button and the chair raised itself. I fled to the bathroom mumbling a plethora of thank you's on the way out.
So, no more postponements. I have to go back in a couple of weeks to get the permanent crown. Sir Galahad assured me I won't need an anesthetic. Says who? He even told me I'll probably need three more crowns on the lower jaw. He was a bit too smug when he said that. Maybe I could double up on those calcium pills? Maybe I could use more mouthwash? After all, that worked for fifteen years. Maybe I can postpone the other crowns - at least until I break another tooth.
Pills or Crotch
Feel It!
Pills or Crotch.
Which is worse?
by Sandra Staas (Thu Mar 18, 2010)
Have you ever had an excruciating pain that is so bad you want to scream, but you can't? You're numb with pain. Literally.
I woke up one morning with a sharp pain in my elbow. Later, there was a shooting pain that ran from my elbow to my finger tips. It was like an electric current. Argh! I wanted to yell out, but couldn't. Then, my arm went numb. I thought I had been hit by lightning.
Sitting made the pain worse, as did standing, as did lying down, as did walking up a slope. The only time I didn't have pain was walking on a level surface. Getting into and out of my car? That was enough to make me want to cut off my arm.
I've never liked seeing a doctor. Nor have I been one to take medications unless it's absolutely essential. I don't even take aspirin.
But, after several days of overwhelming pain and subsequent numbness, I finally sought medical help. A physician's assistant pressed the median nerve in my wrist. This time I managed a screeching yell, something like a bunny about to be devoured by an owl.
‘You have a pinched nerve in your neck' she avowed, quite matter-of-factly. ‘You'll need X rays. Then, see the doctor.'
A few days later can you guess what the doctor did? Yep. He pressed the median nerve in my wrist. Didn't he know I was already in pain? I think I screamed, but maybe I didn't. Maybe my eyes screamed.
‘Take this anti-inflammatory pill for one month, then come back and see me.'
I read the paper which adjoins prescription drugs. It said that this pill could cause liver damage, strokes, and sudden heart attacks. What? And I'm supposed to take this chemical for one whole month?
A week later, I got tingling around my chin. Isn't that a classic sign of a heart attack or of a stroke? Maybe the anti-inflammatory pills were the cause? Maybe I had only hours left to live?
The common consensus of friends and family was to see a chiropractor. Even the pharmacist who had filled the prescription had recommended her chiropractor in glowing terms. She had gone to him for her pinched nerve. No way was she taking pills.
My knowledge of chiropractors was superficial at best. Aren't they the ones who wring your neck like a chicken?
The chiropractor examined my X rays carefully and confirmed I had a pinched nerve in my neck. He told me to stop the anti-inflammatory pills, and suggested he give me a preview of the type of treatment he could offer me. At least he didn't press the median nerve. Yeah! Maybe it wouldn't be that bad. I lay down on his table.
Before I knew it, he was seated behind my head. His legs were wide open. My head was cradled between his thighs, deep inside his crotch. I hate to think where the top of my head was. I wanted to get up and out.
He moved my neck back and forth.
‘Does this bother you?' He enquired in a very soothing voice.
I couldn't answer because I was trying not to laugh. I kept thinking of where my head was placed.
Embarrassment, pain and laughter. Was I going completely crazy? How could I experience so many emotions at the same time?
‘See me three times a week for six weeks' he announced when my head was finally released from wearing his privates like a hat.
The thought of lying with my head stuck up his crotch for the next six weeks was just too much. But neither did I want to continue taking the anti-inflammatory pill.
On the one hand, the chiropractor was charming, good-looking with an impressive crotch. Not that I actually saw it, mind you. On the other hand, there was the possibility of instant death, or liver damage at best, if I continued with the anti-inflammatory.
In the end, I made my decision. I chose to forego both the six week rendezvous with a crotch, and the one month interlude with pills. Slowly, after a month or so, the pain and tingling subsided. My body healed itself, without pills and without my head being buried inside a cavernous crotch.
Feel It!
Pills or Crotch.
Which is worse?
by Sandra Staas (Thu Mar 18, 2010)
Have you ever had an excruciating pain that is so bad you want to scream, but you can't? You're numb with pain. Literally.
I woke up one morning with a sharp pain in my elbow. Later, there was a shooting pain that ran from my elbow to my finger tips. It was like an electric current. Argh! I wanted to yell out, but couldn't. Then, my arm went numb. I thought I had been hit by lightning.
Sitting made the pain worse, as did standing, as did lying down, as did walking up a slope. The only time I didn't have pain was walking on a level surface. Getting into and out of my car? That was enough to make me want to cut off my arm.
I've never liked seeing a doctor. Nor have I been one to take medications unless it's absolutely essential. I don't even take aspirin.
But, after several days of overwhelming pain and subsequent numbness, I finally sought medical help. A physician's assistant pressed the median nerve in my wrist. This time I managed a screeching yell, something like a bunny about to be devoured by an owl.
‘You have a pinched nerve in your neck' she avowed, quite matter-of-factly. ‘You'll need X rays. Then, see the doctor.'
A few days later can you guess what the doctor did? Yep. He pressed the median nerve in my wrist. Didn't he know I was already in pain? I think I screamed, but maybe I didn't. Maybe my eyes screamed.
‘Take this anti-inflammatory pill for one month, then come back and see me.'
I read the paper which adjoins prescription drugs. It said that this pill could cause liver damage, strokes, and sudden heart attacks. What? And I'm supposed to take this chemical for one whole month?
A week later, I got tingling around my chin. Isn't that a classic sign of a heart attack or of a stroke? Maybe the anti-inflammatory pills were the cause? Maybe I had only hours left to live?
The common consensus of friends and family was to see a chiropractor. Even the pharmacist who had filled the prescription had recommended her chiropractor in glowing terms. She had gone to him for her pinched nerve. No way was she taking pills.
My knowledge of chiropractors was superficial at best. Aren't they the ones who wring your neck like a chicken?
The chiropractor examined my X rays carefully and confirmed I had a pinched nerve in my neck. He told me to stop the anti-inflammatory pills, and suggested he give me a preview of the type of treatment he could offer me. At least he didn't press the median nerve. Yeah! Maybe it wouldn't be that bad. I lay down on his table.
Before I knew it, he was seated behind my head. His legs were wide open. My head was cradled between his thighs, deep inside his crotch. I hate to think where the top of my head was. I wanted to get up and out.
He moved my neck back and forth.
‘Does this bother you?' He enquired in a very soothing voice.
I couldn't answer because I was trying not to laugh. I kept thinking of where my head was placed.
Embarrassment, pain and laughter. Was I going completely crazy? How could I experience so many emotions at the same time?
‘See me three times a week for six weeks' he announced when my head was finally released from wearing his privates like a hat.
The thought of lying with my head stuck up his crotch for the next six weeks was just too much. But neither did I want to continue taking the anti-inflammatory pill.
On the one hand, the chiropractor was charming, good-looking with an impressive crotch. Not that I actually saw it, mind you. On the other hand, there was the possibility of instant death, or liver damage at best, if I continued with the anti-inflammatory.
In the end, I made my decision. I chose to forego both the six week rendezvous with a crotch, and the one month interlude with pills. Slowly, after a month or so, the pain and tingling subsided. My body healed itself, without pills and without my head being buried inside a cavernous crotch.
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