Losing Wisdom

I'm not a dentist, but I play one really well.

Before I start this post, I should confess a few things. The first is that I have hypochondriac tendencies and I've been known to Google every single symptom I have. The second is that I have an aversion to the medical system, i.e. doctors, dentists, hospitals etc. The third is that I made a commitment to be more responsible about my health care needs this year. The fourth is that I'm very proud of my teeth; folks are usually impressed to learn I've never worn braces.

Earlier this year, I had a nightmare. In it, I dreamed that my tongue had become a two-headed snake and was lashing out at both of my jaws. I woke up in a cold sweat, and with a pain in my right jaw. I chalked it up to it being a developing canker sore.

Fast forward a few months, and the pain grew. I couldn't sleep because my jaw would just throb in pain. I googled 'healing canker sores' with abandon and tried every solution around. I gargled with my mouthwash. I gargled with salt solutions. I used Orajel. I downed Ibuprofen like it was candy. After one sleepless night, I went to the urgent care clinic desperate for some relief. The nurse said my allergies were probably causing this canker sore, and gave me a prescription for some magic mouthwash. If the problem continued, she suggested I rinse with Maalox and Benadryl.

Well, the problem continued. The throb wasn't just my jaw, but also my back teeth. It was like I was teething all over again. Then I saw the season finale of Mad Men of Mad Men and the main character was fighting with a dental abscess. That's when it hit me. Aha! I have a dental abscess! I shall find a dental office and have the dentist take care of this abcess.

So I step into this office and I tell the dentist all about my woes – that I have an abscess, and maybe a canker sore too, and that I just need relief. He proceeds to poke around in my mouth as a way to do his job, and likely, as a way to keep me from telling him how to do his job. After some poking and prodding, he tells me that what I'd seen in my mouth, it is NOT a canker sore. It's just an ordinary indentation that everyone has. But what was troubling me was my wisdom tooth, which is decaying in that same region. The other two (I have three wisdom teeth, not four) would likely give me the same amount of pain, so it's best to have them all removed. He gave me drugs, and sent me on my way.

Since then, I've called the nearby oral surgeon. I have a preliminary appointment next week, and then we'll set aside a time for the Big Removal. I'm nervous. What helps is knowing that I'll have a legitimate excuse to be away from work. What doesn't help is hearing all of the wisdom teeth horror stories, of which there are 983463473743. And it's only a matter of time before I Google 'wisdom teeth horror stories.'

Anyway, it's time to whip out my insurance card and see what other appointments I need to make. With my family history, I can't afford to avoid medical professionals.

What Ya Say Wednesday? "I am so hip, even my errors are correct . . . "

Good reads from around the blogosphere:

The Awkward Black Girl creator is just as cool as I'd imagined. I could use this to stomp out the bugs on my messy coworker's desk. "Never be afraid to embrace what you have naturally." I like you, do you like me? An upcoming documentary explores the challenges of dark skinned women, but that's no reason not to love your brown skin. Nikki Giovanni celebrated a birthday recently, which gives me one reason to watch this clip of my favorite Different World episode.

My Birthday!!

It's my birthday and I'm so happy to be 34 I could scream. The number 33 was so cruel to me. How cruel was it Strength? It was so cruel that if I'm walking down the street and I come across a 33-legged ant, I'm stepping on it and then urinating on its corpse. It was so cruel that if I'm watching Sesame Street and they do an ode to #33, I will throw my television out the window and hope it lands on the corpse of that mutilated 33-legged ant corpse. Once, a coworker was on the eve of this fair age, the so-called Jesus Year, and asked me how it was going. I promptly told him that it feels like you're spending 365 days nailed to the cross. But I'm getting off the cross today and celebrating. I took the day off (something I usually do, but didn't last year. perhaps that sealed my fate) and I'm getting a manicure and pedicure. Good friends will take me out to dinner where I will dine on cranberry pancakes, scrambled eggs, sausage, french fries, and birthday cake. My family is going to take me out for some hibachi food and even though I'm not a fan of red wine, I'm going to down my bottle of pinot noir like a champ and dare somebody to say something. I earned it. So I raise my glass to 34 and all the good things that I know will come with it. And I'll even raise a glass to you, 33, because you have only made me stronger.

Hey, Mr (Computer) Man, there's something wrong with my line ....

(week 1)

Dear Dan The Computer Man:

I appreciate all the rearranging you've done to my work area and giving me a new computer monitor. With all the cutbacks at the company, I'm glad you were able to fit my technical needs into your additional tasks of custodian/payroll supervisor/carpenter. When I saw you leveling that desk the other day, you were less than pleased when I told you about my blank computer screen. Nevertheless, I'm glad you got to it.

That being said, you should know that I keep a variety of items at my desk as a source of inspiration. That Method Man picture you saw, taped to the bottom of my screen? Yeah, I'mmma need that back. There is nothing like a gorgeous, thuggish man staring at me with those possessed eyes, silently encouraging me to represent Wu. Yes, I know he wouldn't want me in all my natural glory, but let me have my fantasy. I'll patiently await my picture to be returned.

Best,

Strength

(week 2)

Dear Dan The Computer Man:

First off, I want to apologize for interrupting you while you were plunging that toilet. Apparently, the unisex bathroom isn't enough for us anymore. And poor you, having to fill in for Craig n dem who rolled out on the company earlier this month. I mean, he could've at least left a uniform behind for you to wear. You look so out of place in your suit and tie, fiercely wielding a plunger.

So it breaks my heart to have to share another computer problem with you. I'm not able to retrieve pertinent documents from my hard drive. Now, I can understand the confusion. When you saw a document saved as 'FUCK YA'LL', you probably thought it was nonsense. Actually, that 12-page document is my letter of resignation. Whenever the Powers That Be give me unneeded stress, I whip out this treaty and add to it. When I leave this company, I want them to know each and every reason for my departure. At least count, I reached reason #274. Please locate my document so I can add reasons #275-#312. Yes, it's been that kind of week. I'll wait for you to work your magic.

Peace and blessings,

Strength

(week 3)

Hey Dan:

Fine, I'll stop calling you at home. But what else am I supposed to do when you don't return my emails or work IMs? I know I scared you when I was sitting at your desk yesterday morning, but desperate times call for desperate measures. If you hadn't called security on me, I would've explained this.

Anyway, my latest computer problem is with my music. In the nearly six years I've been here, I've taken the time to load inspirational music onto my computer. But ever since you did your extreme makeover, I can't find any of my old tunes. I'm a woman who needs to be fed with copious amounts of Eminem/Jay-Z/Me'shell N'degeoHoweverYouSpellIt/Amel Larrieux. And I'm talking DAILY. If I seemed especially aggressive, that was because I didn't get my dose of 'Dead Nigga Boulevard' or 'Way I Am' or 'Kill You.' These are my lullabyes. Once the security guards let me go, I hope to return to a musical computer.

Thanks,

Strength

(week 4)

Hi Dan:

Fine, leave if you want to. You should know that the rumor mill is blazing with tales of your departure. Did you really just erupt when you learned that my latest computer monitor had failed me, and you'd have to get me another one? Did you really storm out of the building shrieking 'FUCK YA'LL!!'? If so, that's copyright infringement, and I hope my check is in the mail.

You'll be happy to know that your replacement is handling my needs. Leo is not disturbed by my bobbleheads, or my Avenging Unicorns. He also has the same musical interests as me. Just the other night at karaoke, we entertained the audience with our duet of 'Renegade.' He did Jay-Z's verses, and I did Eminem's. It was a great time. But I do believe I scared the audience when I jumped up on the table and shrieked 'What did I do (huh)/I'm just a kid from the gutter/makin this butter off these bloodsuckers/cuz I'm a muh'fuckin RENEGADE.' I can't begin to emphasize the sexiness of a man who is strong enough to carry his drunken/deranged colleague off the table, yet gentle enough to hand her another beer and tell her to get back on that stage. I do believe I'm in love.

Anyway, it was great working with you Dan. I heard that a going away party is being planned. Expect Leo and I to be there, carrying microphones and a karaoke machine.

Best wishes,

MC Strength

(Photo from www.digitaljournal.com/img/5/6/48/9/8/i/4/6/2/o/love.jpg

On being catty. With some Method Man mixed in

There is nothing worse than a catty woman. I try my darndest not to be catty, and not to be bitter, to just live and let live. But if I were to be catty, I might mention a few things like:

-How I ran into my ex at the store the other day, and got my first closeup view of him and his homely wife

-After all I've heard about her, I thought that she'd at least be beautiful on the outside. But hey, she is not.

-How he and I nodded a hello, but he was breaking his neck trying to look at me

-How I couldn't help but feel like I was living that infamous Old Spice commercial: "Look at your wife, now look at me. Look at your wife, now look at me. Now, she is NOT me."

-How I looked at myself in the mirror the next morning and shouted "She's ugly!!!" and then laughed and danced my way through the rest of the day

-How I got a text from him and I thought about all the ways I could blow up his spot, but instead I just blocked his number

-How I thought about his new found girth as I weighed myself at the gym, and realized that I am just four pounds away from my goal

I'd say all those things, if I were a catty broad. Thank goodness I'm not.

Now, about Method Man. He is on my LIST. He's that guy that could point to me in a crowd, shout "COME HERE!" and I would go running. Of course, if he yelled something ignant, like "YO BITCH COME HERE!", I would roll my eyes. Yeah, I'd still run to him, but not real fast. (jokes) I used to love this song back in the day and they played it on the radio recently, so I thought I'd share here. Enjoy!

For Dreadlocked Girls Who Have Considered Scissors & Relaxers When The Hairdresser Has Had Enough

My world stopped last week when my hairdresser called. She was having an emergency and wouldn't be able to do my hair that evening. The situation was so dire, that she didn't know when she would be able to do my hair again. So I did what I could do, I comforted Hairdresser, offered words of support, then I hung up the phone and ....

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!SCREAMED!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

You see, Hairdresser is a close family friend. Ok, ok, she's family. There was a time when she had her own shop and I was comforted by the nice, easy banter among us women. Sure, I was often abused ('How long are you gonna make me stay here tonight & deal with your wool, Strength?'), interrogated ('Do you have a goal for this hair? Your locs are already down your back!') and teased ('Is this a gray hair or is this your cat? Oh, it's a gray hair!'). My favorite part of the shop was the way said Hairdresser would greet me, with a hand on her hip and a firm "What do you want?"

But all good things must come to an end, I guess. Economics forced Hairdresser to close up shop and start working at The Hair Shop and Salon. Things are different there. For example, someone answers the phone with a robotic "Thank you for calling the Hair Shop and Salon, where we experience beauty and wellness. What are your wellness needs today?"Each time someone washes your hair they say something like "It was my pleasure to service you." Have I mentioned how much they charge? I mean, I expected to pay a pretty penny for this thick head of hair. But they charge extra for EVERYTHING. An extra $10 just to cut the strands off the locs? Seriously?

So when The Hairdresser couldn't do my hair, that left me with few options. I could either go to The Hair Shop or do it myself. (Or obey my mother and get a relaxer) Clearly, I chose the latter. I've washed and styled my own hair before, but I try to avoid doing it because it's such a time consuming process. Thankfully, I did a lot of googling and youtube research to find the best way to get through this head.

Things actually went well, especially since I'm madly in love with my shampoo. I washed, I twisted, I oiled, I blowdryed, I cornrowed. Boy, it took some time! But I managed to get this head in one big ole braid and got nothing but compliments the next day. Hooray!

But I truly need my Hairdresser to return to locking form, with a quickness.


Photo from http://www.naani.com/contents/media/6fd42c7c0.jpg

!!!It's My Birthday!!!!

There was a time I got so excited about my birthday that I couldn't even sleep. The words March 24th just seemed to have that special flow to the, a flow that would get me all riled up. Sometimes, I'd look at my watch at 3:24 and make a mental note that it was my birthday. Of course, this was back when I was a kid. (Yes, I know I have issues)

The birthday excitement dwindled over the years. The one thing I do like to do every year is flip through the papers and find out which celebrities have my birthday (Mr. Roper and/or Mr. Furly from 'Three's Company', Star Jones, Peyton Manning, Allison Hanigan, Mase, Annabella Sciorra, Harry Houdini) and that's a list that grows every year.

For whatever reason, I was particularly excited about my birthday this year. I don't know why, there's nothing really special about being 32, other than being older than all the days on any given calendar month. But whatever, I checked my watch at 3:24 each day and told folks it was my birthday. Naturally, they looked at me like I was crazy. I went to New York for the weekend and had an AWESOME time seeing The Lion King and catching up with old friends. I took the entire week off and I'm spending it doing whatever the heck I want.

Today, I took myself out for sushi and went to the mall. While I was at the mall, I ran into this woman who was looking at me strangely. Then she came up to me and said I had beautiful eyes. She was a Mary Kay consultant and wanted to know if I'd be interested in modeling for one of her lines.

I paused because this brought me back to a painful college memory. A female friend and I were singing Mint Condition's "Pretty Brown Eyes" and she said the song was about her. I told her it was about me also, but she said that it wasn't about me. She proceeded to say that the song couldn't be about me, because I don't have the "pretty brown eyes" that she does. Her eyes are light, mine are dark. Even though this happened years ago, I still think of that whenever I hear this song.

Anyway, I said yes and gave the lady my telephone number. Maybe she'll call, maybe she won't. Either way, it was a good birthday gift for my self esteem. Hooray! Now all I need is a new wardrobe, and shoes, and a massage, etc etc etc.


(Photo from http://images9.cafepress.com/product/119695959v2_350x350_Front.jpg)

Watching 'Heroes' Nekkid

This will come as a surprise to anyone who knows me, but every once in a while I struggle with my swagger. Even though 99.9 percent of the time I profess to be a queen and insert my name into damn near every song lyric I can find (Lately, it's Dream's 'Shawty You a 10'), I'm actually quite shy and insecure. Close your mouths, it's true.







One of my biggest issues has been naked phobia. Basically, I'm a bit uncomfortable being 'nekkid,' as well as having the folks around me in the buck. This was a nickname that some relatives gave my issue, but after googling it, I found out that it is actually a real problem. I wouldn't say I have a major dose of this phobia, after all, I have been able to get over it in certain situations. I have no clue where I developed it either. Maybe that whole thing in middle school where you have to undress in the locker room with all the other girls. Or maybe it's a general feeling of inadequacy with my own figure, which is something I still struggle with today. I wonder if I would have this problem if I had a bigger chest, flatter stomach and curves. Hmmm.







Anyway, I decided to cure myself. I didn't do any googling or call any 1-800 numbers for advice, I simply found my own way to make my body image better. For about a week, I slept in nothing more than my skin.







This wasn't the first time I slept with nothing on, but it was definitely the first time I did it for a continuous period. I heard people talk about how addicting it is to lie in bed and feel the sheets on your bare skin, how freeing the whole thing is. I wanted to join that club, so I shed my garmets.







For a while, I had a ritual going. I'd hop in the shower, oil down, stand in front of my mirror in the nude and chant 'I love myself, I love myself' a few times and then crawl into bed. At first, it felt a little strange, but then I got used to it. Of course, once my alarm clock came off, I reached for my robe with a quickness.







So far, I'm not addicted to sleeping in the nude, but I don't hate it either. I'm just going with the flow, seeing if I can heal myself. I don't have any answers yet. I do know that I did gain one thing from sleeping nekkid. A cold! It might be time to break out the jammies.

(Photo from http://www.thaicraftstore.com/images/e820_10.jpg)

To My Footsies ....

Dear Feet,

First off, Mama loves you. Seriously. No part of my body has had my back the way you have. You get me through the longest days by adding a spring in my step and there is no greater joy than rubbing you after a long day's work. I know I've put you through some rough patches, like my karate phase where I slammed you into wooden boards, and let's not even talk about the blood clot. As I've gotten older, I've learned to appreciate you two much more. I've even come to appreciate the sluefootedness.

I know the summer months are hard on you, but I want to remind you that that's no excuse to just fall apart on a sister. Remember that both sides of my family are cursed with horrible feet (actually, some folks' look more like monkey paws), but we haven't had to deal with that. I can't even wear sandals around my family anymore because they get so jealous of your beauty!

I have been concerned about your behavior lately. I bought a new pair of sandals, which you seemed to like at the store. But once I wore them for a full day, you wanted to scream out in pain. And you kept me up half the night holding ice to the bumps that had developed near each heel. It wasn't later until I noticed some of your other issues, like the peeling on the right foot. Really, there's no reason for this! I lotion you two up daily and in the summer months, I douse you in vaseline and sleep wearing socks. You are the most lubricated pair of feet on the planet. There is no need for this behavior!

Ok, I'm done criticizing you. This is just a reminder that the summer is almost over and you are going on a cruise in September. No matter what issues you have now, you better be over them by the time I step onto that boat. If my feet look jacked up while I'm in the Carribbean, I'm liable to get rid of ya'll and find a new pair.

Smooches!

Strength

(Photo from http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/nova/mummy/images/ikra-03-feet-l.jpg)

Paper Towel Passion

Back in the day, Mom told me to keep all the love letters I received so I could have fond memories of the guys who sent them. When she told me this, I was a skinny bespectacled kid who never got valentines, let alone love letters.

Fast forward through the years and I did get a decent amount of correspondence from guys. The first one I remember came in fourth grade from my best friend, Franklin. He wore glasses too and the boys in our class called him a "fag" because of his mannerisms. One day in class, he slipped me a note that said: "Do you think we're falling in love? Check yes, no or I don't know." At 11 years old, love was a word I reserved for Mom, Dad, and my poster of Taimak. For whatever the reason, I checked yes.

That was Franklin. We had the typical, childish ‘I-go-with-you/I-quit-you’ kind of relationship. I didn't keep his note, even though, like Mom said, it would have been nice to revisit. I did keep a few letters that I received later in life -- one from a guy I met at the beach the summer I turned 17 and another from an inmate in prison writing workshop that I helped facilitate. (I didn't intend to keep these letters, I just found them piled in with some paperwork.) I never expected to receive another letter, but I was wrong.

A few weeks ago, I arrived at my desk and saw a strategically folded paper towel with the words 'Open Up' on the outside. Keep in mind, it's 8 a.m., I haven't had my tea and my brain isn't functioning properly. I stared at the words a few minutes, contemplating the meaning of 'open up.' I concluded that one of my colleagues left that there to remind me not to be so reserved, to let my hair down a little. Point taken, I thought, and I tossed it in the trash.

The next day, there was another paper towel. This time it had ‘For You’ on the front and I opened it. "This is someone that sees you all the time but really never had a chance to talk to you because sweetheart u move fast when u are in the hallways but at least I get to see that pretty smile. If you are ok with it I would like to get to know you if that's cool. Have a nice day. Are you taken?" The note was signed '_ _ _ Y.'

Now, I can play hangman with the best of them, but I had no idea who _ _ _ Y was. Could it be the quiet maintenance man for whom I've been harboring a secret crush? Or was it the other maintenance man who is always mopping the front area when I arrive? Maybe it's that married, older bigwig in another department who always stares at my ass.

Anyway, I grabbed my own paper towel and addressed my own note to Mr. _ _ _ Y. I basically said that I was flattered and I apologized for throwing out the first note, but I had no clue that it was a note. I also said that he could get to know me, but I wasn't interested in dating anyone these days, but I also wanted to know who he was. When I came to work the next day, the blanks were filled in as TONY. There was no note, nothing. I guess he felt like I played him, but I hope not. I thought the gesture was really sweet, but I just have a deep disdain for all things male at the moment.

To this day, I am not positive who Tony, a.k.a. the Paper Towel Bandit, is. I suspect it is the fella that's mopping the hallways when I arrive (he's the one of the few people I see everyday), but I'm not positive. And if it is him, what do I say? "Hey, are you the guy that's been hovering around my desk at all hours?" With my luck, it's probably the cute maintenance man (even though his nametag lists a name that's nowhere near Tony) and I've scared him away. Sigh. I can't win.

No matter who it is, I folded my little paper towel note up and placed it in my top drawer, right next to my Robin Thicke ticket stub. This might be one of the few notes that I keep.

**Update: I found out who Tony is. It is the dude that's always mopping the front areas when I arrive. I introduced myself to him the other day. Nice guy, but I'm not interested.***

Flawless

I think my mother is having a midlife crisis. She had me when she was young (18) and now that she's pushing 50, she seems to feel like we're in competition. Competition for what, I don't know.

Flashback seven years ago, shortly after my father died. Mom was trying to cheer me up, so we went to the mall and stopped at the M.A.C. Counter.
Mom: Excuse me? I'd like to buy a new foundation.
Saleswoman: Ok. Try this one. You might also want to follow up with this concealer and this as well.
Me: I want a foundation too.
Saleswoman: Okay. (tries a few different kinds on my face, then sighs) You know. You don't really need any foundation. You've got beautiful skin.
Saleswoman #2: Yeah, you don't need anything. You should see me when I take my makeup off.
Me: Thank you.
Mom: Aww, that's so sweet.

Fastforwarded to present day time. Now I'm with the pre-menopausal mother, on the cusp of the senior years. She's on her way to a baby shower and we stop at a kid's clothing store to find a gift.
Saleswoman: (grabbing my arm) I'm sorry, but I have to say this.
Me: Ummm, yes?
Saleswoman: You have really beautiful skin.
Mom: grrrr
Saleswoman: I mean, it's like, flawless.
Me: Thank you.
Saleswoman: I bet people stop you all the time!
Me: Um, not really ...
Mom: Yeah, they only do that when she's with me.
Saleswoman: Guys? Have you seen this woman's skin? Isn't it amazing?!
Mom: You know what? It's time to go. I'm not seeing anything I want in here.
Me: But ...
Mom: (grabbing my arm) Let's go!

So that's the latest example of her midlifery. I tried to tell her that she could also have beautiful skin if she just drank eight glasses of water a day and eased up on the salt, but she looked like she was going to beat me, so I shut up. I heard through one of my aunts that Mom actually likes my new hairstyle, despite all the grief she's given me about it. She told me recently that she bought India.Arie's new cd and that's helping her understand me better. Maybe I need to start watching Oprah. Maybe that would help me understand her and this whole midlife crisis thing.