wordless wednesday: damn you pinterest!

the rest of my office is worse (that's why it can never be shown to anyone, ever!)

For backstory, read this first.

Pinterested or not?

In the beginning, I dismissed it as just another fad. Like Twylah. And Klout. I mean, really! If I kept up with every new app out there, I would never have time to actually use them, I'd be plenty busy just downloading them.

Then I started seeing it everywhere. Pin-it me this, pin-it me that...who's afraid of the big, black cat?

Still dismissive, I thought "fools!" (translation= "showoffs!"). You have to admit that it takes a certain amount of unapologetic narcissism to announce your favorite things (hello Oprah)(at least she had the decency to give them out to people)(not that it's that big of a deal for her, she got them for free)(and she got to do a whole show about it, which racked up the millions -- sweet deal for her, never mind the audience).

Where was I? Ah yes, Pinterest.

Let's face it, I thought, Adobe does a fine job of printing to pdf anything on the nets worthy of saving. Plus, it has the added benefit of letting me scan things from printed material, you know, the hands-on informative stuff that was all the rage back when the internet was a glimmer in Al Gore's eyes. I clip stuff, I'm not gonna deny it. That's how I first stumbled on Michelle, my latest purse (yes I name them, stop judging. oh yeah? you name weirder things too, yes. you. do!) It was love at first, second, third, and umpteenth sight.

Longchamp, Balzane bag in red 

Not that there was a weensy bit of a chance that I forget what she it looked like, but having a picture made the wait to buy it even more deliciously excruciating, and the purchase much more efficient (I showed the pdf to the French salespeople and they knew exactly where to direct me, oui oui!).

I have folders, lots of digital folders organized inside a big folder called My Stuff. From Shopping, to Movies, to Books, to Menus, Recipes, Arts and Crafts and the odd unusual pictures, I have it all covered: At the tip of my fingers are all the things that I wouldn't want my early Alzheimer's to destroy. Of course I also have a few of these beauties:

Drawn by my niece when she visited my office, back in the day

The only thing that my folders don't have is the visual/graphic beauty of a nifty Pinterest layout. And also the fact that they are available for all to see. Need validation much? Why yes I do, apparently.

SO I CAVED. And I went to Pinterest to register me an account. EXCEPT, instead of the usual registration page, I was routed to a page that informed me that though I am very important to them, I can only be promised to be put on a WAITING LIST. Wait? WHAT! Pinterest doesn't want ME? Just when I was finally wanting IT? Story of my life....

Of course now I want it even more (or maybe that was the idea all along -- clever marketing, that's for sure).

I even have a few ideas ready about what kind of categories I would create (purses being the top of my list, of course, hello?).

They better hurry and give me the account before the Alzheimer kicks in ...

What about you? How do you feel about Pinterest? If you have it, how long did you have to wait for yours? What kinda categories do you have in it? Com'on people, I have to live vicariously through you, throw me that bone!

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * 

Addendum: Since posting this, thanks to the swift rescue of Victorias_View, I received and accepted an invitation to join Pinterest. Check mine out here. Weee!

slow down people

Last night, little miss Em refused to brush her teeth… again. There was something slightly different to her usual tearful drama, though. As it turns out, she had an infected tooth and her distress was actually genuine. Yes, I know, we’re having a major dental epidemic in my family. I just had a root canal, the hubby had two (of course he couldn’t pass up the chance to one-up me, I’ll-see-your-one-tooth-and-raise-you kinda thing) and now Emily.

So we made an emergency visit to the dentist this morning. After which I promptly attempted to promptly drop her off at school so she wouldn't miss much. Since I have late mornings and daddy usually takes her to school, I had not been on the freeways during rush hour for a while.

This morning I saw five separate car accidents… count them FIVE SEPARATE CAR ACCIDENTS… during my 18-mile roundtrip ride.

One of them happened while we were slowed to an almost standstill for an accident to be cleared. This idiot was texting/emailing/tweeting on his phone and just gingerly rear-ended the car in front of him.

IN A TRAFFIC JAM!

BEHIND AN ACCIDENT!!

Of course, this being Los Angeles, the crawling rate of freeway speed on the 405 and the 101 abruptly dropped. Cars were backed up from miles. Both ways. Making people more anxious and more, well, late.

 

I used to like driving.

I used to feel safe in my car.

I will never ever drive anything but a big fat SUV in which I can clearly see the road ahead of me, unobstructed. And anxious, hurried people get off my tail to see better too. Gas prices and the environment be damned!

So my Public Service Announcement for this week is:

Slow the fuck down people!

And STOP USING YOUR CELL PHONES WHILE DRIVING!

That urgent tweet about how it sucks to be #stuckintraffic is REALLY NOT WORTH IT!

You’re welcome.

What about you? How are you doing on the roads lately?

he ain't heavy, he's my father

I used to think that you became an adult when you started driving. 

Or voting. 

Or graduated college. 

Or got your first job.

Then I got married.

I learned that becoming an adult had something to do with making room for someone else’s feelings. Or happiness. Always taking it into consideration, for better or for worse, in sickness and in health. You know, having to put someone else’s needs before yours sometimes.

And then Emily was born.

The first time I looked into her eyes, I got this overpowering realization– chilling, sobering, and exhilarating at the same time— that I was responsible for this helpless little life contained in this tightly bundled body and big innocent eyes. That becoming a parent, with all the bliss and the heartache that it entails, is when you really become an adult.

I spent this past weekend at the hospital with my dad. 

His frail body – once stylishly dressed, mighty and tall – clad in the awkward gown...

Brittle and old.

My dad.

My hero.

And there I was, his helpless child no more, now entertaining him with a game of backgammon and stories to ease his apprehension.

It suddenly dawned on me that you truly become an adult only when you start taking care of your own parent. And being responsible for this fragile person laying on the hospital bed, with fear in his eyes...

Being an adult sucks.

How about you? What was the moment that made you an adult?

Dr John E. Pratte, DDS is an asshole

When I first started blogging, I set myself some perimeters for my writing, some specific rules-of-conduct , which I’ve followed rather staunchly.  One of those rules: No matter how mad you are, do not use the real name (or give specific details that will betray the identity) of the person you are bitching about. Closely followed by: Your blog is not your own personal bitch-fest. Considering the public and unilateral nature of this forum, I felt that some unkind personal thoughts were best left unblogged.

Today, I am breaking both of those rules. Just this once. Because I don’t feel kind at all. Because people need to know what to expect before they put their well-being in the hands of this fucker.  Think of this as a public service announcement for the greater good. And it goes something like this:

So I had the unfortunate displeasure of needing a root canal. My dentist referred me to her usual endodontic specialist. Enter Dr. John Pratte, DDS, herein referred to as the asshole, prick, fucker, cheap fucker, or douchebag. Believe me, I AM controlling my language.

But let me backtrack for a second and set up the stage:

• My dentist referred me to him: He was definitely recommended to me, and thus I trusted him implicitly. 
• I needed a root canal, badly: Even breathing made my tooth hurt. 
• I have a big gagging problem:  throughout the years it has gotten worse. No, it’s not all in my head; it’s a real physical reflex. And yes, dental work is a bitch when you have this problem. Luckily, it is very easily remedied with conscious sedation. 
• When I’m under, I don’t gag… without it, I can’t even get one few-seconds X-ray done.  My dental hygienist, my dentist, the office staff, they all know what to do when I make an appointment. Whenever I see anyone new, dental-health-wise, I make absolutely certain that they have an ample supply of nitrous on hand, otherwise, well… I don’t.

not me, by the way, stole the photo from the internets

also copied from some dentist's website

Oh and a quick description about how nitrous oxide works, from the patient’s perspective: They roll in this apparatus made up of long, narrow tanks, knobs, dials, and tubes. They set up the plastic triangle on your nose, let you breathe in some oxygen first, then turn on the chemical. It smells kind of funny, but after a few breaths, you get into a dreamlike state, where you hear, see, and feel nothing. Or not much. Or whatever you do hear, see or feel is of the trans-like/dream quality, like it’s happening to someone else. Once done with the dental procedure, they slowly shut down the nitrous, let you breathe some pure oxygen to remove any lingering effects from the gas and clear your head. You get up, alert, pay the kind people, and get the hell out.

With me so far?


You can probably see by now where I'm going with this: I need nitrous, it’s a necessity not a luxury. The fucker’s office was amply notified, repeatedly reminded by me during the visit, but the douchebaggery, alas, was not  circumvented.

I'm gonna skip the part where I was made to wait an hour and a half for his prickness, on a confirmed appointment, because his time is so much more valuable than mine, you see;  how he is overpriced, and would have still been considered as being overpriced had he actually been the qualified specialist he purported to be;  how he literally spent 10 minutes cleaning the canals on my first visit and sent me home with a half-frozen face and tongue, which I then proceeded to try to throw up (my own tongue felt like a foreign object, ever felt that?) for the next three hours until the novocain's effect subsided; how the excruciating pain lasted three weeks before he “continued” the procedure on a second visit,  which I can only assume he has worked out as a way to justify the exorbitant price he was charging, like “See? This is complicated, even requires two visits, and therefore should be expensive” (I've never heard of a root canal being done in two sittings, have you?); how when I called a week later reporting the pain, you know the kind where I can't eat, drink or breathe without pain, I was summarily dismissed by their admission that "oh, there must still be some tissue left", oh REALLY, wasn't the whole visit's POINT for you to take care of THAT?

He gets the asshole award for the sadism (or at the very least the blatant disregard for a patient’s well-being) with which he insisted upon (and succeeded in) administering pain without proper sedation. He charged me (overcharged me, rather) for the nitrous upfront, but kept shutting it off before the end of the procedure, presumably to save a few bucks, and yanked me back to consciousness, abruptly and unsafely, to a mouth full of instruments, covered by the horrid green plastic gag, choking on my own vomit and struggling to gasp for air. Whatever happened to administering oxygen till completely recovered? I went home woozy and nauseous, and the foggy head and gut-wrenching puking required a whole day of rest to recuperate from. ON TOP of the root canal pain.

THE FUCKER TURNED OFF THE NITROUS BEFORE HE WAS DONE. WHO DOES THAT ?!?!?

What kind of man of medicine tries to shortchange a patient’s well-being for a few milliliters of a chemical that she had ALREADY PAID FOR?? He did this THREE TIMES! With the last time done AFTER he saw me gagging and grasping for air. What kind of douchebag justifies this kind of behavior, to himself and to others? How is this cheap fuck allowed to continue to practice?

Let me repeat this: Dr John Pratte, DDS, CHOKED me, ON PURPOSE, to save a few minutes of nitrous oxide which I HAD ALREADY PAID FOR, AMPLY!! 

The thing is that I would have forgiven him the wait, the pain, and the half ass job. And never have written this post. But he looked me straight in the eye after he did it. No apologies, no excuses. Like I'm some demented idiot who can wake up from a full sedation on her own volition.

So Dr John Pratte, DDS, you fucking, fucking douchebag, the next time you Google yourself and see this, know that though I may not have been able to do anything while you had me helplessly pinned in your chair, I am not at your mercy now and I am here to tell you that I am livid with how you conduct yourself. What have I ever done to you to give you the right to put me in this state of discomfort and pain? I showed up when you asked me to, paid you what you asked me to, and followed the pre-and-post treatment instructions to the letter. Who gave you the right to mess with my well-being? What kind of society are we living in, when the men and women who took an oath to “do no harm” cannot be trusted to uphold that sacred oath? How much money did you save yourself with your fucktardery? Was it worth it? I sincerely hope that you choke on it!

Oh and you're not the only one who will see this when your name is Googled. Payback is a bitch, asshole, and today, her name is Megan.

Welcome to the age of accountability.