Hollywood Throws Me a Bone

In high school, I applied to a state run (I think?) residential summer language arts immersion program. I applied to study French, a language I hadn’t studied a day in my life but for which I had always harbored a secret love.

This was pre-email notifications, so when I got a letter in the mail, I can remember thinking, “This is my Harry Potter Hogwarts letter!”

I got rejected.

That’s not the worst part, though. The worst part came a week before the program was supposed to start. I got another letter in the mail. Curious, I thought, since they had rejected me. It was with great excitement that I read it and saw directions to the campus!

I called the number provided on THAT letter to ask for more information and was promptly told that I had been mailed the map by accident, that I was still rejected, and I didn’t even receive an apology.

BITCHES.

Y’all keep that little trip down memory lane in your locker because I need to divert down a more contemporary path for a moment.

In the last few months, I experienced (I can now see from the other side) what was one of the deepest depressions I’ve had the displeasure of experiencing in the last decade. I blogged about it here and here if you need to get up to speed.

Some of the things that lifted me from the muck were:

  1. Being flown out to Texas to visit my goddaughter and her parents…errr…I mean my best friend, her loving husband, and their kid,
  2. Getting accepted into the next round of the Sundance Screenwriter’s Lab,
  3. Getting asked to audition for a Network’s comedy showcase.

And all of that literally happened on August 1st, 2nd, and 3rd.

INSANE the way the universe works sometimes.

I had a great time with my peeps, wrote the final draft of my screenplay submission, and developed several characters to present at my audition.

At the audition, I killed it. I don’t say that lightly as I’m usually self-deprecating when it comes to original comedic material. But all of The Network people listening to my audition were laughing continuously and even stated how impressed they were at the end. Usually, if you don’t do so well, you get a kind (yet pitying) “thanks” and you leave.

This time, though, they asked if I was also a writer and mentioned they had a writing program, as well.

“Yes. Yes, I am a writer and an actor. Both. I do both,” I managed to stutter out while gathering my bag.

“Great, we’ll be in touch!”

Whoa. Never before had I ever heard an audition committee make a rock solid commitment to follow up with me.

So I settled in with fingers crossed and the expectation to NEVER HEAR FROM THEM AGAIN. In The Industry, after you audition, you ONLY hear back if you’ve made it through to the next round or booked the job. Otherwise, you can assume from the silence that you didn’t get whatever it is that you just spent a massive amount of time preparing for.

It’s sad, it’s anxiety inducing, it’s depressing.

IT’S HOLLYWOOD.

did hear back, though, and submitted the requisite sketches I needed to, along with a bio and resume, and settled in with the expectation to NEVER HEAR FROM THEM AGAIN.

I wasn’t disappointed.

Weeks went by and not a peep.

I woke up this morning sweating from my lack of AC in a Los Angeles heatwave, in pain because mother nature sent “Aunt Flow” in for a visit at 2 a.m. (I must’ve displeased her last month because she is TEARING SH*T UP), and more than vaguely imagining my life on an isolated island somewhere far away from Tinseltown. Though nothing like the last few months, I still have waves of ennui that knock me into daydreaming about deserting my astronomical career goals and going to find some poor schlub that wants to take a go at domestic bliss.

And then I got an email from The Network with instructions for writing that I didn’t understand because I’d never heard back from them about moving forward.

Do you remember the story from earlier?

DO YOU?!

Deja vu, my friends, in the worst possible way.

But I guess I’m a bit of a masochist, because I wanted that confirmation of rejection. I needed it, needed to get some closure for another failed audition and submission, like any good LA actor and writer.

I typed a short email letting them know that they had accidentally emailed me the instructions.

Within half an hour, I got a return email.

I was expecting: “Oops, sorry about that. Thanks for applying, try again next year.”

Instead, I got: “You are most certainly in. I think we accidentally left you off of the original email! Are you still interested?”

My eyes went blurry and, I swear to you, I thought I was going temporarily blind and/or having a panic attack.

Nope, just tears. Tears of unadulterated joy, relief, satisfaction, vindication, whatever positive emotion you can think of, those tears were saturated in them.

My first move was to get in the shower because sending emails to people at The Network requires me to be presentable, even though they can’t actually see me.

The next was to go get a piece of cake from The Alcove. Their cake is amazing (though, at $7 a slice, you have to really want it).

But I was so flabbergasted by this awesome turn of events that I couldn’t focus enough to find my pants! If that isn’t comedy seeping out of my veins, I don’t know what is.

4 minutes later, I located a clean pair of shorts (well, they passed the smell test) and jumped into my car.

And I got a slice of a really gorgeous Princess cake.

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In the interest of full disclosure, I also walked home with a slice of Chocolate Godiva cake:

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Because I can’t think of a better day to spend $15 on celebratory cake.

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A Random Smattering of Online Dating Messages

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I’ve been pretty open about being at the bottom of an ice cold well of feelings these last couple of days. I’m adding PMS to the mix and now I’m a flood of human emotion mixed with full-body aches.

If I tell one more person, as a response to the question “How are you?”, that “My whole life hurts”, I’m sure someone will call a qualified healthcare professional and have them cart me off to a residential location with padded walls and no sharp objects.

All these feels got me like:

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The Tudors | Showtime

Going through a breakup, even the most amicable (which I guess this one sort of was?), hurts like a bitch–especially for extra feisty people like me that consider emotions to be for the weak:

Mean Me: Hey, me! Cry us a river, build a sustainably-built-eco-friendly bridge, and get over it!

Sad Me: Since when did we care so much about the environment? Also: sadness, sadness, rejection, loneliness, sadness.

Mean Me: Just kidding about the crying. You better not cry over this!

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Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs | SONY

But that inner-monologue tennis match gets old: there’s only so much time I’m willing to dedicate to staring at the undulating shadow of the ceiling fan, lying sprawled on my bed, pondering what I could have done differently to not have ended up here, in this pitiful state.

And because I had already dedicated the weekend immediately post-breakup to alcohol therapy, I decided that this past weekend, I would dedicate to online dating.

Somehow, in my mood fogged, discombobulated brain, I thought that physically seeing the other fish in the sea would cheer me up and make me feel less like the dejected quarter-life hag that I keep seeing in the mirror every morning.

WRONG.

And this is where I propose that grown adults should have “internet babysitters” to keep them from making crappy decisions when they’re emotionally unstable. Because in my hurry to check out dating options, I forgot what a mixed bag of people online dating sites contain. And by “mixed bag” I mean a few examples of Prince Charming ranging all the way to Creepy McCreeperson, with the majority of men falling toward the latter end of the spectrum.

Most of the horribly egregious messages, I’ve just been straight deleting, but tonight, I was inspired to keep the rest and share them with the world.

Originally, I thought I would sign on and just browse, not answering any messages (because it would be unfair to start a relationship when one is not emotionally available AT LEAST THAT’S WHAT KIND PEOPLE DO, RIGHT?). And I haven’t made much of an effort but since I am a generous blogger, I’m going to share a few selections of messages I’ve received with you now–

I signed on last week, and I’ve already received upwards of 80 messages.

THAT’S NOT A BRAG–it just goes to show how many dudes are trolling this site, participating in a numbers game by messaging everyone labeled “woman”. Most of the time, they haven’t actually read your profile, and they’re copy-pasting like you won’t figure that method out.

A small handful of dudes make real efforts at making conversation, based on the information that I have written in my profile, which is AMAZING and I won’t be profiling them here–I’ll never sneer at someone making a true effort.

But most messages look like this:

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He’s got that comma, but forgot to write the rest of his message.

Bonus points if he calls you “gorgeous” because that’s the most overused greeting on these sites. The first time you see it, you may feel great because maybe you’ve been starved for romantic attention, but then it just gets old:

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See what I mean? You could say, “Oh, they’re giving you a compliment!” but maybe you could compliment me on one of the many things I took the time to write in my damn profile and not just look at my photo and pass judgement on my appearance! Also, without identifying factors in the message, it’s most likely a copy-paste and that’s just lazy. 

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Oh, sorry, I was being presumptuous, thinking you may be interested in my intellect and not just my photos. Next time I WILL LEAVE EVERYTHING ELSE BLANK.

Also, the state of Iowa finds me beautiful, y’all, don’t get jealous.

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Just “pretty” cute? No, let me fix that for you: I’m “gorgeous”.

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A “dusk sunrise”…hmmm…dusk and sunrise are opposite astronomical occurrences. Is he saying I’m an enigma wrapped in a paradox? That’s deep. Also the answers to your questions are written in my profile.

At least this next guy read my profile, supposedly more in-depth than any other dude so far:IMG_2042.JPG

Sad that I’ll never know what.

And speaking of interesting conversation openers:

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And this one:

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No, no, I don’t think that I am.

And then there are those that have openers that leave you scratching your head just a little:

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If my future ex-husband had spent more time reading my profile instead of telling me about his medical prowess while neglecting his patients, he would have realized that EVERY SINGLE QUESTION he asked me was answered in my profile. His copy-paste game is strong.

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How do you know I like to travel and why are you making plans for my future-self without consulting my present-self, first?! And it’s a trend, apparently:

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Then there’s this guy, who isn’t short on confidence, but neglects to ask a leading question to get me to respond:

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Maybe he’s expecting, “This all sounds super. Sign me up!”

One of my personal faves, this guy who thinks it’s sexy to accuse me of being a phony “To Catch a Predator” profile:

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And this guy who does not have 4 hours’ worth of patience (although, he probably shouldn’t hold his breath):

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And the pièce de résistance:

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Now y’all know I was rip, roaring, and ready to answer this guy and take him up on his blessing me with his sexual abilities. Note that he does not guarantee my climax–it only happens if there’s a connection between us–so take the free sex on the off-chance that it could be enjoyable.

I posted this final missive of undying love for some of my internet pals to swoon over when one of the more attentive friends pointed out that this is, verbatim, actually a huge scam by some casanova that assures men that this pick-up-paragraph will guarantee they see action from total strangers on the internet.

Talk about insulted! I couldn’t even inspire this future-ex-husband to write a more original love sonnet to me!

Oh well–guess I better stay logged in and wait for the next offer of anonymous sex.

 

 

 

Been in LA for 4 Years and All I Got Was this Lousy T-shirt

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On July 20th, 2012, I arrived in Los Angeles to start my professional acting and writing journey. I was 24, slightly heartbroken/very single, without an acting agent, without a job, and wondering what the hell I had gotten myself into.

4 years later and life has proven that it can be cyclical in the shittiest possible ways.

I’m newly heartbroken/single, without an acting agent (though, I did briefly have one), and still wondering what the hell I’ve gotten myself into.  But I have a job so I guess I can be thankful for small mercies. And I’ve learned to avoid Adele this time around, which is hard because her latest album is perfection.

4 years seems like a lifetime ago–24 year old me had just left her collegiate bubble not long before her journey and was so optimistic about all of the golden opportunities that surely abounded in Tinseltown.

And then I got here, inhaled my first lung-full of the months of dust that had collected on the streets due to the extreme drought conditions and learned what racial type-casting parts are available to women that look like me (maid, thug’s girlfriend, slave, repeat).

It would have been easy to high tail it back to the East Coast. It would have been easy to quit pursuing this astronomical goal and resign myself to a life behind a desk or wiping baby butts that don’t belong to my progeny.

But for some reason, which is frankly beyond all sane thought and comprehension, I am still here. epdlt

 

I am still here and still as in love with lists as when I arrived back then, so I’m going to give you a bunch to sum up what I have accomplished and what I’ve learned.

Things I HAVE accomplished:

  • I’ve lived in the same apartment consistently for the longest period of time EVER. As a Navy kid and due to a turbulent teen experience, I’ve never lived in one house/apartment/dorm for longer than 4 years.
  • I’ve somehow chipped out a reputation as a highly sought after childcarer. As a nanny, I’ve reached the top of the pay bracket in the last 4 years and established myself in many celebrity and high-networth circles as the girl to hire (now, only if my acting and writing took off like that).
  • I’ve managed to support myself financially since I graduated from college 6 years ago, and paid off my student loans (which were supporting me the previous 4 years) in less than 5.
  • I have significantly reduced the amount of panic attacks I experience and that’s probably my GREATEST accomplishment.

On Work:

  • There has to be a balance with the rest of your life. You’ll go crazy/lose friends if you don’t.
  • Having lived a life constantly trying to make ends meet, it’s hard to say no to paying job opportunities, even if you’re financially in a good place. Practice saying “NO” or you won’t have time to pursue other goals.
  • Sometimes we have to do jobs we don’t actually want to do in order to fund our dreams. You are not in the position to be a freeloading millennial. You are not a trust fund kid. Suck it up. Go to your survival job.

On Hollywood and The Grind:

  • It’s all about who you know–and even sometimes making big industry connections won’t do shit unless they are ready to go to bat for you. WHICH WON’T BE OFTEN because so many people here are “risk averse” unless there is something specifically in it for their benefit.
  • Connections can be formed in the weirdest places–like when you go to help someone potty train their kid and they mention they’re an agent and would love to read your work (happening right now, in real life).
  • You have to put in the hours, the thousands of hours, to even make the tiniest bit of headway. But if you don’t, you’re not getting anywhere fast.
  • If you’re a POC, Hollywood is currently interested in “diversity”–and “diversity” includes anyone other than cis-gendered straight males. So white women and white LGBTQetc men are clumped in there with you. Don’t let this be a fad–let it be the new reality by refusing to play a stereotype or a trope (as much as possible). It is entirely possible to write POCs without being offensive, predictable, and boring.
  • Be supportive of other artists–you can’t play ALL OF THE ROLES so try to be excited when your friends/colleagues book.
  • Many people outside of Hollywood won’t know what a coup it is to even GET the audition in the first place. Celebrate every small victory.
  • Even when it feels like you’re banging your head against the wall with new headshots, new (expensive classes), and invested money leaking out of your ears, just keep going. Half the battle is sticking around and outlasting the competition.
  • And the best advice I’ve received (this tidbit of wisdom coming from a successful comedy producer): BE PATIENT.

On Love and Relationships**:

  • Dating is hard. Dating sucks. It’s a necessary evil unless you live in a culture with arranged marriages (and by all accounts, those aren’t fun).
  • Getting hurt is the worst. But if you don’t open yourself up, if you refuse to be cautiously vulnerable, you run the risk of never making that meaningful connection again and pushing away something that could have been great.
  • Don’t settle–you will find someone that loves you just as much, wants to be with you just as much, and isn’t afraid to both show and tell you often.
  • If you’re with someone that is changing how you perceive your value or self-worth in a negative way, END IT. RIGHT NOW. GO. DO IT.
  • Don’t stay with someone because you’re afraid of being alone. Worse than that, don’t stay with someone because you’re afraid of being “the bad guy” by initiating the breakup. Inaction in stringing someone along is more hurtful than taking action.
  • And if it doesn’t ever work out that you meet “the one“, Jane Austen was a spinster and a #BadBitch so you’ll be just fine.

**Full Disclosure–Newly heartbroken/single me thinks the above advice is complete horse shit. But some day (hopefully soon), I’ll let it sink in again.

On Life:

  • Hiring a housekeeper to come once a month is WORTH IT–especially if you’re horrible at cleaning. Paying the money for this luxury will truly raise your spirits beyond measure.
  • Getting married, having babies, owning a house, the “normal life milestones”, etc. may come at a slower pace than your friends back home. But you’ve got a goal, here, and dwelling on what you “don’t have” won’t get you any further to it. Those things aren’t out of reach for you, so be happy for those who are taking the fast track to them.
  • Keeping in touch with non-LA friends and family is key to longevity out here. Having your own cheering section to comfort you, even if over the phone or internet, is sometimes more meaningful than in-person relationships.
  • Your metabolism will slow down. Exercise isn’t an option–it’s a necessity to keep you from turning into a blob.
  • Wash everything in cold water with cold water detergent. And bras last longer if you air dry them.
  • You may miss the simplicity of the life you left behind–but that life wasn’t meant for you, so think about it in the past as a learning experience and not something you abandoned.

And finally, “nothing worth having comes easy”. Life is hard,  but wanting something bigger and better for yourself–wanting your dreams to actually become your reality–takes an incredible amount of moxie–remind yourself that you’ve got it.

“There’s been trials and tribulations
You know I’ve had my share
But I’ve climbed the mountain, I’ve crossed the river
And I’m almost there, I’m almost there
I’m almost there!”
–Princess Tiana, The Princess and The Frog

Up in the Gym Just Workin’ on My Fi– Trying not to Die

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Coming out of my writing hiatus to tell you about that time that I almost died.

Well, I honestly felt like I was dying.

Being an actor, especially in Los Angeles, it’s important that you ensure that a majority of your body parts refrain from jiggling in the presence of a strong wind.

That’s for both boys AND girls. I have it on good, first-hand authority that almost all of the most popular actors/actresses out there get told to keep things tight on a regular basis. Either that, or they want you to go the polar opposite direction so they can cast you as the obese comic relief.

It ain’t fair, but it is what it is…for now.

Gyms around LA range from dirt cheap (Planet Fitness) to more than a low-end car payment (Equinox). The former comes with long wait times for the machines and a packed house all day long, the latter comes with Eucalyptus scented towels, high tech equipment, and frequent celebrity sightings.

Guess which one I wanted to join!

I resisted the urge to blow a large portion of my paycheck on fitness and opted to join the YMCA, a step up from the bottom of the barrel. I have some unhappy childhood memories going to Y summer camp every year (that’s for another day), but the benefit of going Y at this time in life (besides the financial aspect) is that there are 24 YMCAs in LA county that I can go to–24! I’ve already figured out that some are in better neighborhoods than others (I’m not trying to get held up in the parking lot!), so it’s nice to know I can bounce around at will without an extra charge.

I am no stranger to fitness but I will admit that I’ve been estranged from it for more time than I think is actually healthy. I’ve run 3 half-marathons in the last 4 years and I was always an athlete growing up.

Recently, a combination of physical stagnation (enabled by Netflix) and a metabolism that’s thrown in the towel motivated me to get up and get moving. Love handles are cute, in theory, but they’re no fun when trying to keep them from peeking out of the bottom of your shirts. I’m too poor to buy a new wardrobe, so to the sweat store we go.

If I had to give you a little preview of the experience to follow, I would sum it up in one word:

OUCH.

The first day, I did the treadmill and the elliptical at an admittedly glacial pace, not wanting to pull any muscles or injure myself. Slow and steady.

When I woke up the next day without any aches or soreness, I knew I needed to step it up. Another awesome part of a Y membership is that you have a ton of group fitness classes included. I looked on the calendar and saw a “Core & Abs” class later that afternoon–it was only 25 minutes, no big deal, that would fly by.

NAIVE. NAIVE LITTLE SOUL.

I get into the class, follow everyone else’s lead and get a ball and a mat. The instructor tells us to lay down and I silently rejoice that I can get a workout on while laying in a horizontal pose. Would this be the class that my lazy heart would covet?

After the 2nd exercise, my stomach felt like it was punching me from the inside and I could literally feel the bile rise up my throat, threatening to end my workout and that of the man positioned next to me.

I had to throw my legs down, lay flat on my back, and breathe through my nose until the urge to purge passed. WOW, I had really gotten out of shape. I would’ve laughed if I hadn’t thought the gyration to my stomach wouldn’t make me nauseous again.

I started to get back on track with the rest of the group, kept dinner from the previous night down, and finished the workout.

25 minutes ended up feeling like 34 years and when I finally peeled my sweat drenched, sore, and more than slightly smelly body off the mat, those crazy ass endorphins kicked in and and I thought, “HELL YES, let’s go do some cardio!”

Here is where I pause to ensure you that endorphins are just like any other addictive stimulant and they should be illegal and extracted from our bodies as soon as possible.

I got on the treadmill and selected a workout that took me running through a New Zealand National Park. It’s hard to describe but: someone took a camera and ran around scenic sites all over the world. They measured elevation at each point and recorded it. So then they load all of these routes onto the treadmill, and the elevation on the treadmill mirrors the elevation changes you’re seeing on the screen as you run through the gorgeous flora and fauna. You wouldn’t think it would make a difference, but it is so much more interesting running through a “town” than just staring at the mirrors or windows in front of you. My biggest pet peeve with treadmills is the boredom I feel while running without a destination, and this little bit of technology really helps.

I did that for an hour (what–what–WHAT was I thinking??), climbed down from that magic carpet to nowhere, and found my way back to my car. In the shower at home, I marveled in my accomplishment and felt a little less lazy, a little less sluggish, and a lot more self-confident. I went to bed motivated to spring awake the next morning and conquer another group fitness class.

As I peeled my eyes open the following day, I couldn’t move.

Literally. My brain was sending the signal to my legs that they needed to get up so we could pee and my legs said “NO THANK YOU, HONEY, I’M FINE RIGHT HERE”.

My brain insisted, warned them that we were on the brink of reliving our pre-k days of a wet bed, and my arms were entreated to use some leverage to get us moving.

Their response: WE ARE MADE OF LEAD. LEAVE US ALONE.

I rolled my torso to the side, despite the facts that my abs were filing abuse charges against me for the heinous crime I had committed the day before, and I almost landed face first on the dark-stain hardwood. My legs finally decided to cooperate, we made it to the bathroom without any accidents, and then, without my express permission, they carried me back to bed and deposited me onto the mattress.

That blessed, blessed mattress.

Nothing like a near-death experience to make you appreciate your thread count.

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Photo Cred | memesvault.com

For When Your Mouth is On Fire–

I remember it like it was yesterday, as one often does having experienced an insane amount of trauma.

I was sitting in a french-ish restaurant with my Slam Piece–or SP–(some would call him a “boyfriend” but I’m nearing 30 and he’s over the hill, so that seems like a rather juvenile title to give him. Because Slam Piece isn’t juvenile at all).

Brunch was on the menu and I was excited to eat my bacon and cheese croissant sandwich.

While waiting, I attempted to bite into a small section of the miniature french baguette they give everyone when you sit down. FREE BREAD is my favorite kind of bread.

Except–

A pain the likes of which I have never felt before shot through my gum, sliced through my brain, and gave me temporary blindness.

I’m not kidding or exaggerating, I was in tears seconds later and SP was looking at me like I had somehow, and very suddenly, lost my mind. The minute before I had been chatting happily with him, and the next minute, rivers of tears were pouring down my face like the Hoover Dam had gone and busted straight open.

Scared that the nice waiter who asked me if everything was alright would think that SP was an abusive spouse, I quickly told him that I had immense tooth pain and that I would be needing a box for my breakfast.

It was then that I panicked because not only did I not have a regular dentist/dental insurance/ or much of a chance of seeing one on a Saturday, I also have a very deep seated phobia of any and all dental work.

I can’t even get a simple cleaning without losing my shit, so you can imagine my distress at thinking that my wisdom teeth (that had been sneakily growing in for years) were the possible culprits in this situation.

OH, and I was unemployed at the time on top of having no insurance so DOUBLE WHAMMY.

SP knew that I wasn’t in my right mind when I suggested that I would just ignore it. He knew about all of the concerns swirling around in my pain addled brain without me having even given voice to them. Not only did he make my appointment for me at his dentist (who was open on Saturdays, luckily), but he also made the very generous offer to pay for it for me. He offered with such sincerity that my ice cold heart grew three sizes that day, a lá The Grinch.

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You’re a mean one–

Being stubborn and self-sufficient, I would never allow him to do it. I had some savings that could take care of it, and so I agreed to burn through some of that in order to get my mouth under control.

I saw SP’s dentist who informed me that she thought my wisdom teeth needed to come out but couldn’t schedule me for that day. So I set my sights to the internet for a dentist that could help me immediately. I had tried to nap right after the appointment, but the pain was so acute, so shooting, so stinging and fierce that I literally darted up in bed every time I moved my mouth.

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WISDOM TEETH!

I finally found a dentist that was able to help and set up an appointment for the coming Monday when they would wrench out my teeth.

I got to the office and the dentist, who resembled someone’s sweetest grandpa, gave me some free X-rays and informed me that it wasn’t my wisdom teeth causing such pain. It was molar on the right side of my mouth that had a fracture in it and had become infected.

No tooth extraction needed, but a root canal was inevitable.

A root canal.

One of the most painful dental procedures that a person can get. One that would require the actual surgery, a temporary crown fitting, and finally a permanent crown application. A procedure that would take two different appointments on two separate days.

I had no choice, though, it was take care of it or have my mouth continuously infected.

So I bit the bullet.

And trust me, it felt like biting a bullet and then having it explode in my gum line.

The dentist wasn’t going to do the procedure, a specialist was. I can’t remember his name because I can remember very little other than an immense amount of pain from that day.

He walked into the little cubicle I was sitting in and I immediately started crying. Not just crying–blubbering. I could hardly catch my breath and I couldn’t see him through the wells of tears in my eyes. He patted my shoulder gently and said soothing words that I thought one would use with a dog being put to permanent rest on the vet’s table.

Which made me freak out even more.

I explained through gasps and hiccups that I had an extreme phobia of the dentist and hadn’t been in years, since I was old enough to vehemently refuse to set foot in an office.

He said that he was going to talk me through the entire procedure, make sure that I was good and numb, and would be constantly listening out for me to tell him if I was feeling any pain.

So sweet.

So WRONG.

I won’t be sharing every sordid detail of what went on for the next 40 minutes. Doing so would ensure a flare up of PTSD. There were more tears, there was more pain–unimaginable pain (thanks for not working novocaine!)–sniffling, snot, and a sweet dental assistant that petted my head, wiped my tears, and assisted the dentist simultaneously. MAD SKILLS.

I wandered over to get my temporary crown and almost passed out when I saw flecks of my blood on THAT dentist’s face visor.

There was more pain.

More tears.

And another great hygienist pulling me back from The Light.

A few months out and I’m still terrified to return to get the cavities that I have filled. I know with each passing moment, those hole-y teeth only get worse.

On a related note–does anyone know a good brand of denture glue? Because I’m considering pulling all of these out and just getting the fake ones. SP will think that’s real sexy.

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