tammytoes

Nerve Journal

It’s been a while since I’ve written about the jaw. Last week was not pretty, so I decided to try and not acknowledge it as much as possible. The numbness came back with a vengeance and I also managed to bite a significant portion out of a feeling part of my lower lip in the vicinity of the numbness, so all week the mouth was alternately between prickly cold numbness and pain of that irritating variety that announces itself whenever you do, um, anything. It was a challenge. This week is better.

I had my last followup with my oral surgeon and the dental clinic. I feel likey they’ve given me some encouraging words, patted me on the back, and have washed their hands of me. I might feel pretty angry about that – or pretty powerless – but I’m convinced that I’m healing. They’ve been pretty useless anyway. You know what the test for a healing alveolar nerve is? The oral surgeon pokes at your face with one of those teeth scraping things until you have sensation (aka: pain) and then he says, triumphantly, “You see, there’s sensation there! It IS healing!” Uh-huh. Every time I go the clinic they try to give me a mug. I’ve already got one, but they keep offering them to me. I wonder: is this a bribe of some sort? If so, it’s a damn cheap one.

Here’s a wonderific poem for your Monday night. I dedicate it to a certain seductive corgi who lives in Manitou Springs. To know her is to love her.

Dog World

by Amy Gerstler

It’s hard to be human.

Doomed to tumble

into troubled sleep

every morning near dawn;

when slumber finally engulfs you

it’s like being pushed down a well.

After a long fall you hit

lead-colored water, thrash around,

churning up much, and nearly drown

in doubts about your sanity,

bank account, and having

kissed someone you shouldn’t

on a lunch break you weren’t

supposed to take, anyway.

Face it. You’ve always

been more comfortable

in the company

of fun-loving Welsh corgis,

brainy German sherpherds,

contemplative basenjis,

or solemn Neapolitan mastiffs,

whose ageless wrinkled faces,

labyrinths of noble folds,

resemble ancient Sumerian kings’

fabled ultrasoggy genitalia.

Welcome to a land where urine

is sacrament; where knowledge

equivalent to that contained

in man’s vast, dusty libraries

can be gleaned immediately,

through your nose. Rabbits

about in this other world

you’ve woken up into, popping

out of the underbrush

like bubbles from champagne.

No more fretting about

your hairline. You have beautiful

mahogany markings now

and a spotted belly,

the same as your litter sister,

who (unlike the aloof women

in that cowboy bar last night)

will be happy to have quick,

energetic sex with you,

whenever you wish. Crisp, wiry hair

covers your form. Your tail

is long and strong. This kingdom

of wet paws, of romps through miles

of bluebells and red alder,

of dizzying sunlight and powdery

snowdrifts to roll in, is animated by

the irresistible glint

of a pheasant’s cold golden eye,

the pleasure of tearing

anything to bits with your teeth,

of scaring raccoons away from

a half-eaten hamburger and french fries;

or of falling instantly, peacefully

asleep in a hayloft, your mouth full

of crunchy, succulent twigs.

I woke up yesterday morning with regret on my mind. I know that I’m a person who pretends to live without regrets, and for the most part, I really do. But I think we’re all guilty of waking up with something nagging at us once in a while. For me, I woke up thinking, “Wasn’t I supposed to be done with my Ph.D. this year?” Garf. This has been complicated by the fact that I’m pretty much down to one undergraduate student loan, but it’s the BIG one and between all the deferments and payment plans I’ve employed over the years to put off the reality of the beast, I’m finally stuck with making the BIG payments on it. I keep telling myself that the total debt I acquired from college was less than one year’s worth of tuition and expenses to attend it, but there have been years since I graduated in which my yearly income was less than that figure. And then I kick myself because, yes, I had a wonderful liberal arts school experience, but am I actually doing ANYTHING with my degree that justifies the money I spent on it? And then I remember: the reason I went to that college was that it would help me get to the university where I could work on the Ph.D. that I was supposed to get before I turned thirty. Yes – you see where this is going. Existential crisis from hell. Anyway, mercifully, Ray shook me out of it by asking, simply: Do you really think you’d have been happy being stuck at Berkeley, slaving for the university MAN all these years? And the answer, really, is no. But it was nice to be on a career path. I’m still working on that one. I’ll keep you posted if I find one. In the meantime, I’ll comfort myself whenever this particular crisis raises its ugly head by remembering how much life I’ve lived – really lived – since I fled graduate school. It’s been quite an adventure. Not terribly lucrative, though, which means I’ll curse my college every time they write or call to ask me for money. Perhaps I’ll feel more generous when I finally get my own student experience paid for.

In other news, I feel that I must relate that I’ve experienced a new high (or low, depending on your point of view) in diner food. Last night, we made a trek to The Breakfast King, the mightiest of diners in Denver for some post dive-bar comfort, and I was about to order my usual $1.95 extra crispy hash browns (nobody does carbohydrates quite like The Breakfast King) and I noticed that they were advertising a new Sampler Plate, full of everything fried you can possibly imagine. I was feeling adventurous. I was feeling up to fulfilling my fried food quota for the next year or so. So I ordered up a sampler. I managed to eat about a third of the thing, but what a diner sampler it was. Here’s the breakdown. Mozzarella cheese sticks: typical. Fried mushrooms: took a complete pass on those to avoid hurling. Sweet potato french fries: pretty yummy. Beer battered onion rings: darn good. Teriyaki green beans: unexpected and not bad. But here’s the kicker – MACARONI AND CHEESE WEDGES. That’s right. What an ingenious way to deal with cold mac and cheese leftovers! Make ‘em into triangles, bread ‘em, and throw ‘em into the fryer. Were they good? Eh, I just don’t know. It was fried macaroni and cheese, for crying out loud! Available 24 hours a day. Only at The King, baby. I leave you to ponder the implications for western civilization.

Things that have made me happy this week. In no particular order.



loretta lynn. werewolves. a letter from a new york friend. seeing people who love each other back together. the red-headed guy who puts up with me. writing. pop-up blockers. volunteers. good clip art. clouds. belt buckles from alabama and the friends who bring them to colorado just for me. good bank tellers. a clean toaster. a pug named petula. space camp. payday. caffeine-free pepsi. breathe-right nasal strips. good water pressure. cheese puffs. hand sanitizer. sleep and good dreams. my electronic dart board. people who treat their children well. ding dong design. eggplant parmesan. dominoes. cool nights. bobby pins. people who return voicemails. readymade. dogs named rosco. the return of roller derby. zombie romantic comedies. rancid. the public library. looking forward to seeing friends over the weekend. good poetry. school lunches from ray. my down comforter. tostadas. email. ibuprofen. the derby. creative non-fiction. alien finger puppets. dry land. clean dishes. sunflowers. new grip tape. baby ponchos. ray inspiration. sneaking out for baked potatoes. my blog. thrift stores. twangy shit. cheese. typing fast. chip and kim. sunny decks. time off. helping out. encouraging other people with numb faces. being loved.

Hello, it’s Monday.

Ray and I indulged in a horror double-feature at the movies on Sunday. Here’s how it played out.

Exorcist: The Beginning

Okay, I know what you’re thinking: what on earth would posses us (ha! I crack myself up) to see this crappy film? The power of Christ must have compelled us, because the film sure didn’t. I have a pretty high tolerance for crappy horror, because I love the genre, but this was dreadful. And boring. And kind of hilarious, by the end. The film sets itself up to be a dark, cerebral tale of Father Merrin’s first encounter with evil in Africa, but by the end descends into a CG-nightmare parody of the first Exorcist film. By the time Father Merrin squares off with a possessed doctor at the end of the film and she taunts him by inviting him to “shove his meaty cock up her juicy ass,” I could feel the entire audience throw their hands up in the air as if to collectively ask, ARE YOU KIDDING? Anyway, schlockmeister Renny Harlin manages to accomplish nothing with the film, and doesn’t even make it bad enough to compel me to recommend that you go see it just to see how bad it is. On top of that, the film trots out a whole storyline involving Nazis to make a point about “evil” that reduces a real historical tragedy on such a monumental scale to the level of cliche. It was ick, all the way through.

Open Water

A stark contrast to Exorcrap, Open Water is cheaply made, stomach turning and terrifying. I’ve rarely seen a film this economical and yet so effective. The opening is slightly bizarre – the digital video, amateurish acting, and flash of gratuitous nudity make it seem more like porn than a horror film, but once the film establishes itself, it’s gut-eating stuff. I’ll spare you any plot summary, and I can’t talk about the ending, because to do so would give spoilers, but I’m fascinated by the body of criticism that’s already building up about the film. Many good critics, ones that I respect and generally like, have shredded this film. And I’ll give credit to their criticisms. Yup, the film relies on a big gimmick: real sharks. Part of the terror of watching the film is knowing that the actors are bobbing around in open water with actual sharks swimming around. But the shark footage is used sparingly, and very well. We catch glimpses above water, brief underwater shots, and hallucinatory confusions between waves and fins. Terrifying. On top of that, a few critics have hailed the film as an exercise in sadism, and have accused the filmmakers of punishing the audience for identifying with the characters in peril. And I have to admit, there’s some credence to those arguments (about 50 minutes into the film, Ray and I both had the feeling that we just wanted to be on our couch at home instead of subjecting ourselves to the trauma on the screen), but I believe the film cuts it awfully close to the line and manages not to cross it. The most terrifying aspect of the film lies not in the sharks at all – it lies in the question that inevitably crosses the mind of each audience member: what would I do? How would it feel to know I might be doomed, and have a long time to think about it? So, yeah, I did feel kind of empty and drained after the film, but I was also relieved to be on dry land, and happy to have survived it. I don’t think I’ll see it again, but it really is quite a well-made film. I’m still thinking a lot about it. Let me know what you think.

I was glad to see a shark movie. I love shark movies. I also love zombie movies, and I was excited to see a preview for Shaun of the Dead. I have been really pleased with the zombie movie revolution taking place in film these days, because I think the genre is the best place to ask questions about our confusing modern world. But that’s another blog altogether.

A few other weekend musings of note:

I met someone at a party this weekend who attended high school with me. We talked about mutual acquaintances for a while and then she made a very keen observation. “It seemed like we were all a lot taller in high school,” she said. And I think she’s right.

I watched some of the Olympic coverage and I am really, really sick of gymnastics. Isn’t four or five nights enough? Aren’t there close to 30 events in the Olympics? Why are we obsessed with tumbling? And why do we give so much airtime to a sport that encourages girls not to grow up? Ugh – if I hear about another “old” twentysomething female gymnast, I’m going to throw up in solidarity. Seriously! What’s with the bad bangs, prolonged pre-pubescence and groping coaches??

I also heard the rudest sports commentary during the diving competition. There’s some vicious harpy woman who does the commentary and she should be flogged. I kid you not. After one diver made a splash in the finals, she actually said, “They’re going to have to refill the pool after THAT dive.” And then, right after another diver missed a dive: “That dive was DEFICIENT.” And THEN the scary poolside cam (the one that resembles the psycho-killer cam in horror movies because it just follows the athletes around, silently stalking them) followed a diver who placed fourth back to the warm up room and filmed her crying, and falling on the ground – and didn’t stop filming until she noticed that she was being filmed! C’mon, NBC, have you no shame? I thought things would get better without John Tesh, but I guess not.

I’ve ranted enough for one night.

I was back at high school again. Everything was familiarly warm and sticky. Here’s a poem for back to school time:

from Three Mirror Stages

Every Pore and Follicle

by Rachel Hadas

Teenagers stare at themselves so long and hard,

scan their faces and bodies

with such extended, scrupulous attention

that they seem to be listening

even more than looking for some message

which if they are patient,

if they work hard enough at this self-study,

will finally arrive.

Every pore and follicle

of her pubescent body Humbert touched,

tasted, adored, imagined

even if he couldn’t physically reach it.

But it would be truer

to the facts of adolescence

to acknowledge this:

the person who devoured Lolita

was the hungriest eyes

was none other than Lolita.

Decades past adolescence,

we finally realize there is no need to check

the mirroring regard that meets our gaze.

De-dissolved, the self stands up at last,

careless of scrutiny,

clothed in blurs and blemishes and lines

to an ambiguous greeting,

a slowly dawning welcome.