Root Canals are Fun *OR* More Than Anyone Needs to Know About My Mouth

The summer is flying by so fast I can’t keep up.  I was going to blog about a bunch of different things, but by the time I had a computer in front of me, the topics were not so interesting to me anymore.  I told my kids I’d blog about my birthday, which they were pretty jazzed about, but then I forgot to even do that.

What the hell people, I need some excitement in my life!

Here it is! My new, exciting life. Let’s all wait for it together.

So, in order to get some of that excitement I’ve been craving, I went to the dentist last week.  I’m phobic, so it’s only the second time in over ten years that I’ve gone.  The other time was because my teenie-weenie cavity from the late 90s had turned into a painful crater and I had to get a root canal. Have you heard about these?  Root canals are torture.  A person is way better off just tying a rope to the tooth, the other end to the back bumper, and letting their ten year old son hit the gas pedal.  Or the seven year-old.  It doesn’t really matter which kid.

Just in case your kids aren’t up for helping, you might consider just doing the job yourself. With a wrench. In the library. With Prof. Plum.

After that root canal @ four years ago, I swore a sacred oath with my subconscious to never go back to the dentist. Any dentist.  Shit, who needs that kind of stress?  Not me.  Not you, either, I’m pretty sure.  People’s teeth rotted and fell out all the time back in the day.  There’s no shame in nature.  No shame.

Why is stereotypical Jesus pulling teeth?  He should just let the mofo rot.

Well, unfortunately I cracked a childhood filling a year or two ago and the stupid thing fell out! You get what you pay for I guess, and I don’t recall paying for jack when I was a kid.  Maybe my mom and dad paid?  Whatevs.  It was junk.  It cracked!  It fell out! Color me not impressed with late 70s / early 80s dental work… which cracked and fell out of my head.

I often thought about my cracked filling over the ensuing year or two.  I put my tongue in the craggy bowl it left behind.  I brushed a lot.  I flossed.  I picked at it.  I never chewed on that side.  I did what I needed to do, man. I didn’t, however, go to the dentist. That would be crazy, and I’m not crazy.

Dentists hurt people.  Drills make a lot of shrill, screaming noises inside a person’s head.  Water and dental debris spray a person’s face.  Plus, they can see up your nose.  Right up in there.

They might be able to *see* up your nose, but this guy can *lick* up his nose. Klassy with a K.

Got an eye booger?  They see that too.

Well, that is symbiotic and delicious.

So, I was up half the night last night alternately freaking out and looking up card catalogs to buy on Craigslist, when I finally decided to chill my shit and call it a night.  I wanted to be alert for my first combo heart attack-stroke today, so I made a mental note to share my awesome Craigslist finds with Jeff before dying the next afternoon (today)…my adoring, loving, card catalog enabling husband…and I slept soundly for about 18 minutes.  It was enough.

Also, I’m lying about Jeff’s enabling.  He hates my card catalog pipe dreams.  He says it sounds like a million little drawers full of stuff.  Pshaw.  It’s fabulous furniture, but that has nothing to do with my teeth or this blog.

This could go on forever, so we’ll just fast forward to me sitting in the dentist’s chair.  She’s so sweet, my brand new dentist.  I shared with her that I had an awful taste in my mouth since starting the mega-antibiotic.  You know, the one I had to take for the chronic infection in my jaw?  Weird, she said.  No one had ever complained about that…just…diarrhea.  Have I had diarrhea???

Alleged storm.

I don’t think we need two diarrhea pictures, but what’s not to love about a turtle on a toilet?

Does she not know yet that people don’t talk about diarrhea in polite company??  Not even impolite company, really, though I do try to work it in as often as I can.

She reclined my chair and shot me all to hell with “numbing” shots.  Hey, guess what?  They didn’t work!  She poked me and asked if I felt it.  Yes, thank you, may I have another?

At that point my dentist and her impeccably timed assistant wanted to know about my kids.  So, they wondered, am I ready for them to go back to school soon?  Lessen the stress at home?

No, we homeschool, I explained with the big mouthguard clenched between my teeth.  It went something like this:  “nnnnooooowwwweeeeeedfklgjhslkdjfhglksdfhj”  I dribbled a little.

This is what I looked like today in the chair. It’s a good look.

I always try to be an ambassador for homeschooling.  A lot of people just don’t get it.  The assistant wanted to know, “so, you registered your kids then?”  Hmm.  No, not necessary in Illinois.  What about testing?  Didn’t I have to register them for testing, she wanted to know?  No. No testing necessary in Illinois.  Do we follow the school schedule at least?  NO.  Do I teach them?  NO.  How do my kids interact with other kids?  THEY DON’T!  We stay home all day, every day!  My kids sit in the front window and try to catch the attention of passers-by…  They cry themselves to sleep at night, then dream of the day they’ll be able to have friends, and do standardized tests with rooms full of same-aged human people.

This would be funny if not for the life-sized skeleton my 7 y-o carries around the house.

Actually, the assistant and I had a nice conversation after she took my dripping mouth guard out.  Turns out her son is thinking about homeschooling.

My dentist was ready to move on, so I got more shots in my sensitive, anxiety-ridden face, and a couple of minutes later she started drilling into my head.  It was awesome.  But NO!  I COULD FEEL THAT TOO!

“You can feel that?”  She was somewhat incredulous.  Like all my jerks and flinches were an act.  All the jabs and electrical-like shocks into my brain.  MY BRAIN!

“WTF?? How many times do we need to do this? You should feel NOTHING!!!”

“UNGHUN!”  I shook my head yes.  More numbing attempts.  My tongue felt like a balloon; the roof of my mouth felt like it was closing in and making my gaping maw a mere cozy nook.  But I felt it…  That was the perplexing issue. I. Felt. It.  All of this activity was happening very close to my brain.

More drilling.  Drill, baby, drill…my ass!  Stop drilling!  I was still able to feel the damned drill, but I pretty much just spaced out and let the dentist finish.  Doc muttered a lot to her assistant.  About abnormalities. In my tooth.

I meditated.

“Most people have three canals.  You’re lucky; you have four!” and “Your canals are so tiny!  I can’t see.” and “You have a stone in your canal.” and something else weird.  I felt glorious and special and unique.  Apparently she hadn’t seen a tooth like mine in a llllooonnnggg time, if ever.  All kinds of rare and abnormal features, “and all in the same tooth,” she exclaimed.

Well, here’s the deal.  I still hate going to the dentist because now I know I’m a big freak of nature.  I love nature, but not when it’s freaky and requires 46 shots of knock-out juice injected under my skin every two minutes.  That business hurts, and here I had two c-sections with no post-op painkillers…once upon a time.  High pain tolerance is all I’m saying.

This dude’s got nothing on my four tiny canals. He’s so unoriginal.

When we were finally done with our torturous exercise, I jumped from the chair and commented that the numbing was almost completely gone.  My dentist and her assistant were all like, “It’s supposed to last four hours!”  Nu-uh.  Nope.

Now that she’d drilled and scraped and filed all the nerves and tissue out of my freaky four canals, drugged up the hole, and stuffed it full of papier-mache, I think I may never go back.  I told Jeff that it looks like I’m all set until 2022.

Dentists suck, for realz.  They also drill and give painful shots, in addition to the aforementioned sucking.  It *so* doesn’t pay to have a dental phobia, I’m finding out.

So listen up, kids.  Learn from my mistakes.  Either skip the dentist forever and learn to love creamed corn, or go every six months whether things are rotting or broken or not.  There is no happy medium here.

Yum. It’s what’s for dinner!

I have no idea why every dentist I’ve been to compliments me on my brushing skills, and oral hygiene in general.  What good is it when they come after me with shots and drills and scrunched up, confused faces?  I’d much rather they just punch me in the face, steal my wallet, and post compromising pictures of me on the internet.

Plus, while all this happened, and I didn’t even mention all the crap at Walgreens afterward, my friend kidnapped my kids!  Took them right out of my house and drove away with them.  True story.

I’m Crazy and Unphotogenic

So lately I’ve been in a weird place.  I’m volunteering my time in excess of what some people give to their full time job.  I gave up a leadership role for another of my kids’ activities because I was going crazy with all the demands.  No one is happy once mom rounds the bend into insanity!

The descent is particularly dramatic around here, as we all feed off of each other’s energy.  So, crazy mom means the kids are regularly hysterical, the cats get needy, Jeff ends up carrying the whole household… Oh, right.  He already does carry the whole fricking household.  Dishes, laundry, cat vomit.  He does it all.

Just like that.

More time for the rest of us to be batshitcrazy.  By “us”, I mean “Kim”.  It is what it is.

I kind of enjoy that Sarah Palin was the first several hits for “batshitcrazy” on google images.

Enough about him and that, let’s talk about me some more.  I’ve been hyper-focused on helping my homeschool co-op find a new space for the fall.  It has taken over my home life, though some of that is due to my complete lack of organizational skills.  Some of it is due to a perfectionism streak I try to tell myself I don’t have.  Some of the occupation is because I am wildly in love with this group and my children both say they can’t live without it.

I’ll do whatever it takes to help make this happen and insure it’s there for my kids.  Well, other people’s kids too.  Co-op is no fun without friends.  I should amend that to read, “I will stop short at prostituting myself on Craigslist.”  Everything else is probably okay, or mostly okay.

Nah. Just kidding. Sounds like way too much work.

Now that co-op is straightening itself out though, another group I’m in LURVE with, Chicago Gifted Community Center, is picking up speed again for me. We’re a new non-profit just about to open the doors for membership.  I’m on the board.  I needed to submit a Bio for the website.  I suck and am a big loser.  Well, not really, but this is my blog post and I can say whatever I want.

Seriously though, I feel a little intimidated by the women I’m working with.  They are all amazing, accomplished, passionate women.  They’ve done incredible things with their lives, while also raising their high needs, fabulous kids.

Then there’s me.  I skipped a shower this morning, Jeff brought home take-out for dinner, my butt made a permanent crater on the couch today, and I didn’t graduate from college.

I was close, but I got married and moved to California instead.  I went back to school for photography a few years ago (OMG, 10), but then I dropped out again and had a baby.  I’m a cliche!

A cliche that also cannot multitask.  Lots of people finish their degrees while raising families, yo.  Some people drop out of school and launch billion dollar corporations from  cheap rental apartments.


I mostly got over myself earlier tonight, sent my bio, and found a Photobooth pic that E and I took several months ago.  I cropped E out and realized I look possessed in my remaining half of the picture.

The pic is small, so you can’t see my RED GLOWING EYES!!!

Possessed is as good as it gets, since I look like a moose in all the other pictures.  All four of them.  Apparently I’m in Witness Protection and cannot have people taking my picture.  My friend made a Face-in-Hole of me as the Queen of England, and it’s actually one of the few photos of me in existence!

This is one of the few pictures of me in existence.

So, I’m wallowing in self pity here.  I have B.O., but no degree.  I don’t have a building, bench, or calendar day named after me.  I’m disorganized and overscheduled.  I don’t have any good pictures.  Sigh.  I didn’t launch a billion dollar corporation when I dropped out of school.

Maybe I should cut myself some slack.  These kids I have are a lot of work.  They are always going, going, going…nonstop.  Juggling their extensive, discordant needs is exhausting, and I do a pretty good job.  I’m not saying great, but pretty good is not bad.

My kids are relatively happy.  As long as the older one isn’t in the sun, heat, cold, darkness…and as long as it’s not too noisy or chaotic, either, for him, he’s happy.  Oh, and as long as he has access to electronics, books, magazines and, shit, I don’t know.  It’s a long list.  He’s happy when his needs are met.  He has a lot of needs.

N’s most finely developed / over-worked organs.

The younger is happy when all of the opposite is true.  He likes to be outside, in the noise, creating the chaos, embracing the bedlam.  He does enjoy the electronics, too, but frequently loses his stuff and then pretends he doesn’t care.  I admire that.

The spirit of E. This is what I think he looks like on the inside.

What was the point here?  Did I have a point?  I’m not sure.  Maybe my bio is the point? And my happy go-lucky attitude?  LOL

Here’s my bio:  Kim Beeler has some kids.  She’s crazy, volunteers a lot, has B.O., and no college degree.  She didn’t make a billion dollars when she dropped out of school.

This post is a disaster.  I don’t care.  I’m posting it anyway.

Next time will be brilliant.  🙂

Well, maybe.

Stop Busting My Chops, Kid!

E is such a love.  He’s snips and snails and puppy dog tails.  He’s a little boy and that’s what he’s made of.  He’s also opinionated and bossy and full of the saucy.  He gives me a hard time and makes me crazy.

That’s what moms are made of.  Crazy.  I am supermom.

Today he piped up from the backseat, almost an hour into our drive, “You’re ruining some of my favorite songs, mom.  Please stop now.” Read the rest of this entry »