Some Distractions are Bigger (and More Terrifying) Than Others

I promise I’ll get back to writing my novel in a minute, but first… AAAAAAAAA!

The world of NaNoWriMo comes with all sorts of support.  There are forums, there are writing groups, there are inspirational pep talks by famous authors, there are meetings, there are apps, and there are at least a dozen tips and strategies for overcoming writer’s block and procrastination.

What there is NOT is any helpful advice about what to do when you sit down to write and see a GIANT SPIDER just outside your office door.

See how it appears to be getting larger in those photos?  Well that’s what it felt like in real life.  (And no, I did not get that close to take its picture, I just zoomed in on the first one I took.)

I know this is not the biggest of all spiders—trust me, I have seen plenty of tarantulas.  But this spider was different from the tarantulas because A) It was in my house, and B) I didn’t know what it was.

I thought for a moment the marking on its back kind of looked like a violin, so I thought it could be a brown recluse.  Then I thought it looked more like a lava lamp, so I thought maybe it was some sort of hippie type of brown recluse. 

Most of you are thinking, Who cares?  Squish it!  I can’t squish it.  When panic overtakes me, the idea of feeling that crunch under my foot or of squishing it but not hard enough to kill it but just hard enough to make it mad or the idea of it jumping at the last second onto my shoe and running up my leg all keep me from being able to move.  Plus, I hate to kill things and then have someone tell me it was harmless.  And, I wasn’t wearing shoes and didn’t think letting the thing out of my sight was a good idea.

When I see scorpions in the house, I put a glass over them and let my husband deal with them when he comes home.  It works for us.  So I decided to try that.  But scorpions are slow and dumb and spiders are fast and (I fear) smarter than I am.  After standing, poised over the thing with a glass in my hand, for several minutes hoping that a UPS guy or a solicitor would show up at my door (I will buy whatever you are selling if you get rid of this thing for me!) I finally trapped the little sucker.  And really made him mad.

However, that was not enough because he has to stay trapped for nine hours.  Sometimes, when I trap a scorpion, the cats play with the glass and scoot it across the floor.  I cannot risk this big, angry, intelligent, possibly deadly, definitely scary spider escaping.  So I put a brick on top of the glass.  Then I put a book on top of the brick.  Then I surrounded the glass with heavy books.   Then I took away the front book because I need to be able to see in to make sure he’s still there.

Well, the closest bookcase to the spider is the one that holds all my horror books.  So… what I made actually ended up looking more like a shrine to the creepy guy than a cage.

Oh well, as long as it works.

And now, I shall get back to work DESPITE the fact that terror lurks right outside my doorway. 

It may only be this:

But it feels like THIS:

[Note:  No one show this blog post to my mom or else she won’t come pet sit for me this weekend.  Also, no one show it to my cousin or I’ll never convince her to come visit me, ever.]

Popsicles Scare Me

Alright.  This post takes some courage on my part, so bear with me.  It is about one of my fears, possibly even my biggest (however irrational) fear.  And that is things-touching-my-teeth-that-I-don't-want-touching-my-teeth.  Cold things like ice cream and popsicles, and metal things like forks and dentist tools.  I'm sure there is an actual name for this phobia, because there is a name for EVERY phobia, but I have never looked it up because I’m afraid of the images Google might show me.  Because—and you can call me crazy if you want to, but I'm not making this up—I can't even SEE someone else’s teeth touch these things without having a physical and emotional reaction.

A terrifying assortment

You can ask my husband. He knows (and follows, bless him) the rules about eating cold things in front of me, and he has seen me, on multiple occasions, cringe and jerk my head to the side as if I've been slapped, to avoid seeing the commercial where the kid bites the ice cream cone or the dentist pokes at an infected gum line with a little metal hook.  (They really should put up a warning before showing something like that on TV.)  All of this is real.  I mean, I know that it is psychological, that seeing this stuff does not cause actual pain, but what I mean is that I’m not exaggerating how it makes me feel.

I do exaggerate, about other things.

For instance, I pretend to be scared of clowns and scorpions.  Yeah, they are both creepy, but honestly I handle them just fine.  The truth is that sending me a scorpion dressed as a clown (which would actually be pretty funny) or a clown covered in scorpions (holy cow, I think I just came up with my Halloween costume) would be nothing compared to sending me to a children’s popsicle party.  If you ever see me in such a setting, you will notice that I am standing tensely, with my hands clenched into fists, avoiding eye contact with all popsicle eaters and sucking on my teeth with my tongue to keep them warm and safe from the horribleness going on around me.  In fact, right now, as I type, my mouth is clamped shut and I keep running my tongue over my teeth as if to console them.

Holy cow! I actually found a picture of a clown scorpion!
That is awesome! Thank you, BeanDoodling!

Obviously, trips to the dentist cause great anxiety for me, but I go because I know that routine visits for cleanings help prevent the much more terrible visits for fillings and crowns and other horrifying things.  And I have also learned some ways to make the appointments more bearable.  So if you too suffer from things-touching-your-teeth phobia, take note.

My game plan at the dentist used to be feigning confidence and nonchalance. It didn't really work.  The hygienist picks up on the truth pretty quickly when I’m cringing and squeezing my eyes shut and making fists with my hands.  Soon she starts to ask, “"Are you ok?  Does that hurt?  What’s the problem?" and halfway through a procedure when my heart is racing and I have a suction tube in my mouth and there is saliva running down my chin is not the best time to try to articulate the fact that no, it didn’t hurt, per se, I just didn’t like it.

So now I communicate.  Beforehand. 

I tell every new hygienist right up front that I'm a big baby, though I say it in phrases like, "my teeth are sensitive and I have some anxiety about being here so please be gentle".   Anyway, it gets the point across.  And you know what?  It turns out that most dental hygienists are NOT actually sadistic devils who want to harm you and they DO actually try to go easy on you if you’re freaked out.  Who knew?  It’s almost as if they’re… people.

These are not people.
They are mannequins in a creepy display in Panhandle, Texas.

The second thing I’ve learned is to take advantage of the comforts they offer. 

Most hygienists will offer to cover you up with a blanket, which makes you nice and warm and snuggly and conveniently hides the hands you are clenching into fists.  Don’t be embarrassed.  Say yes.  The really nice ones will find a kind way to offer it, such as, “Wow, it’s really cold in here.  Are you cold?  Would you like a blanket?”  They will also adjust the mirror for you so that you can see (or not see, depending on your preference) what is going on in your mouth.  And my favorite little accommodation is when they squirt the cold water on your tongue and let you warm it up first before swishing it around your mouth, instead of sending an icy blast directly onto your poor unprotected teeth.  (Yikes, it is hard to type when my fingers clench uncontrollably like that.)

And the third thing I have learned is if you find a perfect angel of a dental hygienist, do not let her go. 

Yesterday, I went for my regular cleaning, fully expecting to sweat through my clothes and leave with a stress headache.  The women at my dentist office (it is an all-female staff) do the best they can and offer the available comforts, but let’s face it—no one can completely take away the anxiety that comes with being in that chair.  Or so I thought.  And then I met the angel Tatiana. 

Tatiana is the most kind, patient, calm-inducing hygienist on the planet.  She told the “it’s cold in here” lie with expert finesse and covered me with a blanket, she offered to let me warm up the cold water on my tongue, she avoided the instruments that she knew would cause me stress, and she cleaned my teeth with such gentleness that not ONCE did I feel a single poke or stab or scrape or burst of cold air.  They didn’t even need to take my blood pressure afterward.  (Yes, that happens sometimes.)  It was amazing.  I was on such a high after that appointment; I couldn’t stop smiling, and it had nothing to do with my pearly white teeth.

So I thanked Tatiana, unabashedly, for her excellent care, and I gushed to the receptionist about how wonderful Tatiana was and now (I smile as I write this) I have a “Tatiana only” note in my file.  Yep, and I’m not embarrassed about that at all.  I didn’t even wince when I placed the reminder card for my next appointment in my calendar.

So, there is hope for me at the dentist office, but I’m still avoiding eating frozen desserts around strangers.

Chances are, there are some people reading this who can’t fathom what the big deal is about going to the dentist or eating a bowl of ice cream.  But I know there are plenty of people out there who can commiserate with me, and I want them to know they are not alone.  And the rest of you?  It may not be dentist appointments or popsicles or clowns covered in scorpions, but I bet you’ve got your own irrational fear about something, so be kind.  Always be kind.

I am not a grown-up.

March 18, 2013 - 8:00AM

I am not a grown-up.

I know this because today I have been entrusted with a very grown-up activity (a.k.a. the care and well-being of an almost-three-year-old by myself for two days while her parents are at the hospital having baby #2) and while the almost-three-year-old (referred to as 'D' from this point on) is at daycare, I am sitting on the couch having a mild panic attack over the possibility of later having to change a poopy diaper.  I know that D is in the middle of the wild world of potty training, but I also know that accidents still happen and... confession time... I have never actually changed a poopy diaper by myself.  Even that is an almost lie because the times when I WAS involved in a poopy diaper scenario, I merely stared in horror, gagged, or handed the capable grown-up in charge various tools and instruments, much like a nurse in an old movie.  A nurse who gagged at the sight of a little poo.

"How can something so small create so much of something so disgusting?"
- Steve Guttenberg in Three Men and a Baby

The fear-of-the-poopy-diaper actually started this morning at 5:00AM when I first got the call up to the big time.  So I already knew, as I was driving to my friend's house in the dark three hours ago, that I was not a grown-up.  But I was reminded yet again during the car ride to take D to daycare.  (Don't worry, her dad put the car seat in for me, so D is perfectly safe.  And it's a good thing too because it took a long time and looked really difficult and he was all huffy and puffy afterwards, so I don't think I could have done it.  More proof that I am not a grown up.)

Totally clueless.

D was talking to me from the backseat and although I can finally understand the words she uses, they still don't always make a lot of sense.  For instance, here are some snippets from our conversations.

Me-- "I've never seen your daycare, D.  You'll have to show me around!"

D-- "Starburst."

Me-- "Starburst?"

D-- (nods)

Me-- "Hmm.  Yes, starburst..."

(Later, when we arrived at daycare, I learned that D is in the “Starburst” class.  Ohhhh.  Starburst.)

D-- "I need to change clothes."

Me-- (picturing poo or pee in the backseat of my car) "What?!  You need to change clothes?  What happened?!"

D-- "I played in the creek."

Me-- (calming a bit) "Oh, you played in a creek and got your clothes wet and had to change?"

D-- (nods)

Me—“Ok.  Whew.  Good story, D!”

This is how things went.  So, a few minutes later when D said, "Oh!  A spider," I thought she was simply sharing another story with me, or maybe quoting a favorite book.  I said, "A spider?" and D said, "Yeah!" with a happy squeal.  I turned around, waiting for the unrelated-to-anything-happening-in-the-car comment to make sense, and there, hanging from a web attached to the ceiling of my car, was a spider the size of a dime dangling just outside of D's reach.  I know this because she was reaching for it.  And smiling.  I, on the other hand, was trying to keep myself from jumping out of the moving vehicle.  I managed to turn my scream/gasp into a laugh/cough and said things like "Oh wow" and "Look at that" while in my head I was screeching "OH MY GOD THERE IS A SPIDER IN MY CAR!!!" 

(Not a photo of the actual spider.)

Then D said, "It's on the window."  I looked and it was, it was there on the window.  I said, "Let's put down the window and set it free!" and I powered down the window halfway.  The spider retreated in the opposite direction.  D said, "He doesn't want to go out.  Put it back up."  I put it back up.  Then, noticing we were early for daycare anyway, I pulled onto a side street, stopped, and found a tissue and some bravery. 

D-- "Where's daycare?"

Me-- "We'll go to daycare in a minute.  I'm going to get the spider and set him free!"

D-- "He's gone."

Me-- "Gone???"

D-- "He crawled away.  He's FREE!" (throws up her hands in victory)

I looked and she was right.  He was gone.  But since none of the windows were open, his freedom was limited to the inside of my car.  We drove on to daycare, D smiling, me shaking slightly and looking over my shoulder a lot.

It is 8:00AM.  I have been up for three hours and desperately need a nap.  But I can't sleep.  Because while my dear friend is in a hospital room painfully bringing another human being into the world, I am sitting on her couch trying to figure out what terrifies me more-- the threat of a poopy diaper, or the spider lurking somewhere in my car.

I am not a grown-up.