Root of All Evil?

I remember way back when during a during a football game towards the end of a championship season, I felt compelled enough by my enthusiasm for the game that I threw my body into an open field tackle. I came out the other side of it with the other team’s running back cartwheeling through the air and me with a slightly wonky finger that didn’t look or operate the way it was supposed to.  Similar to most people who go through this, the immediate reaction at seeing a part of their body where it isn’t supposed to be, is a little confusion with the realization that something is not right with this picture. Like most on field injuries, the pain hadn’t really set in, the result likely of the adrenaline from competition and the shock that the tendons just went through.  This, of course, was back in the woolly old days when youths were not quite as coddled as they are now. I am sure in today’s’ world, I would have been wrapped in some sort of soothing cocoon and then airlifted to the nearest emergency hospital.  But back then the coach, or the assistant coach, which in reality was the Geography teacher and the Latin teacher, respectively, took my hand, grasped my wayward finger in his fist and said, “This might hurt a bit, but it isn’t as bad as a root canal”. From that moment on, I could only imagine the searing and most horrendous pain a root canal could bring on. That description was locked into my brain and those words etched into my memory in a way that my teachers wished that the conjugation of Latin verbs would be.

This tale bears influence when years later while ensconced in a Star Wars like reclining chair with a mouthful of metal and a bright light shining in my eyes, I heard my dentist tut-tuting a bit, then said the words that struck fear to the very bottom of my soul, “I think we either have to do a root canal, or failing that, haul that tooth out”. I am sure he had heard a fear laced, piercing scream such as the one I let out many times before, but it didn’t faze him one bit. He put his hand on my shoulder and reassured me that a root canal wasn’t that bad and that anesthesia would help. “After all”,  he said, “a root canal wasn’t as bad as dislocating your finger or anything”.  Okay, he didn’t really say that last bit, but that is the way it was being processed in my terrified brain.  It was discussed and it was decided that a root canal would be the best route as the tooth in question was a really, really important one and if I wanted to eat, it should remain where it was. I did have a fleeting thought that this would be an excellent way to diet, but dieting and not eating really are two different things. 

I spent the next two weeks bemoaning my fate and everyone, to the person, after hearing of my fate, sympathized with me and offered up their own tale of woe or someone they knew or the sister of their cousins’ best friend who underwent a root canal and they were laid up for months with cotton batten coming out of their mouths like an overstuffed couch. I was counting the days down to my appointment with a dread similar to an impending execution. 

When the date finally rolled around and I had spread my story to all those who cared and a large majority who didn’t care, I settled into the previously mentioned Star Wars chair, slipped on the proffered sunglasses which I am sure were designed more to hide the terror in my eyes than to shield me from the shining light.  With my peripheral vision, I could see a large needle rising from somewhere and then I felt the cold steel enter into my mouth and heard the admonishment that I would feel a little pinch.  Surprisingly, that was all I felt.  “They must be setting me up for something a lot worse”, I thought to myself.  After that I was left to my own devices until the anesthetic took hold.  I used my tongue to check the dullness of the pain. It didn’t really register on me that in fact my tongue might be anaesthetized as well, but in moment such as this, logical thought is often the first to go. The dental team arrived back and after tapping the subject tooth a few times, they proceeded to work.  Now it would do this story a whole lot of good if the pain was anything like I had imagined. After a build-up of close to 40 years of anticipation, the procedure was over before I knew it.  I won’t say I felt cheated by the lack of excruciating pain; I was greatly relieved that it wasn’t as portrayed.  I was even moreso relieved when it became apparent that he would have to go in about 3 more times to get the offending nerve out of there.  It seemed I had a problem tooth with hidden canals reaching into areas not usually bothered. As I remarked to my dentist I seemed to have a Zombie tooth, an undead being. It just didn’t want to die and would prefer to stay in my mouth and shuffle around. He got a chuckle out of that, then put his mask on and got back to work.

Now that I have one of my worst nightmares behind me, when people equate a root canal to pain, I tell them that a root canal is a walk in the park. But, if you want to talk pain? One word for you,

Colonoscopy.

Stick 'Em Up!

There are so few things that seem to get me riled up anymore. I used to get so animated about things that were out of whack when compared to my own little sphere of life. Sometimes I couldn’t resist poking a stick at it to see what sort of laughs I could elicit. But as the years have moved me along, my tolerance, instead of shortening, has become somewhat elastic; somewhat more accepting of things. In the past, it didn’t matter if it was politics, sports or movies, if they clashed with my point of view or didn’t measure up to my particular standards, I would start poking. Now, it doesn’t seem to matter that much. To borrow a word from our younger generation, it all seems kind of, meh.

Years ago, if I saw the Montreal Canadiens sitting where they sat last year in the hockey standings, my heart would have dropped a few beats every time I opened the sports pages. My beloved Habs being bottom dwellers, who woulda thunk? I am sure the end result would have resulted in me crying in a glass of warmed over Molson ale and my already white hair an even bolder shade of white. In politics, my liberal leanings would have screamed with outrage over the wavering and dangerous political path our esteemed Prime Minister has been leading us on. But that would only pale against the angst I would have expressed to the strangle hold that right wing conservatism seems to have engulfed both our nation and our southerly neighbours. Comments about the political mistruths and Nixonian political tricks would have blasted forth from my head like a Canada Day fireworks display. But today, not so much.

That said, the other week I did encounter something that while it didn’t necessarily make my blood boil or send the aforementioned fireworks spewing from my forehead, it was enough to make me lean forward to get a second look and confirm what I actually saw.

There were a couple of contributing factors at play here. One was the marketing of something that really had no real use. This is certainly nothing new, look at the Kardashian’s. Reaching back, who could ever forget the Pet Rock craze back in 1975? Slap some googly eyes on a rock, put it in a box and sell it. It pains me to admit to owning two of them. I actually tried to breed them... I had a strange childhood. We could also consider the current on line marketing of the Auld Sod Export Company who sell dirt; Irish dirt, to be specific. A one pound bag of “Official” Irish dirt costs $14.99 US, plus shipping and handling, of course. They also allow you to print off a Letter of Authenticity to show that this is real dirt from County Tipperary. For $14.99 US plus shipping and handling, I’ll come over to your place dressed in green vest, top hat and sing, “Danny Boy” while dancing a jig for you. However, I don’t come with a Letter of Authenticity, but you can’t get more Irish than Patrick.

What caught my attention were these stick figures that people put on the back window of their family vans or SUV’s. These figures, I suppose, illustrates the family contained in the vehicle. They normally have a Mommy and a Daddy holding hands and then “x” number of children, pigtails identifying the girls lined up beside them, all holding hands. This is a very silly idea, but cute all the same. People do love to advertise their family dynamic. I remember back in the 1980's when the orange triangle, “Baby On Board” decals appeared on the back of most young couples cars. Of course, in those days you got them free when you bought a certain product, now I think they are sold as a retail item. This one particular SUV also had a little dog and cat stick figures beside the children. Okay, I can go along with that. I know there are people who love their pets, maybe in fact they love their pets more than people. That is certainly not a hard one to understand. People can be somewhat unpredictable in their actions, although the same thing can be said about pets, no one can doubt their loyalty. But getting back to the SUV, at the end of this line of characters, which by this point was stretching across the rear window, was another dog... a dog with a halo and angel wings. This is the point that I started to search for a stick to begin the poking. I perfectly understand the idea that people might have a place in their hearts for a dog who died, but to slap a stick figure on the back of your vehicle? I can certainly think of other ways to honour the memory. I may also question why they might not have had one for the goldfish that I am sure must have gone to the big glass bowl in the sky. I think every family at one time or another has lost a goldfish, but I guess this is just demonstrates the value of certain pets.

However, the big question to me was, does the marketer of this product also have a Grandpa and Grandma with a halo and angel wings waiting in the inventory somewhere? What about the opposite? Would they have devil’s horns and a forked tail for the less than admired in-laws that have passed? I suppose that the manufacturer will produce anything that someone will buy, no matter how silly or stupid. Maybe there is a market for customized stick figures. I am looking for some stick figures of a guy with turnout pockets with a stick figured tax man holding a gun to his back, standing beside a frazzled looking stick figure woman and with three stick figured children wearing flat boards and each clutching a rolled up degree in their hands and of course a couple dozen goldfish with halos and wings. If you hear of one, please let me know, just stick a sign in your rear window. I am sure I’ll see it.