Deep Thoughts

My IRA is down 60%. I know what you're thinking: welcome to the club. Ah, but Grasshopper, this is one bullet I could have dodged. There's no one to blame, but me.

Because if I followed and monitored and discussed and dissected and juggled and balanced and inspected and studied and scrutinized and analyzed my stock portfolio as carefully as I do my Netflix queue, I'd be a freakin' rock star millionaire.

Seriously.

Priorities, folks. Priorities. And if you need a movie recommendation, hey, I'm your gal.

As the Jaw Turns: the Final Chapter

So it's been 14 months since my maxillofacial (jaw) surgery. Not that I'm counting. But I have sort of been conscious of time since I've been anxiously waiting for the feeling to return to the lower half of my face.

Lips? Dead.
Jawline? Dead.
Upper and lower gums, roof of mouth, tongue?

Dead. Dead. Dead.

Tests show that my motory nerves are fine, which means everything moves perfectly normal. Thank goodness for that. Only the sensory nerves are affected. I finally saw a nerve specialist yesterday (out of pocket, mind you) to learn if this is typical 14 months after surgery. And most important: is it permanent?

His $17 a minute response? Yes. And yes.

This surgery is fraught with potential nerve damage, he said. Most patients regain all the feeling they're going to recoup by month 9. And for patients over the age of 40, it's a very high-risk procedure. 85% of all patients over age 40 suffer some type of permanent nerve damage. Mine just happens to be worse than most.

So sorry, he said. That'll be $250 please.

Talk about pouring salt in the wound.

As I forked over my credit card, I was thinking, golly gee whiz, wouldn't it had been nice if Kaiser had thought to share this minor tidbit of information with me during our initial consultation three years ago? Before I got the braces. Before I embarked on the three-year journey to correct my open-bite and misaligned jaw. Because once the braces were in place, I was committed to the surgery: the two went hand-in-hand. There was no going back.

If just once, during our consultation, Dr. Hottie had mentioned, "Oh by the way, since you're over 40, there's a strong chance this surgery will leave your face feeling like a totem pole," I'm pretty darn sure I would have reconsidered. Yeah, my open-bite made chewing difficult, but let me tell you: a dead-as-a-doornail mug ain't no day at the beach, either.

This is my new reality.

Now believe me, I know there are much worse things in life to bear, like the poor woman whose face was chewed off during a chimp attack. Now she's got problems. All things considered, I know I'm very blessed. And so, you want to slap some sense into me, please, go right ahead.

Because I won't feel a thing.

Someone's been sipping the Kool-aid

"I never look at my watch because the time is always now."
~Carlos Santana

A Saturday of Surprises

Enjoying a sunny spring day with your best friend, shopping for shoes (on sale!) and afterwards, relishing a late lunch at a rustic outdoor bistro:
$95.

Taking an unexpected evening trek to Animal Emergency with your injured greyhound:
$535.

Bringing home, hours later, your still-injured, but otherwise treated and going-to-be-okay beloved dog:
Priceless.

Denial - Probably Not a River in Egypt

Ah, denial. Nobody wants to think they look their age. After all, how many times have you heard someone observe how old everybody else looked at their high school reunion? Yeah, right.

And I'm no exception. I like to think that, at the very least, I look my age, give or take a year. But I wasn't quite prepared for the comment tossed my way this week.

I was performing a community service errand at a retirement center with two acquaintances, older women who are most definitely older than me. I mean, nobody would look at the three of us and think that we ever hung out together at an Osmond Brother concert in the '70's. One I might guess to be in her early-sixties, and the other hovers somewhere around my mother's age, which is 73. Both are nice looking ladies who take pride in their appearances; styled, highlighted hair, tasteful make-up, fashionable clothes.

But there is no mistaking either one for Britney Spears, know what I mean?

So there we were in the car, on our way back from the retirement center, making casual chit-chat about the residents we had met and the whole aging process. Then the older woman turns to me and without batting a carefully mascaraed-eye, casually quips, "You know, I'm probably older than you."

Excuse me? Probably? PROBABLY?

Is the sun probably hot? Are Siegfried & Roy probably more than just friends? Is somebody in this car probably in denial?

Which then begets the question (gulp): who?

This reminded me of an incident a couple years ago, when I was buying a bottle of wine at Cost Plus and was carded. Me, a 40-something year old woman carded! Chuckle, chuckle. I flashed my driver's license while inwardly relishing the moment and sending silent words of thanks to Oil of Olay.

Fast forward a few weeks later. I'm again at Cost Plus and see the same youthful checker at a different checkout stand. I'm about to bedazzle her with my oh-so youthful grin ("Hey peep, remember me? Isn't Justin Timberlake the bomb!") when I see that she's carding her current customer: a woman who I'm guessing first showed her ID when she cast her presidential vote...for Herbert friggin' Hoover.

Sigh.

Am I tossing the Oil of Olay? Probably.

Solicitors Not Welcome - Well, Maybe

The message is pretty clear, judging from all those "no soliciting signs" plastered across front doors; nobody likes door-to-door solicitors. Not that the signs make any difference. Persistent sales people still knock -knock-knock away, trying to sell everything from cookies and Christ to magazine subscriptions and gift wrapping paper.

I was prepared to say "no thanks" the minute I opened the door this morning and saw the young college student standing on my doorstep. Before she could even finish her sentence about getting scholarship points for each magazine sold, I told her I wasn't interested. Her face fell, but only briefly.

"Can I practice my speech anyway?" she asked hopefully. "We also get points on presentation and the more I practice, the better."

I could spare a few minutes, I figured. Besides, I felt sorry for the kid. It can't be easy spending a beautiful spring weekend getting the door repeatedly slammed in your face .

"Sure," I yawned.

So she rattled off her 3-minute spiel: how she was from Southern California, the cities this job was taking her to, and how her goal was to study Graphic Design at UCLA. I told her as a marketing writer, I work closely with graphic designers and rely on their talents to visually bring my words to life. Her eyes popped open and her jaw dropped to the ground.

"WOW!" she exclaimed. She responded as though I'd just said I partner with Monet or Van Gogh.

Then my oven buzzer went off and I excused myself for a minute. When I returned, I came back with a napkin holding a freshly baked, ooey-gooey chocolate chip cookie. "Take one for the road," I offered, "and good luck with your schooling."

Once again her jaw dropped open in utter amazement. As she eagerly took the cookie, she gushed, "You are SO like the nicest person I have ever met. Thank you!" Then we said goodbye and I closed the door.

What started out as a bothersome solicitor turned out to be a heart-warming encounter. Which just goes to show...you never know what might be knocking at your door.

Happy Square Root Day

In case you missed it, today is 3/3/9 ,which translates into 3x3=9. Whatever, you might say.

But these days, I think just about anything that doesn’t include sinking stocks is worth celebrating, dontcha think? So there you go…

Happy Square Root Day!