Goodbye, Number 31

It had been a long time since I had a tooth pulled – until yesterday.  

As a kid, I had several teeth pulled in one horrifying visit. They pulled five that day, I think. Or maybe it just seemed like five.

The problem? My mouth was too small for all those teeth that my body was producing. My wisdom teeth never had a chance. Those poor buggers were removed before they even surfaced.

Having a small mouth is something that’s still a problem for me. If a waitress delivers a really thick sandwich, I have to plan my approach to eating it. Usually, this amounts to pulling some of the sandwich’s contents out with a fork and spreading them on the plate. When the sandwich is short enough to fit, in it goes. Then I finish up the stuff that’s spread on the plate…unless it’s just too much food. I have also been known to abandon a half bun in order to take a bite.

My mouth would be great in some fast-food commercial where they were trying to illustrate the size of their new magnificent, megameat-superstuffed sandwich. People watching the commercial would say, “Wow! That sandwich must be huge! She can’t even fit it in her mouth to take a bite!”

Naturally, having a small mouth makes dental visits less than pleasant.

“Open wide!”

“Open wider!”

“As big as you can!”

And that’s why I gagged three times when they tried to put in some fabulous thingamabob that was supposed to make it safer for the dentist to drill for my crown. They finally grabbed a kid’s size whatchamacallit and put that in. I tolerated it. I refrained from saying, “I told you that thing wouldn’t fit in my mouth,” even though I had pretty much predicted that when they proudly showed it to me in its shiny package a few weeks earlier.  They seemed to think it was the greatest invention. Ever.

In the past, a dental assistant sat there and expertly moved a couple of slim instruments around in my mouth while the dentist did his thing. Rinse, suction. Rinse, suction. That I could handle. When I realized the dental assistant was not near me, it occurred to me that this new product was doing her job! It monopolized precious space in my mouth so that she could go do something else. What was she doing, anyway?

You’re probably wondering how I started out getting a crown and ended up walking out without a tooth. I’m getting there. But first I need to point out a crucial fact in this story: the tooth’s location. This was the very last bottom tooth at the very back of my mouth, aka gag territory. It was tooth number 31, which is how every dentist over the years had referred to it. It’s a nice numbering system, once you know how it works. It’s helpful for decoding the conversations going on between the dentist and hygienist about this tooth or that tooth.

After drilling and drilling, the dentist stopped. He informed me that the same nasty stuff coming out from around the old, failing filling had affected the tooth’s roots as well (which apparently wasn’t noticeable on the x-rays). In the same breath, he said nobody would be able to get in there to do a root canal (Remember the tooth’s location and the size of my mouth?) and I would need an extraction. While I was happy about not having a root canal, I was not prepared to get a tooth yanked out of my head. That must be (kind of) what it feels like when a woman in labor pushes and pushes and then is told she needs a c-section.

“I can do it now or you can schedule another time,” he said. Maybe because he saw the bewildered look on my face or maybe because he needed a break from this crazy, difficult case and the woman who didn’t like his fancy plastic suction thingy, he told me to take a minute to think about it. Once I knew the area was already numb enough to handle an extraction, it was a pretty easy decision.  “Let’s do it now,” I said.

So he got the tools he needed and explained what he was going to do. I’m glad he warned me about the possible sounds of the tooth cracking. “Those sounds are normal,” he said. Umm, normal for what? A horror movie? Even with the warning, the tooth-cracking sound was unnerving. But the extraction was actually easier on me than the drilling because there was only one tool in my mouth at a time.

Before long, the tooth was out and he was offering to show it to me. I don’t know why I agreed to look at it. What was the point of that? But I looked at it. He seemed to want to show me what a nice job he had done in shaping it for the crown. But that didn’t matter. Tooth 31 was no more. Broken down and fractured, it had served its purpose for as long as it could. For years, it had cut through healthy and unhealthy foods without discrimination or judgment. Thanks, Number 31.

My problem with laptop computers

I am the office oddball who doesn’t like laptops.

Recently, I had to borrow a co-worker’s laptop for an off-site assignment. When our host there offered me a mouse, I was happy to use it instead of the mouse substitute on the laptop. I have been ridiculed ever since.

It isn’t just the annoying mouse substitute that bothers me. I have other issues with laptops. For example, I like a larger screen. I know, if you get a larger laptop, you get a larger screen. But even a larger screen forces your eyes to look downward at it. With a desktop, I can view the screen closer to eye level. At my work desk, the monitor sits on an elevated shelf above the rest of the desk. To me, that’s an ideal location for a screen.

I’m not a big fan of laptop keyboards either. They just don’t have the same feel to me as a desktop keyboard. I know: Picky, picky. It’s uncomfortable to type at desk-level, which is why I like keyboard trays. I believe in keyboard ergonomics. I’d like to be able to use the keyboard below desk level without hunching down to see the screen.

I appreciate the portability of a laptop. I really do. I just don’t feel that I should have to sacrifice a mouse, keyboard and screen I like to get that portability.

So what would my ideal laptop be like? It would come in several parts that fit together for storage and in transit. The monitor would be separate from the rest of the laptop. It would be a thin, light screen that would hover in the air at any height I wanted. It would also expand and contract according to how much space I had. If I were on a crowded bus seat or in a small area at a coffee shop, I could make the screen small. If I were sprawled on the couch at home, I could use the screen at maximum size. It would also adjust automatically to changing light conditions and eliminate glare.

The keyboard would have the same feel as a desktop keyboard, but lighter. It would also be adjustable to the size I wanted, just like the screen.Instead of a typical desktop mouse, my ideal laptop mouse would be a flat screen that reacted to my finger scrolling over it. No buttons, just completely controlled by touch, like the iPad.

I’m not completely anti-laptop. I’m just waiting for one with all the right features.

My life as an intern

Working with our intern at MedCity News got me thinking about my own internships. I, too, was once a 21-year-old eager to start my career. I had three internships, and they provided me with some amazing experiences as well as crushing blows to my self-esteem.

I spent one summer working as an intern in the features department of my hometown daily newspaper in Erie, Pa. I drove the company cars, interviewed people and wrote stories. One day, when they were either understaffed or trying to see if the intern could handle some stress, they sent me to Chautauqua Institution to hear Al Gore speak. I was clearly the most inexperienced reporter there. I was surrounded by people who had been in the business since I was a toddler. It was intimidating. It was my first exposure to pushy TV reporters who would interfere with my reporting for years to come. I got my story and wondered if I was in the wrong business.

That summer, I endured snide comments from my boss. I can still see her peering over her glasses and asking me things like, “Did your mother write that?” when I received a nice thank you note from a grateful person I had interviewed. I remember another employee calling me over to sit by her while she edited one of my stories. She was patient and kind. Thanks to people like her, I made it through.

My internship at John Carroll University was the best learning experience I got there. It was better than any class I took. I was working in the school’s public relations office when the alumni magazine editor, John Ettorre, noticed me. He started giving me small things to write. Before long, he had sort of poached me from the dear woman who did public relations then. John challenged me, encouraged me and taught me. I learned time-saving, make-you-look-like-a-professional stuff like doing research on a person before contacting him for an interview.

John could sniff out interesting people and stories. Then he’d do his research and interviews, type rapid-fire style on the computer, and end up with a story that was a joy to read. I’m grateful to him for what he taught me and I’m glad that he’s still offering words of encouragement, long after the official internship ended.

The other internship I had was at Cleveland Magazine, which I’m fairly sure is what got me my first job. Looking back on it now, I can see that much of it was gruntwork. They gave the interns the stuff nobody else wanted to do. I didn’t care. It was thrilling for this small-town girl to leave campus, take the Rapid downtown and go up to her own office. In the magazine’s annual city guide, I got a byline for stories about neighborhoods, attractions and shopping. The work entailed a lot of research and compiling of lists, but I got to do writing too. I lived for the days when I got to do writing.

The best thing the years of experience have given me is a thick skin. Every budding writer has to go through the process of being able to take criticism from others who are just trying to make the writing better. Interns may interpret these comments, changes and suggestions as a personal attack on something they’ve created, but it isn’t personal. It’s business. Whenever a writer is paid to create something, that product is going to be scrutinized by the buyer. And the buyer has the right to ask the writer to improve it.

Just the other day, one of my clients made changes to something that had already been through several revisions by the intern and one or two by me. I wasn’t offended. The client’s changes made the writing better. Each person brings a different perspective to his writing, and sometimes an objective eye is all that’s needed to turn good writing into great writing.

Warm syrup? Yes, please.

Last weekend, I went out for brunch and ordered pancakes. It was nothing out of the ordinary --until the waitress brought me warm syrup. Yes, that's right, warm syrup. What a difference that makes! I know it's summer, and the thought of putting warm syrup on pancakes may be revolting to some. But the restaurant's air conditioning was cranked high enough to give me goosebumps on my arms. Trust me, I appreciated the warmth of the syrup.

It's a special treat to be given something that someone took the time to warm up. If you've ever been given a heated blanket or towel, you know what I'm talking about. Hot chocolate, soup, cider or tea fall into this comforting category as well, especially when someone else heats it for you.

As much as a warm drink soothes on a cold day, there's nothing like a cold drink on a hot day like today. Some of the most grateful expressions I've ever seen on people's faces have appeared right after I handed them cold drinks.

Men and the lure of that blue and yellow store

Why is it that men are so drawn to Best Buy stores? Maybe the manager pumps the scent of bacon into the air vents. Anytime hubby and I are within a couple miles of a Best Buy store, he wants to stop in...even if he was just there a few days earlier.

Guys are crazy about gadgets and electronics. They love to have the latest thing on the market. Women, on the other hand, just want something that works. We want a gadget that does what we want it to do. It's not so important to us that our phones can do 85 different things. We probably only use 10 or 15 of those functions anyway. But those 10 or 15 had better work.

Singletasking is not such a bad thing

The other day, I was talking to a client on the phone at work. He said he wanted to send me an email. That's nothing out of the ordinary, but what surprised me was what happened next. He admitted to me that he couldn't talk to me and send the email at the same time. I agreed to wait a minute on the phone while he sent the email. After that, we continued our conversation.

What struck me about this experience was the fact that he could recognize and admit that he couldn't do two things at once. In today's fast-paced environment of constant connectivity, it seems like we are all expected to be able to do at least two things at once. Whether we admit it or not, we don't always do two or more things at once AND do them all well. I can name more than one instance of being in a face-to-face conversation with someone and having to compete with that person's phone for attention. I can't say I enjoy that. I start to feel like I'm the intrusion instead of the phone. If I feel like I'm intruding, the conversation won't last long. Call me old-fashioned, but I like to have someone's full attention during a conversation. Doesn't everyone?

Tax, beer and cars: We're not in Pennsylvania anymore

Yesterday, I was surprised when I had to pay more than $16.99 for my $16.99 clothing item. Then I remembered that I was in Ohio. I've been back in Ohio for a few years and still can't seem to get used to paying sales tax on clothes. Neighboring Pennsylvania, where I lived for many years, does not tax clothing purchases. This is why busloads of people come to the commonwealth to shop.

I've grown accustomed to seeing alcohol in grocery stores, which is another thing you won't see in the keystone state. It's very convenient to buy wine and beer, which can be a good thing and a bad thing. It's nice to be able to purchase a bottle of wine for a party at the same place where you can pick up the chips and salsa. But that convenience makes it a little too easy to keep a supply of alcohol on hand.

The other difference that's a big change for anyone moving from one of these states to the other is the whole vehicle inspection concept. While both states check emissions, Pennsylvania car owners are required to take their cars to a mechanic every year to make sure that brakes, lights and other parts of the car are working. In Ohio, an inspection consists of the state Bureau of Motor Vehicles employee writing down the vehicle identification number that's stamped on your car. That's it. That's all they do.

I have no statistics to back this up, but I'd guess that Pennsylvania sells more clothes than Ohio, Ohio sells more alcohol and Pennsylvania cars are probably in better shape. I wonder what Indiana is like?