August 8th, 2004

Random - Trees

Neuroses are not there for the provoking.

My God, I'm so glad I'm not going to my father's next Sunday.  Seriously.  Today was actually marginally bearable until the last half an hour or so...

Item the First
An advert for Most Haunted - Unseen came on during the break of Will & Grace, informing me that it was back on Tuesdays, which I already knew, but thanks to general withdrawal from Yvette and her Intrepid InvestigatorsTM, I started squealing.  And was then forced to explain what it was to my grandmother, but I'm getting my MH explanation down to a fine art, now:  "It's a real life documentary thing.  They go to haunted places in Britain to see if they really are haunted, and it's utterly awful but very addictive and I'm obsessed."    This was also semi-relevant because she was trying to get me to go with her to some random old building somewhere on Friday night (the day when I'm semi-conscious and about ready to crawl into bed at 3pm...) which I plainly refused to do because... ugh, I hate going ghost hunting in large groups of annoying people, and, just, I don't particularly want to.  So this led into a conversation about ghosts in general.  She doesn't believe in ghosts.  I do.  So she asked me to explain why I did, and what they were, so cue me pulling all my random Derek-inspired knowledge from the depths of my brain, embellishing a little, and trying to explain the concept...

Ye gods.  Never again.  I mean, how exactly would you define a ghost without having to explain lots of other complicated buzz-words (like 'residual' :D)?  It's not easy.  And anyway, my reasoning is that I don't believe in Heaven or Hell, but there has to be more to death than just death, and if not one of those two, we have to go somewhere.  I like to believe there's something after death, because otherwise... well, what's the point?  Nobody lives forever in their mortal state, right?  But what if you could come back on some other plain of reality and watch the time going past without you?

Sorry for the waxing poetic, there.  I didn't give her all of that, just the Heaven/Hell thing.  Personally, I find ghosts easier to believe in than the Christian ideals.

Item the Second
Dentistry, of all things.  Here's the thing: I haven't been for a dental checkup since before I started University.  My reason - lack of knowledge of where the dentists were in Derby, for one.  But more than that, I absolutely hate and detest going to the dentist, and always have.  When I was seven or so and my first baby tooth fell out, I was taken to the dentist that worked next door to my grandmother, Paul.  He poked and prodded the offending tooth, and I cried, which annoyed him, so he yanked the damn thing out of there, which made me cry even more, and since then I was handed over to Miss Porter, a much friendlier dentist.  To this day, I still can't stand Paul-the-dentists, despite the reasonably good job he did of capping the tooth I cracked in first year.  Despite having the lovely Miss Porter-the-dentist for most of my going-to-the-dentist-regularly life, I hate going to the dentist.  I hate getting my teeth scraped the most; fillings, etc, I don't mind as much, but it's the teeth-scraping I hate.  It always feels like my teeth are going to break.

I'm also convinced I should've been given braces years ago, and wasn't, though I doubt they would've made any difference because a) I do have a slightly cleft palate (apparently), which forces my front teeth forwards, and b) I still suck my thumb to this day and the braces would only have gotten in the way and made me upset.

Anyway, the fact of the matter is, I've not been to see a dentist in so long that I'm a little scared to go to one now, not least because I don't think I can face the inevitable head-shaking and questioning, and because of teeth-scraping, etc.  I would be perfectly happy to get my teeth checked out - I need the capped one levelling so it matches its neighbour, for a start - if they would put me under anaesthetic, which they won't, because I'm asthmatic.  Hence the still putting it off.

So, what does this have to do with today?  I don't entirely know how we got onto it in the first place, but the short version is that she kept on pestering me about it (and we've had this conversation before) and saying how I should look after my teeth, and that she'd make me an appointment with Miss Porter again, because I liked Miss Porter, didn't I, and if I told them I was scared, they'd be nice to me, and when are you going to sort it out, oh, I'll get you an appointment, and WILL YOU JUST LEAVE IT ALONE, FOR GOD'S SAKE!!!


And still it continued, until I couldn't stand it any more, turned the television off and made a point of banging things around to indicate it was damn well time for me to go home now, and ignoring her.  "Oh, I've annoyed you now, haven't I?"  Yes, why do you think I'm ignoring you.  "Haven't I?  Harry Potter?"  (And that's another thing - please realise, I do not like being called that, I do not resemble him just because I wear glasses, I am not male and to inadvertently suggest so is very annoying, and this will not change the more you call me it.  I am not going to come around.  I am merely going to get more annoyed.) To which I said, "Just shut up," and started packing things up even louder.

She brings out the absolute brattiest worst in me, and I just can't help it, and I hate it.  In my father's defence, he did back me up afterwards.  The car journey back was spent in silence, more or less, with her sulking because I wasn't talking to her, and me slowing fuming in the front seat.  God knows, I try to reason with her, to have adult conversations, but when I do, she makes some inane comment about how "clever" I am, or how "beautiful" I am, and how nobody else compares, and I just give up, because it's like talking to a brick wall.  I have a low self-image; constant praising of me does not help in the slightest.

And to top that off, I had to explain the "Betty Crocker at Betty Ford" line from The Stepford Wives to my father in the car.  Give me strength, or a pop culture dictionary...

I reiterate: I'm so glad I'm not going to my father's next Sunday.  Seriously.