A trip to the dentist where I walked in a Bitch and walked out a Vampire.

I had to get a cavity filled today which, I’ve learned, is just a once yearly procedure once you reach the age of 100 no matter how diligently you brush (I swear! Every morning and night! That’s better than most of you!).

I planned to leave work early around 4:30 and was rushing to get a few last minute things done before heading out when I got a text from my dentist (very forward) asking if we couldn’t possibly move my appointment back half an hour to 5:30 because she was running behind.

The options the dentist’s office text gave me were to reply with either “NO” or “YES” to pushing the appointment half an hour, but really “OKAY SURE BUT I HAD PLANNED AROUND THIS TIME SPECIFICALLY ALL DAY AND I KNOW SHIT HAPPENS AND I DO SUPER APPRECIATE THE HEADS UP BUT I’M AN ANXIOUS PERSON AND ANY SUDDEN CHANGE OF PLANS KIND OF REALLY FUCKS WITH ME AND NOW I DON’T KNOW IF I SHOULD DICK AROUND AT WORK FOR ANOTHER HALF HOUR OR JUST HEAD OUT NOW AS PLANNED BUT THEN I MIGHT HAVE TO PAY EXTRA FOR PARKING LONGER BUT I’M NOT GOING TO RESCHEDULE SO YES” felt more appropriate.

Despite having lived in LA for 6 years and having lived in cities for forever, I was still somehow not prepared for the insane traffic in a busy commercial part of town. It took me forever to find parking that wasn’t approximately half a million dollars which made me anxious I’d be late so I decided to call the office ahead since they’d been kind enough to text me ahead. It went as follows:

Me: Hi it’s Arielle my appointment was moved to 5:30 and now I think I will be late.

Nice woman just trying to do her job: Okay no problem! Do you know how many minutes?

Me: WHAT?

Nice woman: Do you know about how many minutes you’ll be late?

Me: I DON’T KNOW HOW LONG IT’LL TAKE ME TO FIND PARKING! (Cars and parking really stress me the fuck out)

Nice woman: Oh is the garage closed?

Me: No but you don’t validate and I’m not rich so.

Nice woman: Well the 99 cent store has free two hour parking!

Me: OKAY.

This is the part where I realized I should have taken time to come to terms with the fact that this would be stressful for me. Changes of plans are stressful for me. Finding parking at rush hour is stressful for me. Getting a cavity filled is stressful for me because regular Novocain gives me panic attacks and the kind without norepinephrine doesn’t last very long and I usually end up feeling some pain while they drill. On top of this, I’d gotten up early this morning to go on a run which I NEVER do but I couldn’t go because my sciatica was acting up and my leg was basically on fire. And also I’m searching for a new roommate which is just the slightly gray cloud that’ll be over my head until January 15th, but that’s another post. It would have been a good time to take a preemptive Klonopin and do a brief mindfulness meditation.

BUT THAT IS NOT WHAT HAPPENED AND HERE IS WHAT HAPPENED.

I entered the office and my (extremely lovely and sweet and talented and too good for all of us we don’t deserver her honestly. Beverly Grove Dentistry. Check them out) dentist greeted me:

Dentist: How are you?!

Me: UGH.

Dentist: Oh no, that kind of day?

Me: Well, you’re about to drill a hole in my head and I’ve not head a great afternoon.

Dentist: Oh, okay. I’m sorry. Here is the consent form. Now there are things that could happen but it’s very rare and-

Me: Do you want me to read or to listen?

Dentist: Oh…I’m sorry. I’ll be quiet, then…

Yeah. I know.

I did apologize – twice. And I explained that I was just feeling really anxious about the situation since I tend to have trouble with the novocain. She was understanding but didn’t coddle me which honestly I super respect. The people pleaser in me wanted her to be like “Arielle it’s okay! Thank you so much for apologizing. I love you. You’re my favorite patient.” But she said “Hey, we all have bad days,” and then stabbed me in the jaw with a syringe. Respect.

They worked quickly and efficiently, as they always do. She finished up, asked me how it felt, and then gave me the run down of aftercare. Then she kindly sent me on my way. I thought about giving her one last “Sorry again for being a bitch!” but realized it would be more for me than for her.

As I walked out thinking about the transformation of my emotions while there and how she was able to transform my teeth, I started to tongue around to feel my newly healed and filled tooth and I realized she’d turned my tooth into a fucking vampire fang.

Now, before I elaborate I ask that you not take this as any sort of review of her work. She and her associates do incredible work. I have extremely sharp teeth to begin with and lots of shit happens when a cavity is being filled. She might have filled it a bit sharp while drilling or perhaps some of the filling latched into my chompy part and extended the already existing sword I have coming out of my face. And most importantly, she asked me how it felt.

The thing about anxiety is, you can’t often properly appraise situations in the moment. It basically went like:

Dentist: How does it feel?

Me: Normalish?

Dentist: Numbish?

Me: No, it feels normal….as far as I can tell?

But it’s really hard to tell how your tooth feels when you mouth is numb and you’ve just had like 5 implements of destruction and 10 different pastes and substances and tinctures marinating your tongue for the past 15 minutes. So I made the executive to end the overwhelming interaction quickly and determined that my tooth felt “toothish.”

So I have a fuckin vampire fang in the back of my mouth. I guess I’ll have to call back and request to not have a vampire fang in the back of my mouth. But I’m testing it on the other side of my mouth and I’m not sure my tongue really ever comes into much contact with my back most molar, so is it even a problem.

And if we’re being honest, with the amount I clench my teeth and night, I’ll probably grind the fang down in 6 month’s time, anyway.

Moral of the story:

• Know thyself
• Prepare thyself accordingly
• Be nice to your dentist
• Check for vampire fangs before leaving.

“I’m Wearing a Cat with a Butt’s Anus”

I had a pretty busy Saturday, which isn’t typical for me. By busy I mean I did 3 things, none of which were particularly taxing, but for me any day with a lot of moving pieces makes me anxious. I was to attend the women’s march downtown with my friends and then head from there to a hospital at which some of us would donate platelets and then later that night I’d be meeting up with different friends downtown for a comedy show. It was an interesting day, and I’m going to tell you about it now.

I went to the LA women’s march with my friend Sarah and her family and friends. As I was getting ready for the march that morning, I couldn’t really find any Women’s March themed attire, by which I mean I gave myself 20 minutes to get ready and if I’d really put in the effort I could at least have pulled a Rosie the Riveter updo and some lipstick out of my ass. I eventually mostly gave up and landed on a t-shirt I have with a print of a cat lifting its leg to lick its butthole. Add my running shoes, my Athleta leggings, and a fanny pack and I was march ready.

To get my anxious mind and broken body prepared for the march, I took a lot of CBD oil. I know CBD is not the part of weed that gets you high but I swear to god sometimes if I take a lot I get a mild case of the goofies. This resulted in a period of about 2 hours that morning where I continually mixed up the nouns in a lot of my sentences. I’d say shit like “Are we going to take a march to the lyft?” Most noteworthy, however, was when I entered the pre march brunch at Sarah’s excited to tell everyone about the cool shirt I had with a cat’s anus on it and I enthusiastically exclaimed “I’m wearing a cat with a butt’s anus!”

The march was beautiful and inspiring as always. My friend and I both got goosebumps once we found the crowd. We walked with everyone to the end point, enjoying signs that were hilarious and heartbreaking, inspiring and dark. It is such a marvelously overwhelming experience to be surrounded by so many people who have your back, even if the leaders of your country don’t.

Then we got to the end and couldn’t hear a single fucking thing any of the speakers were saying.

Sarah’s boyf had an appointment shortly thereafter to donate platelets and we all said we’d come along and donate too, if we could. So we left the inaudible but probably inspiring speeches to get some tacos and head to the hospital.

I didn’t really know about platelets until my friend told me about them. They’re apparently often in higher demand than blood because they can’t be kept for as long. They’re used for many things, I’m sure, but often times they’re very helpful for cancer patients. Because of this, most hospitals are desperate for platelets.

Which is hilarious because half of us were turned away for not meeting their standards. I would say it’s easier to buy a gun than to donate platelets but as we’ve all recently become aware, it’s easier to buy a gun than do a lot of things.

It’s easier to get your license renewed the week your passport expires and you only have a couple hours because you have to leave for work at 1 and the DMV’s entire system shuts down when you’re at the front of the line than it is to donate platelets.

Sarah had done her research and already knew she’d be turned away due to a medication she takes daily. Our friend Marco was turned away because he used to live in Italy and we as a nation are apparently very worried about a resurgence of Mad Cow Disease. Sarah’s mother couldn’t donate platelets because, as it turns out, anyone who’s EVER BEEN PREGNANT EVEN A LITTLE BIT could possibly have a chemical in their system that renders their platelets nontransferable. For some reason, she was still able to donate blood.

I, on the other hand, have been avoiding the thought of donating blood or platelets for years because I have a history of passing out when giving blood for tests and I get myself all woozy just thinking about it. It’s not the needles that bother me. I’m fine with watching nurses put needles into my veins and if you really wanted to, I’d probably let you stab me in a fleshy area with a needle because I’m a good friend and I support your dreams. What bothers me is the idea of something leaving my body that should be staying in my body. And since I’ve passed out in the past, my brain immediately associates blood loss with fainting.

I really wanted to get the fuck over this though and do some good in the world. So all day I made sure no one talked to me about it and that I didn’t spend any time thinking about it. It would be best if I just powered through and did the thing and didn’t give myself a chance to freak out. I even put in airpods Sarah provided me with when the nurses were explaining the procedure to the other people in our group.

Finally it was my turn to go in and answer the tech’s questions and test my blood to make sure I was good to go. I was so fucking ready, by which I mean I made sure my brain had no idea what was going on and I just sang songs loudly to it to distract it. During the assessment, I felt it was important to mention that I sometimes pass out when I have blood drawn. When I said this, he stopped taking notes so abruptly it was as if I’d just informed him that I did heroin with a dirty needle on the way over while eating beef from 1980’s England. He said he had to talk to the nurse and left me in the room alone.

He came back in and said that I couldn’t donate because the doctor was not there that day and due to the risk of me passing out they didn’t feel it was safe for me.

He continued speaking but I felt like I had been punched in the gut and I didn’t hear anything else he said. I started to cry and said “I’ll just go.” I ran out to the lobby and started cry-explaining to Sarah what happened. She said it wasn’t my fault and most everyone else got rejected too, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that it was my fault. I felt like I was just scared of passing out and that I should just learn to get over the association my brain has formed between blood being drawn and passing out. I felt like I shouldn’t have said anything about my past and just stuck it out.I still feel those things strongly, but I know that if my friend told me that that had happened to them, I would absolutely not judge them and I would have felt that it was in fact safer for them to wait to have a doctor present due to the potential risk. I guess that’s something I’m just going to have to fucking deal with eventually. I just want to feel useful for something! Can I donate other stuff? Eyebrow hairs? Nails, perhaps? A pervasive need to feel needed?

Eventually with time and help from my amazing friend, I got the fuck over myself and we had some fun doing crosswords, drinking coffee, and petting dogs in the waiting room while the two people who were special enough to be accepted sat through their procedures.

I grew increasingly anxious about the time because I had to make it to a comedy show by 6, we were pretty far from there, and I’d hitched a ride with the heroes and other rejects. I wanted to make it out in time to go home, change, and eat before heading out to the show downtown. Eventually, we realized the only way I’d make it in time would be if everyone, including dog, joined me on my detour downtown to drop me off.

I waited outside the for both of my friends. One of them, Kristin, is friend’s with one of the comedians in the show so we had VIP tickets waiting for us at will-call. This arrangement sounds cool but being an insane person, it made me very anxious. So I stood outside the venue in my cat anus shirt and fanny pack frantically texting them to hurry up because I felt like an idiot and all that waiting room coffee was hittin my own butt’s anus pretty hard.

When they got there, we went in and got our tickets and backstage access wristbands. I wanted to shit first since my body had been yelling at me about it for approx 45 minutes except it ended up being a FUCKING FALSE ALARM. So I headed in to meet the hosts of one of my all time favorite podcasts with a full colon, an empty stomach, and sweaty clothes I’d worn all day. Because of this, I was more worried than normal that I’d fangirl and be a nonverbal idiot.

Immediately when we got back stage, Dave, one of the comedians, gave us pizza and said “Did you wear that shirt because Gareth loves cats? Gareth you have to see this.” Then while filling my tummy, I told them the story about how I somehow managed to say “cat with a butt’s anus” and they loved it so much we took this picture:

Then we just chatted for a bit and had a fun time before heading back up to the show where we were seated with their friends and family. And as always, the show was fucking hilarious. Then my friend drove me home because we live super close to one another (and also because she loves me and is an angel) and we had a great fucking time in the car. I got home safely, ate some noms, and went to bed.

This could just be a fun story but I always feel the need to make there be a moral of some sort. There were so many times in the day that my anxious thoughts crept up and nearly ruined my day. I worried that I’d panic at the march or that my back pain would keep me from walking. I worried that I didn’t eat enough after the march to feel okay enough to donate platelets. I worried that I wouldn’t have time to drive home and change and get properly ready for the show. I worried that I’d have to take an expensive lyft at some point since I didn’t have my car. I worried that I’d feel like crap during the show and not be able to enjoy it or enjoy meeting them.

But it ended up being a really magical day. And if I were any other writer, I’d say “So I learned that when I let go, everything turns out okay.” But that is not me and that is not the case. There are things about my body and my life that make it such that it is genuinely hard for me to go with the flow at times. I get hungry easily. I have back pain that makes it so that I can’t walk around a lot at times. I don’t have enough money to take lyfts whenever if I find myself with out my car or a ride. I have anxiety that wears me out quickly.

But I do want to say that it is hard for me to forget about all of that panic and enjoy the awesome day that did happen. Oftentimes, even when things turn out great, I feel the same as I would if they had not because the anxiety is still in my bloodstream and remains very real to me. I want to take a moment to enjoy how perfectly perfect the day ended up being, partly due to luck, but largely due to me deciding to let go just enough. Just enough to trust my friends to have my back and just enough to be myself.

And if you follow those easy steps you, too, can talk about cat anuses with some of your favorite entertainers.

Skin Tribulations, or “Why there’s a pillow in our trashcan right now.”

I’ve struggled with skin issues most of my life. I don’t call it acne because I know many people who suffer from acne and I know how truly terrible and heartbreaking it is for them to deal with it. My issues are not quite as severe but are 100% more mysterious (exciting!) because it would seem that the universe is very fond of giving me mild yet entirely unrelatable  issues that make the internet shrug at me.

I do occasionally get what one might call a pimple, but mostly it’s been decades of a thrilling combination of eczema, dermatitis, rashes, cysts, and bumpy breakouts not-otherwise-specified.  People (i.e. friends. I.e. the people who love me and want the best for me) keep telling me to go to a dermatologist and I (to repay their kindness and thoughtfulness) reply “FUCK YOU” because my past experiences with dermatologists are entirely their fault.

I’ve been to dermatologists before and generally they are very good at solving very specific, straightforward issues. For example, when I have a cystic pimple, they stab me with a needle, shoot some cortisone into the bitch, and it deflates within 10 minutes. I have found, however, that they struggle with the more delicate and nuanced issues of human skin. I’ve been given numerous products that “should help with that breakout” that ended up making my face have more of a psychotic meltdown than the pre-period Arielle of two days ago (topical: did you know that periods also fuck your skin up?).

I often get small, red bumps around my chin and mouth which the internet is, like, totally sure is dermatitis. When I have a flareup, I cannot wear sunscreen, exfoliate, or wear any heavy creams or oils. But please don’t tell anyone because if Los Angeles finds out that I haven’t been abiding by the “All You Need For Clear Skin Is Sunscreen, Exfoliating Twice A Week, and Coconut Oil, Ladies! Keep It Simple!” manifesto, they will make me watch 3 skin care videos, read 2 blog posts about the miracles of natural skincare, and say 5 Our Fathers.

In an exciting turn of events, I have recently started getting red bumps around my eyes and cheekbone. I haven’t changed products recently, I don’t use brushes when I put on makeup, I don’t incessantly touch my face, yadda yadda all the things that doctors are wont to ask. Which is why I was not surprised by the responses I received when I had my friend Katie (1/3 of the text group “Triple Bae”) consult her doctor friends on the matter:

No. None of the above. Also, the internet has told me to TOTALLY DEFINITELY NOT ever put cortisone cream on dermatitis (which I am at least 90% sure is the cause of the chin stuff, if you recall. I know it’s hard to keep up. You’re doing great). In fact, most of the sites about it list “cessation of use of steroid creams” as literally the only cure for dermatitis which is great since I don’t fucking put cortisone cream on my face.

I fed their thorough responses to the unrelenting tornado of conflicting information and thanked them for their time.

Also, Triple Bae could totally be a girl band.

Before my France trip, I had gone on a diet that the universe (internet) said would clear up many skin problems. I cut out added sugar, dairy, white bread, and soy. I did this for two weeks and arrived in France glowing like a goddamn goddess. So when the eyeballcheekbone shit wouldn’t go away, I decided it was time to try the diet again.

I have been soy/dairy/sugar/whitebread free for 3 days and this morning I woke up looking like I had spent the entire night crying tears of acid:

Which is pretty fucking metal but like I want to be pretty.

I greeted my boyfriend for the first time this morning with this picture and “WHAT THE FUCK IS HAPPENING TO MY FACE. Good morning.” He was like “Maybe it’s your pillowcase” and I was like “I CHANGED IT YESTERDAY, NO!”

I promptly googled “does a pillow make your fucking face breakout” and the internet was like “Yo, it’s totally your pillow.” Which, admittedly, I’ve had since college and haven’t washed once, OKAY?! There I said it.

Within seconds, a magic pillowcase that allegedly clears up your acne while you sleep and the world’s most popular hypoallergenic pillow were in my Amazon cart getting checked out.

I then had 5 minutes left before I had to leave, which I used to destroy evidence of my evil, evil pillow, eat a plum, and warn my roommate about the state of our trash can:

Will keep you posted.