The Chronicles of Marge

5 Years (And a Week or So) Later

I remember this: it was really freakin’ hot for the first of November. I wore a pair of jeans and a camisole with weak elastic that made my sternum look like it resided somewhere on my midsection (I would have said boobs, but I didn't have those then, and I still don't have those now). I walked around with a bandana strung through one of my belt loops because I had a cold and was blowing my nose every four minutes. There was a red spot that appeared on my right shoulder and itched like hell. I attributed it to a spider of unknown origin. Days later and a visit to the doctor’s office because of a What the Hell Was This Uncomfortable Rash All Over My Torso phenomenon, I found out it was poison ivy and not the early stages of a disease known as Marriage.

It was so hot that when the folks arrived with the cake they looked like they had pulled into a funeral home. The heat caused the cake to soften and when they made the turn off Highway 64 at the Tarheel Q, the thing slid wide and the bottom layer broke into pieces. I was all about cracking into that mess right then and there and serving the top to the attendees—they’d never know the difference. But the cake folks wanted to repair the thing and asked if we had another refrigerator. I remember this moment clearly: my mother hesitated and then looked at the guy and said, “We do, but don’t you ever tell anyone that you saw my basement.” When he returned from the depths, he said, with a great expression of relief, “I’m so glad to know that my parents aren’t the only ones with a basement like that.” The cake turned out beautifully and Jason and I actually ate the top a week later when someone asked if we could bring dessert to a party.

My uncle called me that morning to tell me he couldn’t come because he had diarrhea. Had he known me well enough, he would have chosen constipation as a more sympathetic excuse. I haven’t talked to him since. But it’s okay. The thought of diarrhea on my wedding day makes me laugh now.

Jason wore a stupid suit that he hated. Pleats have no place on a pair of pants unless your beer gut needs some room under the belt line. Jason has never had a beer gut. His own wedding was the only time he ever wore that ridiculous suit. Shortly after, we had a nice event to attend, and we marched right over to the Banana Republic and laid down some dollars for a suit measured and cut to fit a European build rather than the shit that the Men’s Warehouse rolls out to fit American men who’ve spent years ordering steak and bloomin’ onions at their local Outback—men whose last foray into exercising was scoring a winning touchdown on their high school football field back in 1995.

I remember that my dad had a surprise for me: it was a cut of deer covered in pineapple slices on the Grillmaster 500 in the backyard. He was very proud of that.

Vern made a groom’s cake out of Halloween-styled Peeps.

It only took me 10 minutes to get ready, so while we waited for the event start, I sat in Vern’s bedroom wearing a cotton shirt and boxer shorts, surrounded by sisters and girlfriends and Lee Quinn.

The only tears I cried were with my dad, inside the house where no one else could see. It is one of the rare emotional moments in my life that I can say I shared solely with him and am thankful for.

Katharine fell as she walked down the stone steps of the front yard. Her face came within inches of the ground, but years of ballet kept her from total face-plant. There was a collective gasp. I thought it was great—tension relieved.

I remember that the formalities didn’t last too long, but the whole time I held Jason’s hands like my life depended on it. And it did. And it still does. And I am glad for that.

Anniversary Post #2

So here’s another Anniversary Post, this one from a year ago today. Let me preface by saying that I do not think that I am fat. I am actually aware of the fact that I am narrower than most. However, this is great insight into my warped mind during a yearly period of my life that I like to call “Winter: Yes, the Sun Matters, Damn It.” Amplifying my winter doldrums of 2007 was my miserable 8-month stint as an administrative assistant, which is a benign job title for Office Doormat. I guess employers don’t think anyone will apply to that job.

The interesting thing in reading last year’s composition is that I feel little better today. Maybe January 31 is just my day to feel like shit. Whereas in 2007, my body-image woes revolved around my thighs, this year, we’ve got my hair. When I went to the bathroom early in the day at work, I realized that washing my hair this morning might have been a good idea. I have what amounts to an oil slick up top, and my cowlick has taken the shape of a flying buttress. I don’t doubt that it could support the weight of a bird up there, and it sure sticks out enough to attract avian attention. So when you see a young woman in your office today with a bird perched on the flying buttress extending from her head, feel free to ignore her. It’s probably just me having a really shitty January 31—again.

From 31 January 2007:

“3:52 p.m. All I want to do today is eat. It doesn’t matter that my pants feel tight against my lower abdomen. It doesn’t matter that cavity #1 will be filled tomorrow, which should lead me to eat less sugar. It doesn’t matter that I ate the rest of the bag of Stacy’s delicious pita chips today. It doesn’t matter that I raided the candy stash in my office. It doesn’t matter that I ran 2.75 miles at lunch and should follow that success with a healthy diet and possible decrease in the size of my thighs. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter that I feel like a big, fat, bloated mass. I still want to eat…

…and nap. I could really use a nap today. Neither of my bosses are here, and there is a strange calmness in the halls of [work] for a Wednesday. My presence seems almost pointless. I’ve sent off enough emails to people of importance for them to know that I am here and at least pretending to work. I sure look busy if you walk down the hall and stare into my office. I wonder if anyone would notice if I climbed into the big cardboard box that I emptied earlier and just took at nap. If I napped under my desk, someone might think to look there. But in a big cardboard box that’s 3.5 feet tall and has ‘MADE IN CHINA’ printed on the side—no way. No one would ever look there. I almost think I could get away with it, except for the fact that the box would not accommodate the fetal position in terms of width. Goes back to my ass being too large. Thus, my legs from the knees down would stick out. I’d end up looking like the Wicked Witch of the East when the house falls on her. My legs would shrivel up and I’d disappear. I’d wake up in Middle-Earth. All my favorite people and elves would be there: Faramir, Eomer, Galadriel. And no one here would ever know the better. They’d never know about the box or the nap or the fact that all I did today was eat.”

Thoughts About the Dentist

So tomorrow I am going to the dentist. Not really much to say about that except for the fact that I am TERRIFIED of the dentist. I am so afraid of the dentist that last year was the first year that I left the safety of my childhood dentist, who is also my mom’s boss, and ventured into the unknown world of Acting Like an Adult at the Dentist. That’s right, friends: I spent the first decade of my adult life either not going to the dentist or driving back and forth to the Big L so that I had the comfort of knowing that my mother was right down the hall in case the dentist discovered that my life would soon be ending—also known as YOU HAVE A CAVITY. My mother likes to refer to these special times as “My Eldest is Crazy, but at Least She Still Needed Me for Something.”

Anyway, in thinking about this, I discovered something that I wrote a year ago about my first adult dental appointment experience. I will also label this post as the first “Anniversary Post.” I’ve been looking over things I’ve written in the past and decided that some of them are worth posting to my blog because either they say something important (if you read “On Starting a Blog” you know that this is a BIG LIE) or I think they are completely ridiculous and I wonder what planet I was on when I wrote them. All Anniversary Posts will occur on or closely around the date they were originally written.

So here’s a look at 30 January 2007:

“I must preface the remainder of my story with this vital piece of information: I am terrified of the dentist. Terrified. There is nothing comfortable or normal to me about lying in a chair with a metal hook scraping against your teeth while you look up into a large, cloudy light as someone talks to you full well knowing that you are unable to reply. All of these elements disrupt every fiber of my being, but it is the sound of the metal hook grating against my teeth that is the worst. I want to flee. Regardless of the dental pleasantries emitting from the hygienist’s mask-covered mouth, I can hear and feel that hook.

Much to my benefit, the extent of my dental history largely involves cleanings. I had sealents in my teens. I had my wisdom teeth removed in 1997. I was fitted for a night guard in 1999. Otherwise, that is it. I expected this pattern to continue. I would live to old age undergoing nothing but routine cleanings and the praises of dentists and hygienists around the world: ‘You have the most beautiful teeth. You’ve never had braces?! You have superb oral hygiene habits.’ For this praise, I continued to go to the dentist. However, last week, all of that changed.

Yes, I did receive accolades on the condition of my teeth, including the ‘best teeth of the day.’ However, the dentist discovered a small cavity nonetheless, and I applaud her for remaining calm and professional during my reaction. ‘Are you serious?’ I said, as my hands clasped together at my chest and my feet began wrenching in circles. ‘How did this happen?’ Then the tears came. It was all I could do to keep them within the orbs of my eyes, but they were there and noticeable nonetheless. The doctor was very understanding and explained the process of filling a cavity for me. She also discussed options for anesthesia, one of which included knocking me out with Valium before my visit. Although the thought crossed my mind, I knew that getting Jason’s boss to understand that he needed to take personal time off work to drive his crazy dentist-fearing and pill-popping wife to her first cavity filling was not going to happen. Thus, I shall face the fear alone on Thursday. I only hope that I muster the bravery necessary for this. My fear is that I will end up being like my dad, who at a routine colonoscopy couldn’t take the pain and discomfort and had to receive serious sedatives. Afterward he suffered from slurred speech, disorientation, and the misconception that the doctor gave him a PEZ dispenser as a reward for successfully completing the procedure.“

Follow-up: My cavity was filled successfully. I didn’t have to take any pills. And I didn’t receive a PEZ dispenser from the dentist upon a job well done. We’ll see how it goes tomorrow.