6th grader (noticing my neon green nail color): “That nail polish is…VERY green.”
Me (laughing): “Oh, yeah, I went to a party this weekend and it was an 80s theme, so I painted my nails the brightest neon color I could find.”
6th grader: “Because people wore bright nail polish in the 1800s?”
Me: “Wait what no, no– not the 1800s. The 80s.”
6th grader: “What’s the difference?”
A wise man once said, “Don’t wait until you’re 40 fucking years old to get your wisdom teeth removed, you dumb dumb dodo bird.”
I mean I’m paraphrasing/making that up entirely but the point is, don’t wait. Because you know what the OPPOSITE of wisdom is? Sitting on your ass and doing nothing about your wisdom teeth, and waiting until your body reaches the (apparently decrepit?) age of 40, which then makes the procedure about 10 times more complex and susceptible to multiple kinds of nasty post-surgery complications. WHO KNEW?!*
*All dentists. All doctors. Most adults. Definitely some kids. Not me, though!
Now, in my defense, I was never explicitly told that I needed to get my wisdom teeth removed. It was always a kind of “on the fence” situation. Three of them grew in fine, but the bottom left remained SLIGHTLY impacted (meaning part of the tooth did not emerge from the gums. Follow me for more definitions of things you already know).
Beginning around age 17, dentists started to comment that “they should probably be taken out, but if they don’t cause pain, there’s no rush.” Well, the procrastinator in me loves nothing more than to hear “No rush!” so I kicked my feet up and sat on that shit for decades, like a boss.
My teeth never hurt. So I did what I do best– nothing.
Dentists kept mentioning it “would be a good idea” to remove them soon, but my brain clearly has an aversion to ideas that are good. So I continued to live my life, eat my sweets, and pretend that my body was not deteriorating with age.
Then I got pregnant with Sophie and I’m not sure the exact correlation, but my teeth started to hurt like a bitch. I went to the dentist after a 2-year COVID hiatus, at which point he kindly informed me, in the most gentle way possible, that it was absolutely batshit insane that I was still holding on to these teeth.
Me: “But they give me wisdom, right?”
Dentist:
Me: “Maybe you’ve heard that one before…”
Dentist: “This is serious. You need to remove these IMMEDIATELY. You cannot wait.”
Hearing these words and digesting the gravity of my situation, I did what any responsible adult would do and waited 11 more months.
Which brings us to last week, when I finally had them removed. And you know what guys, I’m not sure what all the scary warnings and dire tones were about because it was, like, nothing.
No jk it’s been horrible.
Here’s why. Apparently, the reason to NOT WAIT to get your wisdom teeth out (a reason that was never explicitly explained to me before I met with the surgeon, but that I probably could have figured out with a quick google search or, you know, some common fucking sense) isn’t just because your body is older and slower to heal (although that never helps! Middle age is cool cool cool.)
The more pressing issue is that the longer you keep the wisdom teeth, the deeper the roots grow into your gums, and the closer those roots are to approaching a very important huge ass nerve that runs along your jawline (it’s called the Mandibular Nerve, but I try not to get too medically technical on this blog because, you know, #notadoctor, but if you’re interested in more information please feel free to use the google and then let me know what it says).
The oral surgeon determined from my x-ray that the bottom left tooth (the impacted one) had roots VERY close to this nerve, so he felt inclined to warn me that nerve damage was a possibility. A very rare possibility, but a possibility nonetheless.
Me: “Ok, but like HOW rare?”
Surgeon: “VERY rare.”
Me: “Like so rare that it definitely shouldn’t stop me from getting the surgery?”
Surgeon: “Yes, that rare. I’ve only had one patient with nerve complications, and he was almost twice your age.”
Me: “Ok that sounds pretty fucking rare.”
Surgeon: “INCREDIBLY rare.”
So naturally, I have nerve damage.
The bottom left side of my face, from lower lip to chin, is completely numb. Oh, unless you count the constant burning, itching and tingling sensations that I can do nothing about, because when I try to scratch or massage the area, it is paralyzed and therefore touching it is useless. It’s that exact feeling of when your dental anesthesia is starting to wear off, and you feel the tingling but you’re still numb and uncomfortable and if you try to sip wine water it will dribble down your chin like a 90 year old hospice patient. And it’s ALL the time. Additionally, I’ve lost partial sense of taste and smell, so I don’t even get the satisfaction of fully enjoying the ice cream that rolls out of my mouth, down my face and into my neck.
So that’s been cool.
The surgeon (the same one who really played up that “rare” factor) feels “cautiously optimistic” that the damage is temporary, which would be reassuring if I had more than -2% faith in him, which I do not. And even if the damage IS temporary, it will still take 3 months to a year to resolve. THREE. MONTHS. TO. A. YEAR. Who has that kind of time?! Alright, fine. I do. But it’s annoying.
So that’s where we are. Wisdom teeth gone, jaw aching, nerves shot. The only positive is that I can now use this as a cautionary tale to warn all of you, and save you from similar despair– DO NOT WAIT TO REMOVE YOUR WISDOM TEETH.
I’m sorry, what’s that? This advice is useful to no one, because you removed yours at 17, like a not-idiot? WELL CHEERS TO YOU THEN.
I’ve been feeling like I’m in a rut and really need to change things up so this morning I put extra ice in my coffee and used whole milk instead of skim.
This post is intended to serve as both a PSA to those of you who do NOT want to get pregnant and perhaps a reassuring bit of news for those of you 35-and-ups who hope to have kids (or MORE kids) at some point and have underlying anxiety about the non-stop, aggressive warnings from the medical community that it is much harder to conceive after age 34.
Now, I’m not here to argue with science. Clearly, there is medically researched backing to the idea that conception becomes more difficult as you get older. I’m just here to make you aware of the less-talked-about phenomenon that occurs in your mid-30s, but is just as real* (*have no scientific backing for this claim, based solely on personal experience and, you know, “what I’ve heard”)– it’s called Catcher’s Mitt Syndrome** (**not a real syndrome. Don’t quote this to people without a sense of humor– they won’t get it, and then they’ll research it, find out it’s fake and report me to Snopes).
Catcher’s Mitt Syndrome is when your geriatric*** uterus (***not my term– actual medical term for when you are 35+ and trying to have a child) overperforms. See, thanks to your 17+ years of popping birth control pills like tic tacs and/or using other means to impede its life work, your uterus hasn’t been given any opportunity to fulfill what it believes to be its life’s purpose (I am not saying this IS its life’s purpose, I’m just saying that’s what your UTERUS thinks. I fully support a woman’s choice to never have kids, and in fact encourage that choice. Trust me, I’m a teacher– I’ve met far too many parents who probably shouldn’t be parents.)
And so when your Guterus (celebrity couple name for geriatric + uterus) DOES get that one opportunity to shine, it gets so fucking excited that it dusts off the cobwebs, sprouts 27 limbs, and slips a catcher’s mitt on each of them. Then it does everything in its power to catch one of those incoming suckers because it knows this might be its only opportunity. This “last chance” mentality also causes your Yogi Berra uterus to text-alert your ovaries, encouraging them to release every available egg from their dark, abandoned storage room, which is why twins are more likely**** as you get older, even without the assistance of IVF (****statistic based on what my 35-year-old friend who just had twins told me. But she claims her doctor told her that, and I believe her because it sounds legit, and also this friend is a general knower of stuff and we used to share custody of a bunny when we were teenagers, so let’s just say I trust her. Yes, we ended up giving that bunny away because it was too much work and not as much fun as we thought it’d be, but that’s a story for another time and hopefully not at all reflective of our parenting abilities).
Needless to say, Eric and I did not know about Catcher’s Mitt Syndrome when we headed off to our 2-week South Africa/Seychelles honeymoon in late November. Like most people with a Guterus, I assumed that making a baby would take about 6 months if we were lucky, a few years with medical assistance if we were less lucky, or just wouldn’t happen at all. In fact, as proof of the absolute and utter uselessness of anxiety (my therapist would be so proud right now), I have spent the past 8 years worrying that when the time came for me to start a family, I would be unable to. This fear was based on absolutely nothing other than the knowledge that I would probably not get married until my mid-30s (because when you’re having a mental breakdown, living at home, and sleeping in your parents’ bed at age 27, you can safely assume marriage isn’t happening for a while).
Eight years of worrying I’d miss my chance, only to conceive on the first try. Anxiety, you deceptive bitch! Don’t get me wrong, I am EXTREMELY grateful that it turns out you’re nothing but a lying whore– I’d just like those 8 years of wasted energy back. It was exhausting.
So before we left for the honeymoon, I looked at my handy dandy ovulation app and noted that my “fertile days” would begin and last right through our 5 days in the Seychelles, at the end of our trip. Smack in the middle of paradise seemed like as good a time as any to get started!
Well, in true-to-me fashion I managed to contract a stomach bug of death during our last day in South Africa, which had me projectile vomiting through 2 countries, 3 airports, and 2 aircrafts (one of them a 20-seater so again, fellow passengers and unamused flight attendant who aggressively tried to block my path to the toilet during taxi, I’M SORRY.)
We finally arrived in the Seychelles, where I threw myself dramatically onto the sweet salvation of the bed and, with this exact level of energy and enthusiasm 
, turned to Eric and said “Sooo….I’m ovulating…”
I still had dried throw up on my chin.
“Alright, well….maybe not tonight,” he replied gently, from the furthest corner of the room he could find. Because even Eric has his limits.
While I did stop puking that night, I never fully recovered from my illness in the time we were there, but we still put in some minimal baby-making effort because it just felt irresponsible not to.
It was only on our last day in the Seychelles that we decided to actually consult a calendar and calculate when this baby would actually be born, should we conceive. To our horror, we realized that it would be during our annual 2-week trip to the Outer Banks, the family vacation to end all family vacations– and, more importantly, the one that is fully financed by Big Steve. My siblings and I literally spend the year counting the days until this trip, and it’s pretty much what gets us through life. Eric has grown to love the Outer Banks as much as I do, so the idea of not going was unacceptable to us both.
Me: “Alright, well, we only tried once. Luckily the chances of getting pregnant on the first try when you’re 35 are zero*****.” (*****Again, all quoted statistics are based on NOTHING.)
Well, you know how this story ends– I never felt fully recovered from that stomach bug and by our second week back in the US, I decided that I definitely contracted an African parasite. Shortly thereafter, we confirmed (via 4 separate home pregnancy tests, because reading lines is hard), I DID have a parasite, but technically it was of Seychellian (Seychellese? Seychellite?) origin, and that parasite was going to turn into a human.
So, of course, we’d like to thank Catcher’s Mitt Syndrome for this blessing that is our daughter-to-be, but we also wish we had known about this phenomenon ahead of time, as we would have scheduled accordingly.
“Yeah, but your parents will just switch the vacation dates, right?” many of you have queried.
Oh, you sweet, naive people from normal families.
Here’s how the conversation with my mother went:
Me (right after taking pregnancy test): “So…we’re pregnant! The only issue here is that the due date is August 26, literally smack in the middle of the Outer Banks vacation…”
Mom: “Well, we don’t know that’s the due date.”
Me: “Ok. We do, though.”
Mom: “Let’s see what the doctor says.”
Me: “The doctor is going to say that’s the due date, because I used the exact same calculation method a doctor uses.”
Mom: “Em, let’s just see what he says, ok?”
(after going to doctor)
Me: “The doctor says the due date is August 26.”
Mom: “Ok, well let’s just see what happens.”
So no. No one is switching anything.
The takeaway from all this? It’s six-fold:
Things you overhear when you sip a coffee alone midday at the NY Historical Society Cafe, where the average age of patrons is roughly 91…
Lady: “My grandkids are terrible little people. So spoiled. All kids are now. Spoiled rotten, can’t do a damn thing for themselves.”
(Bites scone in shaky hand.)
Lady: “Stu died. Cancer. Terrible.”
(Reapplies lipstick.)
Lady: “What the hell is a Bitcoin?”
Things you should know if you know me.
On the phone with my mom…
Mom: “So I guess Dad and I are never getting our car back, huh?”
Me: “Ummm, incorrect. I sent Dad an entire email detailing how Zack is going to drive it back to Maryland next weekend.”
Mom: “Oh, Dad didn’t tell me.”
Me: “Shocking.”
Mom: “Well, next time you email information like that, just include me on it, because Dad doesn’t tell me anything.”
Me: “Ok.”
Mom: “Actually, you know. There’s a secret way you can include me on the email, so he can’t even see.”
Me: “There IS?!?!?”
Mom: “Yes it’s called a blind copy.”
About to play a math game…
Kid: “Can we use the dice app on your phone again?”
Me: “No, we only did that last time because I forgot the dice. But now I have them, so we can roll them ourselves.”
Kid (sigh): “But it’s so much easier to just touch your phone screen.”
Me: “But it’s so much nicer and more interesting to be a human who does old-timey human things, like hold real dice in your hand, and then extend your arm ever so slightly to roll them on the real, live floor. Plus they make a sound and everything!”
Kid: ( 
. crosses arms. pouts.)
We’re so fucked.
Just now on the street…
“Dayuuuuuum Miss Emily! I knew you was young when you was my teacher, but you look even more young now. What you, like, 21? Look like you aging backward!”
— Former Kindergarten student, now a completely inappropriate 14-year-old punk with terrible grammar.
And my new favorite person.
There is an old cantankerous man who lives in our building, and every time he walks into the elevator and sees me on my phone (which is always), he makes a snide comment about it. Normally I just smile awkwardly and sort of ignore, but today I decided to defend myself.
Old man: “Those things are ruining people. Nobody talks to each other anymore.”
Me: “Yes, you always say that to me.”
Old man: “Well, it’s true. How’s anyone supposed to meet if they’re always looking at their phone?”
Me: “Actually, I met my husband on my phone.”
Old man: “You mean you were talking on the phone when you met him?”
Me: “No, I literally found him BECAUSE OF my phone. I was in an elevator like this one, and instead of talking to people around me, I was scrolling through a dating app. I came across his profile, read it, and I liked it, so I connected with him and we started talking.”
Old man: “I see…”
Me: “Right, so, if I hadn’t been looking at my phone, if I had been talking to people around me instead, as you always say I should be doing, then I wouldn’t have found my husband.”
Old man (long pause): “Well, young lady, I guess that’s a good point.”
Me (smiling, resisting the urge to literally pat myself on the back): “Thank you.”
(We both step out of the elevator and into the lobby)
Doorman: “Hey there, Eddie!”
Old man: “The whole world’s gone to shit. This girl met her husband INSIDE A PHONE! Like a ROBOT!”
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