July 23: Being a Worrier

I am a worrier.  I have been a worrier for most of my life.  I can take small, seemingly inconsequential aches and pains and turn them into testicular cancer or a deep vein thrombosis.  These worries aren't just passing obsessions.  I can hold on to them for days, until a new worry comes along to replace the old ones. 

To prove my point, let me give you an example.  A couple years ago, I fell into the habit of purchasing a 64 ounce cup of Diet Mountain Dew every morning before I went to work.  At the time, it only cost one dollar, and I couldn't pass up the deal.  Anyway, after a month or so of doing this, five days a week, I started experiencing pressure in my chest.  Strong pressure, as if an elephant was trying to climb up my throat.  Having a family history of heart disease (my grandpa died in his fifties of a heart attack, my brother had a heart attack in his forties) and being diabetic, I panicked.  I went to my normal physician, and he ordered all kinds of tests, including a stress test.

When all the results came back normal, my physician asked me if I'd had a change in diet or lifestyle recently.  It was then that I thought of my beloved Diet Mountain Dews.  When I told my doctor of my morning habit, he diagnosed me with something a little less life-threatening than coronary disease:  acid reflux.  I stopped purchasing the 64 ouncers, and my chest pains went away.

That's just one example of me making a mountain out of a mole hill.

Today has been an exercise in worry for me.  First, I have a dentist appointment this afternoon, which is enough to throw any person off the pier into shark-infested waters.  I generally don't get too wound up about dental cleanings, but I happened to forget my toothbrush, toothpaste, and floss this morning when I left the house.

Second, and more troublesome, my home phone number has been busy since early this morning.  I just tried dialing home again a minute ago, and it's still busy.  Now, a normal person would probably think, "Oh, the three-year-old knocked the phone off the hook," and stop worrying.  Or, "There's probably some kind of trouble in the phone lines."  I am not a normal person.  As the hours have mounted, I have gone through scenario after frightening scenario.  I am currently at this one:  some pedophile rapist snuck into my house early this morning and has been holding my wife and son at gunpoint all day.

There are many other more likely, less violent explanations out there.  At the moment, however, I am driving myself crazy with the pedophile rapist thing.  Every time the phone rings right now, I snatch it up, hoping it will be my wife.  Every five minutes, I dial my number, hoping I will hear it ringing.

Before I go to my dentist appointment, I will be making a stop at home, just to put my fears to rest.  I will probably discover that my demolitioner toddler has pulled the phone out of the wall, and I will breathe a huge sigh of relief.

Right now, Saint Marty is preparing for hostage negotiations.

Add a little hair, and this is me

July 23: Diet Mountain Dew Morning, Long Day, "Carol" Dip

It is definitely a Diet Mountain Dew morning.  My mind is about five steps behind the rest of my body, and it's losing ground.  By the end of the day, my mind will be back in Sunday while my body will be getting ready for Tuesday.  Therefore, I have a 52 ounce cup of the yellow nectar to jumpstart my week.  I hope it works, or it is going to be one very long day.

You know, when I started this blog about a year and a half ago (under the name Feasts & Famines), I thought it would only be a matter of time before some big agent or publisher discovered how witty and talented I was.  A book deal was supposed to follow.  Then a film adaptation of my book, starring Leonardo DiCaprio and directed by Martin Scorsese (I'd settle for Steven Spielberg).  Well, here I am, almost two years later, no book or movie deal on the horizon.  I'm still holding out hope that these things will come to pass, but I'm trying to be a little more realistic.  I'm setting my sights on the Nobel Prize in Blogging (which the members of the Swedish Academy will create just so they can honor my brilliant writing).  Hey, a guy's gotta dream.

My point is that sometimes it feels like I'm writing in this little vacuum.  Aside from a few very supportive and kind disciples who leave comments, I don't know if what I'm writing is having any kind of impact.  I mean, I sound whiny and annoying to myself sometimes.  I'm sure I turn off more readers than I turn on (not in any kind of sexual or pornographic sense--the name of the blog is Saint Marty, not The Penis Blog or Adventures With My Other Head).  I guess the best I can hope is that my posts make a few people smile or laugh, maybe think a little about issues of mental illness, writing, poetry, and sexual addiction.  If I can accomplish that every day, then I'm doing something worthwhile.  I'm making a small difference in the world.

Well, it's Carol Dip Monday.  I already have my question picked out.  It has to do with something that's happening later this afternoon:

Will I have any cavities at my dentist appointment today?

And the answer from the great book of Dickens is:

...It gave him little surprise, however; for he had been revolving in his mind a change of life, and thought and hoped he saw his new-born resolutions carried out in this.

That doesn't really answer the question.  Either I'm not going to have a cavity and will change my oral hygiene habits to insure I don't develop any issues, or I will have a ton of cavities and gum disease and will change my oral hygiene habits to correct these problems.

Either way, Saint Marty is going to have to brush and floss more often.

Not in this blog!

January 6: Scrooge Moment, Dentist Appointment, Cleaning

A Scrooge moment.  Cover your eyes!

Yes, I had a Scrooge moment this afternoon.  It was when my wife and I sat down and started subtracting amounts from our checking account.  Car payment.  Groceries.  Water bill.  Dance tuition.  I saw the deposit from my paycheck dwindle and ebb.  By the time we were done, I had to transfer money from our savings to cover everything, and there ain't that much in savings.

I started to panic, hyperventilate, and sputter.  I became Ebenezer Scrooge.  This week of vacation suddenly seemed like a colossal waste of money, especially when I could have been earning some overtime.  I wasn't a pretty sight. 

Before I left for my dentist appointment, my wife said to me, "You better be careful.  You really are going to turn into Scrooge."  I wish I'd been witty enough to say, "Bah humbug" or "God bless us, everyone."  I don't really recall what my response was.  It was probably something like, "Yeah, well, yeah."

Then I went and had my teeth cleaned.  It seemed an appropriate way to end the afternoon.  And, actually, it did brighten my frame of mind substantially.  I really like the people at my dentist office.  The hygienist and I talk about books.  The receptionist and I joke around.  The dentist could make a root canal enjoyable.  By the time I left, my teeth were sparkling, and my mood had greatly improved.

I spent a good portion of what was left of the afternoon cleaning my house, which hasn't been cleaned in almost two weeks, with the holidays and everything.  Cleaning generally puts me in a good mood, as well.  I did break my Swiffer in the process.  That kind of sucked.  For the most part, however, I have recovered from my Scrooge moment.

Saint Marty is ready for the weekend.