Things of a toothy nature

School is good. Really good.

This pretty much sums up the joy:

Don't let the exuberant delight deceive you. Our daily conversations go like this:

'Hey! How's life?'

'I want to kill myself. But I don't want to feed into the stereotype.'

I'm starting to think dental schools are run by casinos.

Time doesn't exist here.

11 hours on campus? Whatever. 

You better believe I'm making the most of my 10 billion dollar education. 

I won't bore you with the details of my knowledge packed day, but suffice it to say that I didn't know PowerPoint was capable of handling 426 slides. Go pathology!

You'd think I might be overwhelmingly stressed about becoming magically proficient at deciphering between the bajillion different kinds of necrotic, maggoty, lichenous skin lesions that all look the same (whoever said dentistry was gross never checked out a dermatology book), when what REALLY stresses me out is the conversation I'm going to have to have with a date. 

Hobbies? Interests? 

PANIC. 

Start listing activities that I see listed on rec center flyer.

Don't worry. I am having fun. Between Gangnam Style study breaks and learning how to cook with the 3 ingredients in my home (baking soda, an onion, and a questionable orange), I'm having a blast. Love the people - here and from BYU who have kept in touch through Skype! Love the palm trees. Love my new-found priority skills (case in point: I haven't vacuumed my apartment in 3 weeks and I am blogging.) Love the fact that I studied at the POOL for 2.5 hours in OCTOBER. Love that I can still fit in fun on the weekends. Love that I have committed to reading A Tale of Two Cities so molars don't overrule my life. Love the fact that apparently our professors think we have enough skills to start drilling amalgam preps.

I'll prove them wrong.

Oh, right

I have a blog that needs attention.

Meh.

Perhaps I'll divulge a few more details about la vida, but for now, suffice it to say that learning things of a toothy nature and ALL THE SCIENCE EVER DISCOVERED is fabulous and I really love the people out here. I barely have any time to do essential things like grocery shop, but I've learned how to prepare some really spectacular dishes from really subpar ingredients from my best friend in le law school. I'm also rapidly losing the ability to put together outfits, as I've become readily accustomed to the scrubs.

In other achievements, I'm touching lives across the globe. First, with my buddy who was in Turkey and now with a mystery pal in Russia. Congratulations! You found an unsearchable blog! Pleeeeease tell me we have some connection - like you saw a link through your best friend's, former mission companion's, niece's neighbor's childhood dog walker post on the FaceSpace? Because any friend of a childhood's neighbor's dog walker, niece's missionary companion's best friend is a friend of mine (as long as you aren't Ted Bundy).

New Home!

Last week I moved to my new home in Arizona. I'm completely in love.

Interviewing for dental school was a lot of fun. In many regards, it was like an intense barrage of first dates. You have fun on most first dates. My state school was the obvious first choice, and I loved the interview. But when I visited Arizona, I was smitten. Thankfully, the school and city feel just as wonderful and right as when I came last September!

After a frenzied two days, this is what I've thrown together in a previously unfurnished place:

Yeeesss. Color.

The spheres on the coffee table were a big deal.

Everyone needs useless spheres. 

Ignore the things that aren't hung on the wall yet. Focus on the fact that that right there is a breakfast nook. I'm now 7% more of an adult.

Too bad I'll never have time to cook in here.

It's purple, of course.

(never again will I sleep in a twin.)

This is what I see outside my patio.

Yeah, it's hot. 116 degrees of hot. Hell is colder than Arizona. But it's okay because there are PALM TREES and GECKOS and you don't have to shovel heat! I haven't seen any real wildlife like havalenas (I think that's a combo between a hyena and warthog?) or rattlesnakes yet because I don't know where the real desert is. I think I'm in more danger of cilantro than any of those things. 

My neighbors are really friendly. My ward is lively and welcoming. Everything worked out just the way I had hoped. 

Did I not choose the most amazing place to learn about teeth?

Honey, I got you something special

My life got a whole lot weirder this morning.

Groupon presented me with spa treatment today

Nope, not that kind. You're not going to get healthy with an avocado facial, you pansy. This deal is for colon hydrotherapy. 

Naturally, I start thinking about my colon. Is it happy? Am I treating it well? Does it need a little extra love? 

I click on this fabulous deal to get more information.

First, they start to scare me with some science and big words. I don't know what ubiquitous means, but it must be bad. And I know for a fact that I don't want President Lincoln setting up camp in my digestive tract:

'Similar to old pennies, environmental toxins are ubiquitous, harmful if swallowed, and may contain trace amounts of Abraham Lincoln. Feel good head to tails with this Groupon.'

Then, they tell me about the cute clothes that I get to wear during my day at the spa :

'During one-hour colon hydrotherapy appointments, patients don a hospital gown and lie upon a padded treatment table on their side. '

Love me some hospital gowns. Feeling more naked than normal is exhilarating.

Now we get the deets:

'The therapist gingerly inserts a disposable plastic speculum into the rectum, then has the patient roll into a comfortable position on their back. Through the valves, tubing, and Dutch canals of her gravity-fed closed system, 100-degree, quadruple-filtered water ebbs and flows through the length of the colon, stimulating peristalsis and flushing out stale waste matter.'

Words that were not necessary: 

therapist

gingerly

inserts

speculum

rectum

valves

tubing

Dutch canals (don't try to get all cultural on me)

gravity-fed closed system

100-degree QUADRUPLE-FILTERED water 

ebbs and flows (what is this? A poem?)

length of the colon (oh I know it's about 17 thousand feet)

peristalsis (hold it. I've taken a science class. This action is not going to make sunshine appear.) 

This is all code for:

Some hippie person who doesn't have a license to practice medicine is going to stick a plastic tube 17 thousand feet up your butt to flush out your colon with pure, untouched mountain spring water that hasn't been meddled with since the days of the dinosaurs. You're gonna love the ebbing and flowing. We don't have any real medical equipment, so we won't be able to tell if there's any cancer happening (or if we're ripping through the intestinal lining) so you're going to have to do this again, for real, with your actual colonoscopy representative. But buy this anyway. It'll make you feel pretty.

If you're not convinced, they let you know about the extra perks you get to enjoy NOT being in a hospital, surrounded by knowledgeable people:

"I have candles burning, I have beautiful music playing–it's actually quite remarkable how relaxed a person gets," says Michele H----, CHT, describing the atmosphere in her colon-hydrotherapy treatment room at The Boulder Center for Vibrant Health.'

Thought One: The letters C, H, and T aren't anywhere near M and D. That can't be a typo.

Thought Two: What kind of music is the best accompaniment to colon hydrotherapy? 

Thought Three: The only way this can be completely relaxing is if my fingernails are also pulled out one by one. Is there an extra fee for a Medieval Torture Specialist? 

'Warm neck wraps and abdominal massages add to the sense-soothing nature of Michele's colonic sessions, while upgrades such as a hot-towel massage renders more relaxation than cuddling.'

Whoa. Something more relaxing than cuddling?

I'm sold.

I'm buying TWO of these and the next time I get my cuddle on and my man says, 'Mmm this is nice,' I'm going to reply, 'Babe, you have no idea. Let's go get some colon hydrotherapy with Therapist Michele.'

Oh, and I highly recommend this HYSTERICAL Dave Barry post about colonoscopies. I start crying from laughter every time I read it. A journey from my colon - into yours

(Over 80 people have actually bought this. There are no words.) 

'Hey, I think I know you from somewhere.'

Hey, I think I know you're full of it.

I get that this statement is a way to break the ice between boy and girl. But it's just too tiring to going through all of my wheres and match them up with all of his wheres.

I had this genius roommate who figured out the perfect approach to this situation.

Here's the set up. You're doing your thing and stranger approaches. Never seen him before in your life. This is what you gotta do: Out-weird him.

Guy: 'Hey. I think I know you from somewhere!'

Girl: (You could just go along with it and spend the next 2 minutes trying to figure out if it's the ward, a class from 3 years ago when really every BYU student looks the same. So you can have some fun. I choose fun.) Yeah! I think we went to a summer camp together! (False.)

Guy: (Can't back out now.) Yeah. That might have been it.

Girl: It was awesome. So much better than regular camps.

Guy: Oh, for sure.

Girl: (Continues on and on about the friends and activities. Eventually, it comes out that this was a Wiccan/Voodoo/Magic-folk summer camp.)

Girl: It's so cool to see you again! I love being around other witches and warlocks!

Guy: (Nervous laughter. Starts pushing a leaf around with his foot.)

Girl: What level warlock are you now? I'm a level seven witch.

Guy: Um.....

Girl: What did you tell your bishop during your first Ecclesiastical Endorsement for admittance?

Guy: You know what... maybe we haven't met before.....

Brilliant, right?

When I try to do funny things on my own without supervision, it just goes terribly awry:

The tragedy: he DID know me from somewhere totally legitimate

The bigger tragedy: I had to endure his presence in three more classes.

The biggest tragedy. He got a whole lot cuter over those three classes.

Needless to say, he kept his distance. Boo.

I no longer (intentionally) play such malicious mind games and I'm not such a brat when someone asks me if we know each other.

Bane of My Existence

One of my favorite quotes: 'Elizabeth is really good at sports.' - Said by no one. Ever.

As a licensed psychologist (wait? my Bachelors in psychology doesn't qualify me for anything?), I've been taking the time to delve into some repressed memories.  After analyzing a dream I had about destroying Voldemort in a karaoke contest, I realized that I have some deeply rooted issues with sports.

It all stems from elementary school. I really liked gym from kindergarten through second grade. We honed our athletic abilities through valuable activities such as the long distance spitttage of watermelon seeds and Dead Bug (a game like tag, where when you got caught, you had to sit on your back with all four limbs up. Four kids would then grab each limb and carry you to the safe zone where you were instantly revived.)

Dead Bug. My kind of sport.

Then it became time to teach us how to be real people and learn The Soccer. Oh boy. I quickly learned that this was not my cup of Latter-day Saint-sanctioned-tea. I've always been smaller than the rest (the roommates kindly refrain from placing the glasses on the top shelf) of the gang and when you come charging at me, I don't see you as you really are. In fact, you look more like this:

So of course I'm going to scream, 'Fine! Take the ball! Just take it!' and I'm going to get the h-e-double-hockey sticks out of there. The other kids got the point and never picked me at recess. I was okay with that - I got to play house and direct any lovesick boys to do my bidding. It rocked.

I was pretty content with my stunted athleticism, but always harbored a lot of self-doubt about it which has started to bother me. It's pathetic to not be able to throw and catch a ball! A guy once me I was really bad at playing a game. My goodness that hurt my feelings, even though it was true! (Dude! Just be cool! I'm trying to date you brother and con him into thinking I'm a cool sporty girl!) I think it was the fear of being ridiculed that kept me from trying all this time. But this past college year, I expressed my fears to a few men and remarkably, they didn't make fun! In fact, they were the eager to be my Remedial Sports coaches. Believe it or not, I now like sports* to the extent that I would ask them to bring over football so we could play (no joke.)

With a new spark lit, I asked for instruction in basketball. I was surprised at how much I liked it. I came home and bought sporting equipment. Mom thought I had lost my marbles.

Since I suck and am scared of kids' ridicule, I practice at my neighbor's house. I'm not good enough to go to the park yet (I get 72 Points of Pathetic for that one.) I practice at least one hour, six days a week. I'm committed to getting this thing down. I even WATCH basketball clips to see how it should be done (Elizabeth voluntarily watched a sport? The world just stopped turning.) After doing it a little on my own, I actually value athletics more - there's a lot of talent out there!

I'm not particularly gifted at it, but it's coming along! After some deep soul searching, I'm okay with not ever being lauded as a cool, sporty girl (I look up BBC documentaries of the rainforest on YouTube because 1. I love science 2. I love British accents. Definitely not sporty OR cool. If you're not cool either, check out this video about the cordyceps fungus. The craziest fungus ever that takes over insects' BRAINS and EXPLODES out of their heads! Baaaaah. That video will change your life.)

 Back to the point - I would love to hear, 'Elizabeth is really good at putting effort into sports. She also knows about rainforest fungus.' 

Aim high. 

Guess what. I know that this is Michael Jordan.  BAM. Sports guru here. And he played for the Bulls (okay. I didn't know that. I just read it. And the Bulls are from..... Dallas? Spain? WAIT! CHICAGO!!! The Chicago Bulls. That's a team. (I don't care enough to Google it to see if that is right.))

* My idea of sports is very different from the norm. Sports is defined as having the opponent a safe distance away, preferably 3 meters. Charging at E with the force of a raging in-heat bull is not welcome. We NEVER tackle E (this happened once and I was not thrilled. It might have been a 9-year-old who inflicted the pain. I kept raising my babysitting rates so his parents would stop asking me to supervise their sadistic monster). Tickling however is permissible, but that is not a sport. That is deemed flirting and is ALWAYS appreciated. Sports is rife with laughter and smiles; hateful competitive angst is not appreciated. Basically, I play 7-year-old sports. Deal with it. 

Your Personal Color-coded Guide to Sin

Gather your fine jewelry and costly apparel - it's Rameumptum Day in Relief Society! Some girl once made the comment that you can tell what sins a guy is committing by the color of the shirt he chooses to wear to Church activities. I guess I missed the 'Unrighteous Blue' discussion in Sunday school? Sarah Palin could see my eyes roll all the way from Russia.

As I've thought about this, I just don't think it's fair that we don't have a standardized categorization of sin. Imagine this, you meet the Greeter Gal and she says, 'Here's your program, and please, take your appropriate Scarlet Letter.' Unfortunately, after looking for doctrine to back this up, I wound up empty handed (There's nothing. Zilch. Nada).

So if we can't do the Scarlet Letters, here's the next best thing: Your Personal Color-coded Guide to Sin. You're welcome, World.

The Blue Shirt

Oh, honey. You steer clear of this guy. Never mind the fact that he creeps on the mom of the infant he eventually falls in love with, a man in a blue shirt is pure danger.

Sin: Too suggestive of adventure and intrigue

The Black Shirt

James Bond just called. He's impressed.

Sin: Channelling too much raw masculinity

The Green Shirt

I can't take this guy seriously.

Sin: All the sins. 

The Purple Shirt

Cardiac failuuuure

Sin: Too much confident sexiness

According to my handbook, mah boys have turned out quite fine.

That one time I survived the Titanic - TWICE

I don't like cruises.

Some friends invite me on a cruise and I reply, 'Awesome! Let's burn each other with matches while we're at it! Jump out of a plane without a parachute! That's fun too!' Let me explain.

Last summer, my mom and I were organizing the family photos. I came upon one photo (which I would upload if I knew how to use the scanner. I'm 23. Getting too old for this, people.) which had a very silly story behind it.

It's a picture of me on our Alaska cruise (zzzzzz) when I was 8. That would put us at 1997, the year Titanic came out. Although I didn't see the movie, I was plenty aware of the icy clutches of death that awaited the passengers.

So, on this cruise everyone is on the deck admiring the pretty H2O(s) doing this:

I see this and my sage eight-year-old imagination begins thinking of this:

I've always been an independent thinker. I raise my eyebrow and exclaim, 'Nuh uh. We're not doing this.' 

None of the adults are taking this business seriously. I must take control. I take one last look at my mommy, 'Nice knowin' ya. I'll carry on the family name' and hie it to the life boats. 

That's the photo of me. My back turned to the camera, my little legs carrying me to be the first in line to get off this death trap. Mommy has no idea what I am up to. I'm feeling pretty smug in my line. Let the fools take their pictures; I'm going to live. 

Turns out, we didn't hit an iceberg and we survived to see ominous glaciers (you'd think at some point a huge chunk would crash into the water and make it more interesting!). So you might imagine I would learn to trust the people in charge, right?

Wrong.

Fast forward a several years to my senior high school trip to Europe with a cruise in the Mediterranean. There will be Greek food, Greek dancing, and some Greek sinking. You heard me. 

Here I am, enjoying the gorgeous surroundings, about to get on the boat.

Wipe those smiles of your faces girls, 'cause someone has been sampling a little too much ouzo and is going to run the boat right into a reef. In fact, it might even make it to the news: http://voices.yahoo.com/cruise-ship-sinks-aegean-sea-288573.html

Well, that's not exactly what happened. It didn't sink during my trip. But the exact same boat sank 6 months after I was on it - which is pretty much the same thing in my book.

It'll take a lot of bribing, tricking, and false imprisonment to get me on a cruise again (the Caribbean cruise turned out alright, but that might have been a fluke). I've escaped Davy Jones' locker twice now and I'm not pushing my luck any more. 

You have to respect the sea. 

Pride and Prejudice and Provo

We're all well familiar with Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice. With each reading of this beloved classic, I cherish it more. In my latest reading, I couldn't help but realize some familiarity. This familiarity did not stem from knowing the plot nor the characters - that would have been too simple! No, this familiarity came from the gradual realization that I have lived this culture!

I spent 5 years at BYU in a whirlwind of 1800s-esque English dating. Marriage is of the utmost importance. And oh right, education as well?

Such a frenzy of dating occurred, that at one point, it was required that I maintain an Excel spreadsheet with each interest's name followed by a short anecdote to help me keep the Matthews separate from the Marks, Lukes, and Johns. I have since learned to sift through the ample supply of gentlemen and have since focused my dating habits considerably. Who knew the superfluous supply of suitors would encourage me to get more out of literature?

Because clearly, all returned missionaries are in want of a wife!

A good portion of the Excel spreadsheet contained sweet-spirited men. You know the kind that you just can't see yourself with, but they're nice and you do your best to have a great evening. 

You return from your 47 minutes of frozen yogurt (you'll soon see why I abhor this popular activity) with little to report to the roommates. The conversation was paltry and after he informed you that your desire to go into dentistry was 'remarkably boring' you found yourself pleading to have him tell you more about the different kinds of sand (he, being a geology major and will rattle away ad nauseam. Anything to keep the conversation going, people). He tucked his shirt into his jeans in such a manner that reminded you of Mr. Henry who dropped you and your best friend - his daughter - off at ballet lessons where you exhibited the most refined skills in dance with your awkward and uncoordinated 5-year-old limbs. But he was very kind and you appreciated his time and effort (and money. I always feel badly about that).

You realize, that you were just introduced to Mr. Collins. And if you were fortunate,  able to avoid a proposal of marriage because it would make his patroness (or his bishop or the entire religious head) happy. One of my dear friends rejected a proposal of going steady from a Mr. Collins who, after taking her up to the temple (strike one), importuned her to follow Jesus (sacrilegious strike two) take a leap of faith and choose him, and not follow Satan and be single (major strike three. Seriously, sir?)

As you continue through the follies of youthful dating, you gradually begin to make wiser decisions. But at present, you are in the Lydia Bennet stage of dating.

As you attended your first bridal shower in the basement of the dorms (classy) during the spring of your freshman year, you find it difficult to fathom settling down at so young an age! You haven't secured ALL the men yet! You put on your finest white t-shirt below that scandalous tank top and head to the Cougareat (pronounced Coo-GARE-ee-aht). There you find the men in that Taco Bell line. After your phone number has been secured by a hungry lad, you suddenly remember that you have a TA review session to attend (right, we are trying to achieve higher levels of knowledge). The TA then asks for your phone number (I don't even know if that is legal and after my own TA position of 7 semesters, I still have no idea. But I was savvy enough to not date any of my students.) You go on the date with the TA to that indoor climbing place and get your hands all nice and gross from the handholds. In accordance to the added microbial flora, you wind up dating the climbing instructor. Who happens to be....

Mr. Wickham!

At this tender age, you know nothing of self-respect (you are desperately missing your missionary and need to pass the time!) Your boyfriend tells you 'You know, sometimes it's kinda cool and kinda annoying that you think for yourself' followed by 'The silence between us has gotten really great.' and for some unfathomable reason you do not kick his darling arse to the street.

Self-respect will embed itself into your character after you get hurt a few more times (as you eventually learn that the bad boys just aren't worth it!) 

Beware the Miss Bingley's of dating - even to the extent that you do not become one! It is inevitable that your heart will be rejected, but do something more constructive than being the demon of the dinner party. Like yoga. 

You continue to grow and hopefully figure out who you are. 

Now blemished with the disgrace of being sans ring at age 21, you pay more heed to society's imploring you to get on with it! Children don't just come into this world on their own, now do they? 

Unfortunately by this time, you are not as easy to date. You have finally garnered some charisma, dignity, and courage to stick to your expectations. Although every burst of warm weather brings a barrage of dozens of engagement notifications to your FaceSpace, you are unmoved. You have accomplished some things and expect some equal yoking! Congratulations! You have now reached the stage of dating Elizabeth Bennet style. 

You are told that you are intimidating with your eye contact and ambition. You see nothing wrong with that! Suddenly, you embark on dating with a purpose and artfully evade the Mr. Collinses (but sadly, not the frozen yogurt). Occasionally, a gentleman catches your eye. You have a conversation with him of a topic of reasonable interest. You become intrigued as you learn that he has already accomplished two goals and presently has not one, not two, but THREE goals in the works. And the cherry on top - he is doing something that cannot be described as 'going into business' (I still have yet to figure out what 'going into business' means.) 

Certainly, courtship is not without its fair share of awkwardness like unto the FABULOUS lake scene:

There is great fumble-age over your words. You repeat your questions. Suddenly you become very aware of your hands. What do you do with your hands?! But hopefully you are wearing clothes (in fact, you should ALWAYS BE WEARING CLOTHES during courtship.)

If you're lucky, your interest will see past your quirkiness and might actually find it endearing that your eyes glaze over and you begin to think about Ann Taylor Loft when he describes what happened in that one game where a team played a sport  (I DID once find a man that did just this. (I'm trying to get better about it. Honest. I even bought a basketball to increase my appreciation and not feel so left out. That story for another time.)) 

So there you have it. My frivolous thoughts on a real-life application to this wonderful classic. I'm sure you can find your own Pride and Prejudice experiences. Cheer up - yes, dating is all very very vexing, but people have been getting through this exquisite silliness for centuries. Next up, The Picture of Dorian Gray. Loooove it. 

Dearest Readers, if you get one thing out of this, let it be the following: 

No more frozen yogurt. Please, have some compassion on my poor nerves, as Mrs. Bennet would say. How about getting some pie?

All photos and videos were used without permission from the BBC installment of Pride and Prejudice in 1995. I am much obliged.