Ow.

So, again, it's been a little while. Sorry. I've only recently managed to scratch my way out from under a pile of grading and genius level self-sabotage. And what greeted me in the free and rarefied air?

A tooth extraction.

Now, I've needed to get this sucker yanked for the past year. It's not that I've got bad teeth (best my parents' orthodontist could provide) and I do take care of them, but I have a small jaw. A VERY small jaw in a rather round face. I also inherited my father's enormous teeth, and they just don't fit. My roots poke out through my gums, become infected, and I want to die of pain. Ergo, I had my lower back molars root canaled ages ago. It might have been six or seven years now (holy shit, am I really that old?!) and once the root is gone, the tooth is dead. This effectively means that no matter how precious you are about what you chew and how well you brush, they become brittle and crumble like chalky cement. It's no fun, and if you'd like a story, ask a friend of mine what it's like when yours truly turns to you just before holy communion and holds out her hand with a visible chunk of tooth in it and smiles, leaking blood from the corner of her mouth. Yeah, I have good friends.*

This whole matter is complicated by the fact that I've still not managed to get registered at a dentistry here in the UK. It is almost entirely covered on the NHS, but the demand far outstrips supply. Additionally, I don't have a car, so if I can't easily get there via bus (wherever there might happen to be) I don't go. Luckily, there's the Dental Information and Advice Line and the kind people there sorted me out an emergency appointment at the dentist office here on campus. This is where this gets unfortunate.

The dentist was a tiny little polish woman who clearly knew her stuff but just couldn't generate the leverage or strength to RIP THE MASSIVE, DISINTEGRATING MOLAR FROM MY ACHING HEAD. Pliers only crumbled it further, and even with a very kind, soft-spoken hygienist holding my hand the pain and pressure was dizzying. Eventually the dentist had to cut it out and that's where the trouble lies-- in addition to using the rest of my jaw for leverage, tearing the corner of my mouth with just the pressure of trying to twist it out, and bashing the rest of my teeth to get to it in the first place, I have a raw red cavity where the tooth finally gave it up.

They prescribed me an antibiotic, the most interesting thing about which being the repetitive and numerous strongly-worded warnings from everyone who mentioned it not to drink any alcohol at any point whatsoever lest I be instantly violently ill (and maybe cause a fleet of Chinese mathematicians to divide by zero and end reality as we know it). What they didn't mention was that a FULL WEEK ON I would still be awoken at night by searing, stabbing pain. I've now finished my course of antibiotics and, while shivering in agony in bed in the wee hours of this morning, I decided to call the emergency help number on the paperwork with which they sent me home and see precisely what was up. I get an appointment at 11 this morning. If this is socialism, sign me up.

The good news is that it isn't infected and it seems to be healing well. She referred to it as a "very traumatic extraction" and apparently the gum around where the tooth used to be bore the brunt of the assault and that's what's causing the stabbing pain in what feels like my ear canal. I'd never felt like I'd been shanked with a stiletto in the ear before, and the lance of pain down my neck/throat was a new and exciting twist to the devil's grab-bag of masochism I'm collecting. The dentist flushed the socket for me, repacked it with more antiseptic gauze (half of which has already fallen out) and sent me on my way with an antiseptic mouthwash to use twice daily for the next week or two (but not any longer because apparently it stains the teeth... fantastic).

It's not infected. It's healing well. It may very well and in all likelihood continue to hurt this badly for the next week. Awesome.

Grading

So, my film students (all 8 billion of them) had their first assessment due yesterday my 3pm. It's a shot-by-shot analysis of a scene of their choice from one of the films we've screened thus far on the course. Simple? Absolutely. Straight-forward? Couldn't be more so. Or so I thought...

Where did I go wrong? I read the handout to them in class, pulled it up on the computer and projected in front of them, showed them where it was on the website. I begged them to email me if they had questions. I brought it up ever class for three weeks. How did they still manage to cock it up?

They were supposed to submit a chart of the shot breakdown and then 2-3 pages of analysis in paragraph form with complete sentences. The interpretations of "chart" are truly awe-inspiring. And half of them just didn't do one. Turned in the analysis without a chart or list of bullet points or ANYTHING.

*FACE/PALM.

While You Were Out...

Big changes upon which I will expound in due time (read: not now). Best to bust out the bullet points for this one, methinks!

• Got a new job on campus, that basically means I'm on campus every day, breathing the academic atmosphere and shifting my focus back away from shift work to intellectual work, despite the fact that I basically do office work. Regardless, it pays and it's fewer and better timed hours. Baby gets her evenings back! *woot woot*
• Quit the wine shop, which was good fun and good viniculture education, but not so related to my life as I want to be living it post-phd. That, and the basement where all the wine is stored had a ceiling so low that even I couldn't stand up straight. This is shocking if you know how tall I actually am in flat shoes. That, and hauling the cases of wine about was doing my back in on a repetitive basis.
• Came to the sad realization that I have an abusive landlord. This requires a whole backstory that I really don't have time to write at the moment, so I'll just leave it at this.
• Found a new flat! I'll be letting it from the parents of a friend, and it's b-e-a-utiful! The rent is a £100 more than I'm paying now per bedroom, and it's just a two bedroom place. This is a good thing because...
• A very dear friend of mine, let's call her Jen, is moving here from the US! YAY! She's basically fleeing the country, for many reasons I'm sure. But I've just secured a two bedroom apartment for us, and she arrives towards the end of October! And since it'll just be the two of us, no more sharing a bathroom among six people!! Exclaimation points for everyone!
• On the short list for providing a new home for a lovely pup-- Bonnie. She's a bonnie wee lass, an older Scottish Terrier who really needs a new family to love and adore her, but I need to double-check that the new landlords would be cool with having a fully-trained smallish dog in their flat. I really, really, really hope they are, as I've been wanting a dog for a while now.
• Booked my train tickets down to Bristol for this woman's wedding. I've not been that far south on this lovely island yet, so seeing the countryside from the train should be nice. However, it's going to take ELEVEN HOURS to get there. No joke. Even for me, that's a lot of countryside. Here's to hoping the train has wireless-- some of them do, so stop laughing.
• On the way back from the aforementioned wedding, I'm stopping in London. There are some bride's maids committments that I've got to fulfill on Saturday morning, and that means that I can't leave Bristol early enough to get back to the 'Deen the same day. So, it'll be Miss Melville in London: One Night Only! I'll be spending Saturday night in the fully capable care of Aplha, who's living down there nowadays, and crashing on her floor if there's any crashing to be had. I have a sneeking suspicion that we'll just stay out until she pours me back onto the train at Kings Cross and then I'll have 8 hours to sober up before changing in the Burgh of Edin. I'm anticipating carnage and shinanigans.
• My welcome and orientation meeting the the Ph.D. of DOOM is slated for the 25th. Holy shit.
• I get my own office. Or, at least a desk in a cupboard somewhere. They were a little hazy with the details. Regardless, I'm putting my name on the door, even if I have to whittle it there myself, Old Red-style.

I think that's about all for now. Needs must run to the mobile store to try to get someone explain to me why the new phone I bought is doing a fantastic impression of a rock.

Out with a bang and a whimper

So, my masters' dissertation is due on Monday. This Monday. By the close of business Monday.

Ohgodohgodohgod.

Why didn't I get more of this done sooner? Why didn't I finish all the stupid books and articles months ago? Because I'm an idiot, that's why.

12-15k words. Currently at 4,251 and that's all just quotes. Shouldn't take much to string them together, right? Oh, that's not even half the books and articles entered yet? Oh... dear. Well, that is a problem.

I've stocked up on black tea and the requisite frozen pizzas. Here's to no. sleep. ever. (Until Monday, then it has to be over, it just has to be.) My remaining coursemate is apparently in a similar position. This is a small and admitedly shallow comfort.

Working Girls and Girls Who Work

... There's a difference.

So, as most know, it's hella expensive to live in Aberdeen, as opposed to the States. On the surface, it looks like things cost the same, but then one must take into account the exchange rate, and if you happen to consider this while grocery shopping, your joints will grind to a halt and you'll find yourself completely unable to move, much less place that wedge of cheese in your basket.

Ergo, I work at just about every random job you can imagine, dear reader-- not because I like playing with cats or shepherding drunks, but because I need the money. Rent, groceries, the occasional pint: it all takes funding. Right now, I've got four basic part-time jobs, one of which is primarily seasonal. Firstly, (and most infrequently) I'm a house-sitter/child-minder/dog-walker/cat-feeder extraordinaire. No joke. However, it's only recently that I've been paid to house-sit, and that was a welcome improvement. I mostly provide these services for my faculty and related members of academia, and it provides a little pocket cash every once in a while, but it's hardly possible to depend on it. Secondly, I work with a photography firm that does graduation services around the north of England and Scotland. Again, this is all dependent upon when the services are and which contracts the company snaps up and all that. There will be another spate of them in the fall, but we're pretty quiet at the moment, which is too bad because it really is a good daily wage. Thirdly, we have the club. Now, there are two different establishments in this particular building, four bars in total with two seperate cash desks. I was originally hired to work the upstairs desk, the one leading to the 80s music review which allows teens and 40-somethings alike to dress ridiculously and groove to Prince and other vintage tunes. It's only open on Friday and Saturdays, and I only worked Saturdays-- this left Friday for general carousal and debauchery when I could afford it. More on this turn of events later. My fourth soucre of employment is at a wine shop. It's a nice little place, about 50 paces from the door of where I'm currently living, and all in all a good fit. I get on decently well with my co-workers and apart from once issue haven't had any problems with the manager (who is wound so tight, I think he irons his socks). The best part of the job is that it's close to the house and there's a staff discount. No joke.

But back to the club. Now, your friend Miss Melville has never denied being a bit of a prude. I like to think of it as being classy, but whatever. And I've been known to toss a few back in my day, I won't deny it. However, the number of drunk, lerching folk I've seen tumble in and out of the door of the club has been enough to really put me off the cheap booze recently. And then they went one better: I got transferred to the other cash desk. You see, children, the downstairs of this building, all owned by the same to men, is a strip club.

I'm going to let that sink in for a minute.

I know take a 6-pound cover from men who want to enjoy the poffered goods of what claims to be the premiere lapdance club in Scotland. Ah, goooooo, good sir. On the up side, I'm learning an awful lot about the industry and how it functions and a new subculture of foreign girls who barely speak english trying to make it here in the UK and sending money back to their families. As a sidenote, apparent the sharks to do send the money to Romania won't accept Scottish bank notes, and this is a perpetual issue. Inga is constantly asking me if I have English notes, and at first I was simply annoyed because it disrupted my counting system. I finally asked the assistant manager/bouncer about it, and he told me the deal. Now, I set them aside.

I've worked pleanty of scummy jobs in my young life-- most noteably, the third shift at the gas station in Michigan's Prison City. I chatted with hookers, brewed awful coffee, swept the lot, gave away day old hot dogs to bums and generally held down the fort through the long dark hours. But this is a whole new level of sleeze. I sorta understand the young bucks who come in for a stag do or with a bunch of buddies. It's the ones who come in by themselves, collar up and sober, who creep me out the most. Then there's the older guys who are in by themselves every day of the week. I was told yesterday that this place is open every night of the week, 365 days a year. Which means that good old Donna from Down Undah is bending herself around the pole on Christmas Eve, New Years Day and Easter Sunday. There's something that I find cripplingly sad in that.

Now, I just sit behind the desk and take money. I don't dress like one of the girls-- in fact, I pull my hair back and wear a fleece because it's cold by the open door. Yet, I still get harrassed. On Saturday night, the best man in one of the stag parties leaned over the desk, clasped my face and full-out laid one on me, and before I had time to react was out the door. Stunned. Who does that? Then there's the older guys to persist in asking if I'll walk them home. Usually the bouncers shuffle them along, but they usually have more dangerous things to see to, and I can normally take care of myself. But if they harrass mousey old me this much, what are they saying to the poor dancers? The manager, who is a proper hard nose, asked me how I felt about working behind the bar. Now, while I think it would be a useful thing to have some bar experience on my resume, I'm not sure that I want it at a strip club. And it would mean different hours AGAIN, and I'm sure the level of harrassment would only increase... I don't know.

And on top of all this hourly work, I'm supposed to be writing my masters thesis/dissertation. I'm not even done reading for it. Fortunately, I was talking to a fellow coursemate this past week and she's in pretty much the same spot, but anyways... Yeah. Let me tell you just how impossible it is to read Blanchot while listening to Back in Black by AC/DC and telling Veronicka once again that she has to have her commission money to Craig by 2 am. I finally finished the essay in response to Hersey's Heroshima Saturday night, but the combination of depravity in the club and the image of trying to pull washerwomen from a rising tide and having their skin come off like gloves in your hands was too much for me. I don't know how I'm going to balance this. Normally I'd have a drink and walk it off, but I don't have the time...

The work at the club desk is now both Friday and Saturday, and while the additional money is nice, I'm not sure how much longer I can do this. But I have a feeling my rent is about to jump, and I'm barely making it as it is. Le sigh... dammit.

Right-- On a Personal Note

So, it's a time of upheaval and indecision in the life of moi, and so I'm going to vent on here for just a minute. I know, I was doing so well being non-dramatic and anti-egocentric, but it looks like we're going to try to strike a balance here... imagine that.


My family are a right cast of characters, let me just lay that out first of all. The best way to describe Mutie is to admit that she's sweet, but broken. I think that there are several elements that went into breaking her, but that's another discussion. Regardless, she's a sweet, lovely, loving and old-fashioned mama and I do adore her. My father and I have a more combative history-- only recently have he and I been able to have a decent conversation about the weather without digging into each other. As it is, so long as we avoid religion, politics, ethics, economics and climate change, we're okay. Yeah... we're okay. That said, I'm experiencing a new set of emotions at the moment-- I feel sorry for my father.


My father has never been the sort to inspire sympathy. In fact, I've spent most of my life spiting him and doing everything I could to alienate him. Not that he helped matters, but we all begin to realize our errors as we age, right. Well, it looks like Dad's been let go by his employer of 15 years. And the severance package they offered him, an overweight, balding, slightly deaf 50-something white man? A percentage of his insurance.


Now, Dad is an automotive engineer in Michigan. Nobody's surprised that he's in this position, least of all him. He was just hoping against hope that he could stick it out just a few more years-- maybe until his middle daughter graduated from high school. My sister, Weasle, is a lovely, bright 17 year old with an eye for changing the world. Honestly, she's one of two people I know personally who I truly believe will change the face of humanity. However, she's currently staring down the barrel of campus visits and standardized tests and all those attendant costs. Then there's also Badger, my baby sister-- a charming 12 year old with a number of years left in a really expensive private school system. Ouch. So, Dad sticks it out and waves the pink slip aside, hoping to last out just one more year and then give it the old heave-ho? Well, there's one more complicating factor that needs some explanation.

My father is one of four children: his older brother, Vaughn, his younger sister, Ciotka, and then my godmother, Yenta. Now, Vaughn and Dad were only 14 months apart. I say were because Vaughn died of complications from his chronic lymphocytic leukemia three years ago. (*Holy shit, it's really been three years?) Now, both their parents had various forms of cancer, as did their grandparents. Bobcia and Jodic died in their early fifties, as did Vaughn. Dad's now pushing mid-fifties, and it's not like he's in peak physical condition. He's borderline diabetic, overweight, hypertension-ridden and has high cholesterol along with bleeding ulcers, high blood pressure and a bad back and knees. Well done, there. The kicker is that Yenta's just been diagnosed with the same variety of cancer that eventually laid Vaughn in the grave after a long and debilitating struggle.

Can he afford to gamble and keep his job with the possibility that he could be flat out let go in December and have no health insurance at all?

And yeah, I'm sure losing his job and finding out about Yenta within three days of each other has been great for his ulcers.

Like I said, I'm not used to feeling badly for my father, but this tips the hand, I think.