What inspires my nightmares

Last week was a wash. I'm surprised that I actually posted an "I Made It Monday" yesterday since most of the week was tussled up in stress and angst. Oh I wish I could blame it on someone else, but 95% of it was my own doing.

You see, I had to go to the dentist on Thursday. And that pretty much ruined my week. It kept me up tossing and turning. It woke me up with nightmares. It prevented me from concentrating on the work that I needed to be doing.

I'm not sure where my fear of dentistry came from. I know it isn't the most pleasant of outings but during my initial appointment at my current dentist they asked me to pinpoint something. The only thing I could think of was once, when I was little, I had an abscess beneath a baby tooth and it was bothering me so much that my mom brought me to the our dentist in the middle of the night to have it taken care of.

(Truthfully, it might not have been the middle of the night, but it was dark out and the dentist opened his office for us - no one else was there - you know, back when doctors did things like that.)

Dr. R. sat me in the chair and after a cursory exam looked me straight in the eye and told me that we could do two things: pull the baby tooth, drain the abscess, and end the pain or leave it alone and maybe it would stop hurting once the tooth fell out naturally.

I'm fairly certain that my choice was to leave it alone but I gather my mom had other ideas. The tooth had to go.

I recall crying and pain, gauze stuffed into the bloody hole where my tooth  had been. And then, the throbbing that had kept me awake and caused all the trouble began to subside.

As far as I can remember that was the single "bad" experience I had at the hands of a dentist. And yet, today, while I might remain outwardly calm in the waiting room, patient in the exam room and courteous at the check-out counter, inside I am a seething ball of panic, twisted into knots made of razors.

My most recent "tooth-ventures" started back in November you can read about that here, here and here) when teeth that I should have taken care of years ago started bothering me and I, in tears, begged for an emergency visit. I had the problem teeth removed the Monday before Thanksgiving with the understanding that once I had healed I would be back in the office to get a treatment plan together and started.

My friends, the dentist had to call me to schedule an appointment. I kept putting it off. Again. Because I don't learn lessons apparently. So last Thursday I had three fillings. Today, I'll have three more. Last week I spent the week in panic mode. During the visit, the nurse, had to literally pry my hands apart. I was clenching them together so tightly that they had turned a dusky purple. I was told to wiggle my toes as much as I liked but "for goodness sake stop shaking your foot so much!"

By the time I got home around 1pm I was exhausted, headachy, and starving (because who could eat before facing a dentist?) so I tried to eat, failed and ended up going to bed until 7 that night. Cyra and Ashleigh came home from school, checked on me and just did their thing.  

Although I know what to expect, I am still fearful. I might claim to be afraid of aliens and zombies because they don't exist* and I really don't have to put too much effort into being afraid of them. I avoid the real things that cause me fear because I don't like how I react. And that, my friends, is why I'll take a nightmare full of zombies, aliens, and bigfoots over any dream that features teeth or the dentist!



*By "don't exist" I mean I totally think life is out there somewhere, I just don't think they waste their time buzzing our planet. And zombies could totally happen. Maybe. And I know that Matt Moneymaker will someday find bigfoot.

Out of Commission

So remember when I posted a bit about my teeth a couple of weeks ago? Here and Here and also Here.

Yeah. I'm having some work done. Surgery-like work. In the morning.

(Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.)

I've prepped some photos to go for the next couple of days.

(Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.)

So. Once I stop hyperventilating, I'm sure I'll be fine.

Fine. Just. Freaking. Fine.

There's a bright side here somewhere, but I can't see it over my panic attack.

(Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.)

I read somewhere once that a smart person learns from their mistakes but the truly wise learn from the mistakes of others. Today, I think I am neither. Today, I teach a lesson. Teeth are important. Fears can be conquered with enough anesthesia. Accepting the consequences of your actions may be one of the hardest things to do but it is vital that we own up and take responsibility.

I accept that my teeth troubles are my own fault. I accept that my fear has kept me from doing something about it sooner and now I have far worse problems. I accept that I am a big chicken and wonder if the dentist will think it odd if I bring a stuffed animal with me for comfort. I accept that I will not being enjoying the fabulous turkey dinner I cook unless it is liquified (but I will be all over that pumpkin pie).

Do you feel better yet, Self?

Yeah...I didn't think so.

Photo A Day - Reflection

I am in pain.

A. Freaking. Lot. Of. Pain.

However, I don't expect sympathy because this is a pain of my own making. So for one quiet moment, let me reflect on why I am in pain - Oh wait, I think I already wrote about it...right...here...

Despite the fact that I have a very low tolerance for pain I have once again managed to wait years before doing anything about my teeth. Fear, my friends, is a strange and powerful force. The other day I posted how I missed the 5am photo shoot I was hoping for because I was up all night nursing a toothache. Scott's very strong words about getting my behind to a dentist were not really needed because I already knew it was time.

A phone call first thing in the morning yesterday landed me an appointment an hour later. And then another with an oral surgeon by lunch time (yes my teeth are really truly that bad). And an hour and a half later I had an appointment scheduled for surgery, a bottle of pain pills, antibiotics and an "I Voted" sticker (although how I managed to vote without passing out from the throbbing in my mouth is beyond me).

I finally got home, popped a pill and oh true apothecary! Thy drugs are quick! Thus with a yawn, I slept! Within a few minutes I was enjoying the first pain free sleep in three and a half days.

Today I am doing better. Not great. But not ready to rip someones head off because a lack of sleep and pain tends to make one grouchy. Who knew?

However, since I am not a hundred percent right now, I'm opting for a few older photos to toss up for today's theme of reflection. Do you mind? Of course you don't, because bloggers are awesome. And you my friends, rock!

Also, if you're interested - those of you who are new (oh! Hello!) - the photos I posted after TS Debby tore through earlier this summer have some very nice reflections in them.

This is part of a month long photo a day challenge hosted by fatmumslim.

Photo A Day - 5 o'clock

It was left up to us to decide if today's prompt meant AM or PM. I choose to go with AM knowing that at 5pm tonight, I'll be at the dentist for the girl's check-up and I'm am uncomfortable posting photos of them and others (as I've mentioned before).

So 5 am it is then. Except this is more like almost 6 am. I was up most of the night with severe tooth pain and I finally dozed off right before 5...so I sort of missed the whole 5am part. I need major dental work. I mean major! And I keep putting it off, not because we don't have insurance, we do, but I am slightly* terrified of dentists and hugely embarrassed that I let my teeth get so bad.

So here is my sort-of close to 5am. I mean it's 5 am in the central part of the country, so that counts. Right?

Breakfast time = Pancake Monday!

Yay! My tea is nearly ready.

Earl Grey. Hot. And also with some sugar (sorry Capt. Picard, I like sweet tea!)

Back to pancaking. Mix. Mix. Mix. Sure it could go faster with an electric mixer, but I like hand beating. Good stress relief.

 

 

And the first cakes go on the griddle. The first ones always end up looking funny. I leave those for Scott to eat.

*make sure you understand that by "slightly" I mean so completely freaked out I often have nightmares about dentists and break out in a cold sweat when I bring the girls to their appointments - which by the way I am obsessive about because I'll be damned if I let happen to their teeth what I let happen to mine!

This is part of a month long photo a day challenge hosted by fatmumslim.

I Made It Monday

I've decided that I will take a break from my "I Made It Monday" series. I find that the summer is not a time I am very focused on crafting and while I have a few projects I am working on right now, they are intended as gifts and as such, I will not post them here until after they have been, you know, gifted. "I Made It Monday" will return in late August or early September.

I am thinking however on doing a Strange Florida Saturday...so many day trips to so many odd places in this creepy state!

I don't want to leave you without any photos though, so here is one of a scarlet ibis I took at the zoo. Scarlet ibises freak me right the heck out because 1) look at that eye! Can you not hear the ibis' thoughts? "Just one little step closer and I can jam my beak straight through her eye! 2) They are far too flashy. Kind of egotistical if you ask me (and as a Leo I totally know all about being egotistical). 3) I once got into a near shouting match with my 9th grade English teacher because of the short story "The Scarlet Ibis" by James Hurst. I held the older brother accountable for killing Doodle and the teacher disagreed. Really?

"I will cut you if you don't give me some fish. Right. Now."

Mail Box Hazards

So, I had a letter to pop in the mail box today. No problems. Looks like I forgot to check the mail yesterday. No problems.

Then this happens. Two feet from my head. Thank goodness I have an awesome DEX score and made my Perception check!

Why yes! That is a 20+ foot long branch from a mass murdering pine tree!

Apparently it no longer wished to be committed to the tree.

I couldn't quite get my hands around it.

I am never checking the mail again. Plus now I need to add pine trees to my ever growing list of fears!

X is for X-Ray

I looked up at the parallel bars and took a deep breath. I was next and I knew, I just knew, that I would not be able to perform the task Coach set for us. I fidgeted in the line and tugged at my gym shirt. This was the first year I had to change for gym class. I missed jumping rope and playing kickball. Why did middle school P.E. class have to have units? Why did we need a gymnastic unit?

I watched in awe as the girl in front of me pulled herself up and propelled herself across the bars. I could see her arms straining as she held herself up and was impressed that she made it nearly all the way across before dropping neatly to the mats below.

Coach waved me forward. I tugged at my shirt again. I scuffed my feet across the floor, my sneakers squeaked and chirped. I stopped in front of Coach and listened with half an ear as she gave me instructions.

“Alright?” she asked.

I hadn’t understood a thing she said.

“Please, Coach,” I whispered up at her while my eyes were fixed on the bars looming above my head. “I can’t do this.”

“You need to at least try.” Coach gave me that look. The one that makes you feel small and like crap because you’re afraid. I was overweight in 5^th grade and Coach seemed to think I was trying to get out of any exercise.

“Coach,” I implored and nodded to a small group of girls jumping rope. “Let me do something else. I can not do this.”

“Heather,” Coach was patient but insistent, “Everyone has to give it a try first.” She leaned down, her eyes sympathetic. “I don’t expect you to be perfect. I expect you to try. That’s all I’m asking.”

I nodded even as tears pooled in my eyes.

I walked up to the bars. I could feel all sorts of eyes on my back. It made it worse. I reached up for the bars and had to go on tiptoe before I could grab them. It wasn’t as hard to pull myself up as I thought it might be, but I knew that it was going to be near impossible to lift my body up over the bars. I struggled. I pulled. I strained and grunted. Coach kept giving me very loud words of encouragement. And then I was up, my upper body over the top of the parallel bars. My arms burned and then, all of a sudden I was on the mat, my left arm bent funny underneath me.

I screamed and the tears that I had gotten a head start on flowed freely. Coach crouched beside me, assessed and gathered me to my feet. She walked me to the nurse’s office where a quick phone call to my mom had her speeding to the school. By the time she arrived my arm was puffed out twice the normal size and turning an ugly bluish purple. My tears had yet to stop. I had ice wrapped around my arm and was quickly shuffled off to the doctor’s office.

Back then doctors did everything in-house. There wasn’t a specialist just the general practitioner. Dr. Smith ushered us into an exam room, threw some lead pads over my chest and snapped a few quick x-rays – the first I’d had except for dental x-rays.

I sat as still as I could while the x-rays were being developed. Mom stood by me smoothing the hair from my forehead. The room felt too warm. I felt too clammy. Everything seemed like it was spinning and a roller coaster at the same time. I closed my eyes and gulped. With every heartbeat, my arm felt like it swelled and ebbed like the ocean tides.

“Mom?” I whimpered.

“It’ll be fine, sweetie,” she said.

I wanted to believe her. And then the doctor came back in. He waved a shiny, floppy black x-ray at us.

“It’s definitely broken.” He shoved the picture onto a light box. “Both the radius and the ulna.”

He pointed to the breaks. My bones were clearly not in the right place. The x-ray showed that just above my left wrist, both snapped – thankfully not too much and certainly they weren’t poking out through my skin. My stomach rolled as I stared at the x-ray.

“I’m going to need to set it.” 

He took out a bowl, plaster and rolls of gauze and thick cotton. I watched as he prepared everything next to the exam table setting each tool needed on a shiny stainless steal tray.

“I don’t feel so good,” I mumbled and lay back down.

“This is going to hurt, Heather,” Dr. Smith said. “I won’t lie. But I need you to lie as still as you can, understand?”

I nodded and my mom moved closer to my side. The doctor took my arm in his hands and began to gently rub.

Then SNAP! My arm clicked back into place, one of the single-most disturbing noises I have ever heard. I shrieked, my voice cracking and echoing in the room.Tears exploded from my eyes. The room spun about and tilted oddly. The door pounded open as a nurse rushed in expecting to find someone dead.

“I’m going to be sick!” I screamed and turned my head.

Mom grabbed a plastic bowl and shoved it under my mouth as heaved up my lunch. I sobbed while I puked, the smell stinging my eyes and eliciting more tears. When I was once again calm, with nothing else to come up, my mom helped me clean up and got me a drink of water to rinse my mouth out.

Dr. Smith, working quickly, wrapped my arm in the thick cotton and began slapping on warm strips of gauze dipped in plaster. My arm, throbbing slightly less than before, felt heavy and warm. The shiny white cast weighed my arm down. I felt off balance. Dr. Smith fitted me with a sling.

“The cast will need to stay on for six weeks,” Dr. Smith said. “Keep her calm – don’t let her run around. You don’t want her falling again.”

“Does this mean I can’t go to gym?” I asked staring at my arm.

Dr. Smith nodded. “I’ll give you a note.”

I smiled.

T is for Three-Fingered Willy

For as long as I can remember Three-Fingered Willy has haunted the woods around my Grandmother’s house in Maine.

My maternal grandmother lived in a two bedroom home and with barely any room had a bunkhouse for storage and for the grandchildren to use when we visited. Really a small shack, the bunkhouse had three windows with stapled in screens and shutters on the outside of the building. My grandfather used it as a workshop as well, so there was a ton of old tools, cans and odds and ends.

It was my greatest joy to spend the summers with my siblings and cousins running through the pine trees, playing on the beach and having lobster bakes with all the family gathered around the stone fire pit in my grandmother’s yard. As twilight eased into night and fireflies twinkled in the trees, we would sit around the dying fire, making s’mores and telling ghost stories.

I never really paid too much attention to Three-Fingered Willy’s background. I knew he was a ghost or undead. I knew he was angry and tormented. I knew he had only three fingers on each hand because his thumbs and pinkies were lost in some kind of accident (in one story he is a mill worker, in another an iron works employee). Most importantly, I knew that when he came around he would scritch…scritch…scritch…on the walls outside to announce his presence.

One summer, when schedules permitted, my three siblings along with seven other cousins arrived at my grandmother’s house all at once. My oldest brother, Erik, was the oldest. And I think in this case the instigator. He, my other brother and my cousin Mike locked my sister and I along with four other female cousins in the bunkhouse.

I was little at the time and some of the details are fuzzy…did we know we were locked in at first? I’m not sure. But I remember that first long scritch down the back of the bunkhouse, the side that faced the woods. We tried the door. Scritch. My heart was pounding. So many stories about Three-Fingered Willy had primed me for panic.

More scratches and then pounding on the walls.

Minutes seem like hours when you are little and scared. I don’t know how long the boys kept up the torment. My sister tried to get a window open all the while the boys scratched and scritched at the walls and windows. I can’t recall how long we were in the bunkhouse before the boys let us out. Clearly I survived. I hope that the boys got in trouble but I have no recollection of any consequence.

Guilty Pleasures: Doomsday Prepping

It started innocently enough with a minor obsession: The Zombie Apocalypse. I’ve never been much of a horror person so it was surprising just how much zombie literature and movies became a beloved genre of mine. Once I was thoroughly entrenched, I started thinking about survival. Would I be one of the ones to survive the initial outbreaks or would I find myself quickly zombiefied and looking for fresh brains?

I started justifying survival to myself. At first, it was simple things like, “Living on the second floor gives me an advantage…I can destroy the stairs. Bam! Survive!”

Then it morphed into, “How much Jell-O Pudding and butter can I stockpile. Clearly, that will give me an advantage.”

Somewhere along the line though, it became more real. I invested in survival manuals and how-to guides. I researched escape routes and the best places to lay in a cache of gear.

A few years ago, right around the time of the economic collapse the History Channel and its companion channel H2 started ramping up their shows about all the varied ways the world could end; shows about prophecies and viral outbreaks, about super volcanoes and death from the skies. And suddenly, zombies didn’t worry me so much.

I started paying attention to shows like Man vs. Wild and researching predicted rises in sea level - flooding is always a worry in Florida anyway. I tried to always have at least a months worth of food in the house. It might not have been food I wanted to eat…but it was there. Just in case. I read survival blogs like this one. I made plans for evacuation. I made a list of needed supplies for my bug out bag. I learned the steps needed to go off the grid. I developed a healthy fear of technology and made a list of all the old school skills I needed to develop in order to help my family survive.

When we moved into the new house Scott began encouraging my prep work. The girls got bows and arrows for Christmas and leaning how to shoot guns is on the horizon. Hunting, gardening, canning and raising livestock are all on our list of things to learn. I took over a section of the hall closet for food storage and have an easy time of it with all the fantastic BOGO deals at Publix. It isn’t much, but it is a start.

I consider myself relatively normal. I’m not a hoarder (unless it’s scrapbook supplies and then holy moly! do I need help!). I’ve always been an idealist – maybe that’s why I keep obsessing over survival: I want the human race to survive! Personally, I’d like to be one of the ones who do survive in a disaster. And living in Florida, disaster is a six month window every year. So I proactively prep. I’d rather have a plan in place and know what to do then all of a sudden have to react.

Deja Bill

I’m cyclical. I have my routines and I like them. So it should come as no surprise that every February 2nd, along with millions of other Americans, I watch Groundhog Day. Every year, I see something different in it. This year, before even putting it in the DVD player, I recognize the self perpetuating rut that Bill Murray is stuck in. And I sympathize because I am also in a rut.

Unemployed, overweight, unproductive. Full of self pity, self woe and self hate.

Everyday is the same thing. I might not wake to Sonny and Cher every morning, but the metaphor rings out with truth. The alarm rattles my brain. Kids get up. Kids to school. Chores. Craft. Look for a job. Walk. Chores. Cook dinner. Chores. Go to bed and the cycle resets. If you say it quick enough it gets very chanty, like monks in prayer.

Nothing. Ever. Changes.

Bill Murray escaped from his rut by opening himself to new experiences and opportunities and love. I’ve got love. Being unemployed is certainly a new experience. And opportunities? Well, I’m not to sure about those.

The problem I seem to keep coming back to is that I feel I am not contributing to the house. I am here all day, doing wifely and motherly things, but I’m not bringing in money and our attempt to make a better financial future for ourselves is now being severely undermined.

When I left my job back in August I was confident that I would find something else. As August rolled into September and October, I was still determined, but more than a little worried. I started applying for jobs that I knew I wouldn’t like: waitress, night audit, retail. All jobs I’d did my time in before. And the sad thing is, I wasn’t hired for any of them. I wasn’t even called in for an interview. At a few places I was told I was too qualified. What the heck does that mean? I am too educated and therefore I can’t serve food. Seriously?

November came and with it company and the holidays. I put job hunting on the back burner and crossed my fingers that we’d be okay with just Scott’s salary. And it turns out we were okay. But only just. As before, we have no extra padding in our bank account. Each dollar, every penny is accounted for.

Should I have left my job knowing I had no job offer in the works? Yes. The commute alone would have killed the car and cost us in daycare expenses. Plus, I was unhappy in my work. I felt that I wasn’t making any difference in the lives of the students I taught. I grew frustrated by all the mandates from the district and state. And my frustration and anger was often taken out on Scott and the girls. It was the right decision for us to make. I am a much more pleasant person to be around now.

But still…I’m in this rut. And like Bill Murray, I sometimes despair at ever escaping it. Bill Murray eventually accepts responsibility for his actions and more importantly for his moral development. If he is to escape from a time loop, he must take action to make it happen for himself.

Eight years ago the commencement speaker at my college graduation said to us, “If it is to be, it is up to me.” Ten tiny powerful little words that I had never really thought about…until the other day when I was going through my letter box and each card my dad had sent me in the last eight years had this saying scrawled in the bottom left corner.

If it is to be, it is up to me.

If I am to escape from the rut that I am in then it is my own devices, intellect and actions that will make it happen. I cannot forever wait on the universe to go my way for in doing so I would be playing into a belief that the universe and all in it revolves around me and my wants.

So, Good-bye Rut. I’m tired of you and your silly nonsense. Today is the last day I allow myself to wallow. Yesterday I cried for something I did not have. Today, I scream to the world, what I want I can have if I make it happen.

Like Bill Murray, it is all up to me. My attitude needs to change. My habits need adjustment. My actions need to reflect my goals.

WWBMD – What Would Bill Murray Do?

I wonder if I can get that on a bracelet.

Blogging Without a Doubt

Why I am not blogging right now?

I could blame my lack of blogging on an extreme schedule of international intrigue or volunteering for the Peace Corp, but after a good few seconds of contemplation, I realized that no one would buy those reasons, so it makes sense to stick with the truth. Except for the fact that I’m not really sure what that is.

I have been busy. That’s true enough. The end of the school year is always packed with craziness that makes it hard for me to focus on anything but the end of the year, but honestly, I didn’t really feel that this year. If anything, I moseyed through it, not even worrying about packing my room, or cleaning. I did it methodically, mechanically. It just was.

Girls Scouts has been taking a huge chunk of my time. Yeah, that’s true as well. But that isn’t something I mind carving time for. I might not “love” being so involved with the Scouts all the time, but the girls love it and therefore I love being a part of that. And if that includes worrying over troop finance and why parents aren’t paying their dues, well, it’s part and parcel.

I’ve been crafty. Hoo Boy is that true!! I was determined to finish a scrapbook about last summer and I did. Of course, I sacrificed sleep and time from other things, but it was totally worth it. I finished a HUGE project! And it turned out really nice, if I say so myself. And scrapbooking is something I really enjoy. But I’ve also been crocheting like mad and working on other minor projects. It’s in my blood, I think, the craftiness I mean. I don’t feel right in my “free” time unless I am working on something (free time here is defined by anytime I am not spending with the girls or at work).

I’ve been reading. And honestly, re-reading. As I’ve gotten older and approaching another birthday I’ve been thinking about more philosophical things…living a good life, being just…the nature of zombies…that sort of thing, so I’ve been indulging in my philosophy books. Currently on my bedside table, The Republic, Brave New World, Sophie’s World, and The Undead and Philosophy.

I want to be able to say that I have been writing, but I can’t. I mean really, I haven’t even blogged (obviously). I haven’t looked at a story since god knows when. I’ve had ideas that I’ve jotted down, snippets of a conversation that some of my characters could have, descriptions of locations and people. But I haven’t written. Not like I should. Not like I need to be doing if I am ever, EVER going to get something published. Not a paragraph…a sentence…a word. I think that upsets me the most. I have these words and don’t use them as I should.

So that brings me to why I really haven’t been blogging. While all of the above keeps me pretty busy, not a single reason given is what keeps my fingers from the keys. So what is?

Fear.

Fear that my words won’t be interesting. Fear that what I have to say is stupid. Fear that what I write about will apply only to me and not matter anywhere else. Fear that I won’t be witty enough. Fear that what I do say might offend someone I care about.

Fear. Old-fashioned, predictable fear. It keeps me doing what I’ve always done because I fear what might happen if I do what I really want to do. And now that I’ve owned up and admitted it loud and clear not just to myself, but to the world, I need to do something about it. So, I will remind myself of my senior quote in my yearbook:

“Why then, the world’s mine oyster, which I with sword will open.” ~ Shakespeare

Granted, today’s meaning has been perverted from the original utterance proclaimed boldly and with a good deal of menace by Pistol to Falstaff in The Merry Wives of Windsor. Either meaning, I would think, serves me well here.

I will boldly go out and hack my way through the world, taking as needed, with steely eyes and a will forged in the bowels of a volcano OR I’ll wander out into a world that is just waiting to reveal its glorious riches to one who seeks them.

But remember, I’m non-confrontational, so if you see me coming, just step to the side a bit. If you don’t mind.

Idiocracy

I recently watched the movie, Idiocracy. Although it has been out for a few years, I was blissfully unaware of its existence, coasting along in my bubble of ignorance. I was, until a co-worker highly recommended it, saying, “It was a movie that I would truly get.”

And, oh my, did I get it! I get that the future is bleak. I already knew that. From my unlikely and unreasonable fear of Zombies – you know the brain eating ones – I now fear Zombies of another kind: The kind that I am attempting to educate each day. Slated as a comedy, I spent most of the movie terrified!

The premise of this Luke Wilson movie is that an average “Joe” (and his name was indeed Joe) was selected along with a hooker to participate in an Army cryogenics experiment. Needless to say, the experiment floundered and Joe and the hooker woke up 500 years later to a dumbed-down world where with their average intelligence they were now the smartest people in the garbage overrun world!

The movie had a few amusing parts…like the…umm…well I know I snickered a couple times…but behind the, for lack of a better word, Idiocracy, it smacked of truth that many people would just as soon ignore.

Take for instance the ability to read. 500 years from now Idiocracy shows that people are illiterate “white trash” (regardless of actual skin tone) who use pictures to identify everything. For example, in an early scene, Joe is trying to get medical attention shortly after he wakes up in the future. At triage, the nurse mindless stares into space while Joe describes his symptoms, her finger hesitating over each picture depicting a symptom, until she finally decides to just press the question mark button.

Another horrid truth the movie depicts: smart people don’t procreate enough. They put it off until they are stable and able to care for a child. While on the opposite spectrum, intelligence-challenged people over-create, breeding as if they need to colonize their own planet.

All in all, while I try to be optimistic and idealistic, reality keeps a large hammer hovering over my head waiting for the right opportunity to drop. For a long time I have believed in and preached mandatory sterilization (or at the very least some form of birth control ala Gate to Women’s Country, seriously one of the best books out there) of all children at the onset of puberty. Then, after college or some form of job training, there should be a test to see who gets to procreate. It, of course, should be based on a number of things, intelligence among the top things tested for.

Of course I know those who’d object (Vive le Resistance!) but it would be practical to cut out unwanted teen pregnancies. And maybe if someone would take the Vice-Dictatorship, I might reconsider the whole testing thing.