One good thing about updating on a daily basis: I don't have to go back and reread entries to make sure I don't get sidetracked and forget to update on current events.

I had my post-op appointment this morning for my wisdom teeth. Sadly, I had to drive myself; had I been able to procure a ride with someone else, I would have taken my remaining Ativan pill. I was that scared of going back into the office, regardless of Eric's assurances that the dentist wasn't going to actually do anything other than look in my mouth, perhaps with a mirror. As Ativan and I were a sloppy, dopey mix before the surgery, I didn't feel comfortable taking it and being my own transportation.

So Sam went to the drop-in daycare and I and my bottle of Rescue Remedy went shaking to the dentist's lair chair. There was a small snafu at first; apparently, the office was shooting a commercial in front of the doors, so I had to find my way in the back and be buzzed in by the office manager. This did nothing to calm my nerves.

Happily, though, my teeth and gums appear to be healing nicely, albeit slowly. I even got my wish: the dentist admitted that it was out of the ordinary for me to have experienced so much awareness during the surgery. (The hygienist, before this, had been trying to convince me that I hadn't actually been aware. Hmph.) According to him, I probably am one of a group of people that metabolize anesthetic much faster than average, and so I probably need a longer-acting anesthetic for procedures. The problem, as he explained it, is that the longer-acting anesthetics (how many more times am I going to have to type that awkward word?) don't provide as deep a numbing effect as the shorter-length ones. Now that I can understand. It's also information that I can take with me to future doctors and dentists.

For now, they've extended my prescriptions for pain-killers. One day, I really hope to be free of the pills; why couldn't I be one of those people whose pain disappeared within a few days? I can still feel two huge knots in my jaw, and I wake up in throbbing agony every morning.

We had the first group of paper presentations in my ethno class tonight. On the whole, I was really very pleased with their work. Harkening back to my own days of college paper presentations, I made sure to ask them each a side question or two about their topics after they presented, and they were almost all able to answer my questions. That, to me, showed that they'd really studied the topics and didn't just copy from books.

Next week, we have the remaining presentations, and the week after that is the final exam. I'm doing a portion of their final as a take-home. So much of the work has involved foreign terms and languages (what else could one expect from a class about world music?) that I don't want them to get confused over terms when I'm asking about concepts. I figure that I'll give them a bunch of short-answer questions as the take-home and reserve the essay questions for the in-class test.

(And if any of my students happen to have discovered this little journal by now - there, I didn't give any spoilers for the test. Pbbbbbt!)

As far as the piano class goes, we've only got one more class before the "final." Does it count as a final if there's only one person who ever comes to class any more? The syllabus said that we were going to have a small concert for each other; well, that's what we've been doing every week. It's not a class; it's a private lesson. Well, we'll have a test, but I'm not stressing over it, and I'm sure the student isn't, either.

Maybe I'll drag Eric into the room with me and declare it a jury performance. That would be different.

After class, I came home to good news: the people who viewed the house yesterday want to have a second showing tomorrow evening! I'm awfully excited, but at the same time a little - no, a lot - apprehensive. Here comes the hard part; here comes the haggling, the inspection, the offers and the counter-offers. And, if all goes well, here goes the losing of our house.

Oh, this hurts. I love my house. Yesterday, as I was cleaning it up and making sure it looked all cozy and homey for the viewers, I couldn't help thinking, "Now, who wouldn't love my house? It's the best house in the world!" And it is. I don't want anybody to have it but us, yet here we go, trying to sell it to perfect strangers.

Somebody convince me that I'll find another house in Wisconsin; make me believe that I'll love it as much as I love this one. Help me to remember the things that I don't like about this one: the backyard with no big play area, the garden that wants my blood, the antique wiring. Help me to forget the bedroom with the giant, comfy sitting area, the living room with the arched wall, the basement with the extra pantry.

Mixed feelings? I've never had them like this before. I feel positively stretched on a rack, and I don't know when I'll be freed. At the bottom of the issue, though, is the fact that at this point, we have to move. Eric's Toledo replacement has been hired and is being trained. The people in Wisconsin are growing more and more rabid for his arrival with every passing day. The wheels are turning, and I must turn with them.

But why can't I just take my house with me when I go?