  The house arrest is continuing, not by choice, obviously. I had a bit of minor oral surgery which turned out to be not so minor. What was supposed to be a 20 minute quick in-and-out appointment turned into an hour long hassle complete with six stitches to the bottom of my tongue.
I had gone in to this whole thing very mellow, just wanting to get it over with, not nervous at all. However, ten minutes into the ordeal, my heart was racing, my knuckles white from gripping the arms of my chair, eyes watering, and jaw aching. Both my Dad and the oral surgeon were suprised that the cyst being removed from the bottom of my tongue was so large and the surgeon appologized numerous times for the length of the proceedure.
So, since Tuesday afternoon, I've been eating only mushy foods, taking vicodin for my pain, and rotting in my house. My Mom basically won't let me leave. She seems to think that vicodin is much more potent than it really is. I understand her not wanting me to drive a car--totally acceptable. But she wouldn't let me ride a bike, Christ, I'm surprised she even let me walk from the couch to the bathroom.
Despite all her over-protecting, I have to be thankful--she did go out and buy me coffee ice cream, and made pudding and jello for me. And I have managed to escape the house for a few hours here and there. T minus 6 days and 1 hour. "T" being my departure time for the airport. It really hasn't hit me yet, that I'm leaving in less than a week to spend close to 2 months in Europe backpacking.
Maybe it's the vicodin that's not making me think clearly, not allowing me to grasp the concept of 24 hour days and 7 day weeks, and Wednesdays being closer than I believe. Actually, maybe the vicodin is really helping in this situation--I feel like I should be more stressed out than I am, have more running lists of things to do and numbers to check and bags to pack than I do. I feel like I should be freaking out, but I'm not. In fact, I think I'm more concerned about finding time to get to the beach in between appointments and meals and errands than worrying about being out of the country for the next 2 months.
Maybe it's because my travel partner has been much more concerned about it all than me, and his worrying is making up for my lack of worrying. It's like we've traded places recently. I was always the stressed one--if I was going away for a weekend I'd be the one making lists of things to bring and things to do 5 days in advance and he'd be the one throwing shit together before work on Friday.
I like this mellow me--it's like back to the old days, when I was 18 or 19 and didn't give a shit and always left stuff to the last minute. What happened when I turned 21 and 22 that made me such a nutcase? This unemployed Mary is really fun to be. I hope I can keep her around in September. Back to my haze... 
