Archive for January, 2007

Red Rain

I am ready for lots of things. A hurricane, for example. I am completely ready for a hurricane. I have propane lamps, a stockpile of water, Gatorade and enough Chef Boyardee products to keep me fat and happy on ravioli and canned ziti for the rest of my days. I am also ready for any swimming emergencies that may arise, for I have lots of supplies! Yes! I have bathing suits and swimcaps and goggles and earplugs. I will swim to you. Just call me, and I will swim to you!

I am not entirely ready to talk about my hair. But I will try. In fact, I will start by telling you that Squiggy has kind of lost his mind, and kicked off this evening’s coloring session by telling me about the time he pulled a tampon from the bathroom garbage can and started swatting flies with it. (“I mean, I noticed every time I killed one, there was blood on the wall and then I realized, I WAS SWATTING THEM WITH A BLOODY TAMPON.”) Or how he asked me to ghost write his memoirs (“So, like, if I give you some tapes with random stories on it, can you like, turn them into a book and get it published?”). What’s most important here are the words “coloring session.” Color. COLOR. I mean, I can kind of live with the fact that when I walked out of there I resembled Carol Brady: The Bouffant Years, because when I style it myself and get rid of the, ah, volume, it’s actually a cute haircut. But there is the issue that when I got home, Ad stared at me without saying a word for what I’m guessing was a full minute, then silently – stonily, I might even say – picked up a box of Mike & Ike Hot Tamales and held it up to my head.

It matched.

My head is radioactive. I mean, if you prefer, you can call me Ronald MacDonald. This happened because I mentioned that I was going swimming, after Squiggs asked me why I was so skinny (hooray!) and then ALL HELL BROKE LOOSE. As in, there were lots of fits thrown about the dangers of chlorine on my blondish hair, and did I really – REALLY – feel like walking around with a head that resembled peat moss? Well, I mean, of course the answer was no, because really – peat moss. No one even likes peat moss, as it can’t hold a candle to Spanish moss, which hangs there all pretty and delicate-like off of big, southern trees in glamorous places like Savannah and it’s all Forrest Gump and everything, while peat moss is pissy, green and garden-variety. It’s so Erie, Pennsylvania. Decidedly unpretty.

So I agreed to a nice, soft, auburnish browny red until the swimming subsides, because I wasn’t ready to be Erie. I wanted to be Savannah. Instead, I am South Beach. Or more specifically, I am a transvestite dressed up to resemble Lindsay Lohan-cum-Carol Channing who is roaming the streets of South Beach.

In other news, I went back to the dentist today to have a filling filed down, as it was hitting high, and have you ever had a filling screw up your bite? Yeah. It’s not unlike chewing on a roll of tin foil, and even tonight, when the Squiggmeister foiled my head, I cringed, because it was reminiscent of the pain I felt every time I even thought about potato chips. Anyway, the hygienist who saved my life and also enabled me to eat foodstuffs other than yogurt refused to move her mask from the half-mast position, and had an accent of indeterminate origin and yet, that didn’t stop her from chatting me up and ah, hugging me. Our opening scene, after a brief description of my problem, went something like this:

Hygienist: “Oh my schursghlket! I rourve yelly FLERRYRINGS!”

Jonniker: “I’m so sorry – you mean I’m not getting Novocaine?”

Hygienist: “No! NO! I rourve yelly FLERRYRINGS! Rie ravey RECKLACE RAT MARCHESIMO!”

And then she hugged me and started petting my arm. And then stroked my hair. And hugged me again. And then rubbed my arm again. And then – you guessed it – she HUGGED ME AGAIN. Was she deranged? About to pull a tooth without Novocaine? Trying to tell me I needed a root canal?

No no. She liked my earrings. And she has a necklace that matches them! Of course. Taking advantage of her apparent, err, affection for me, I took the opportunity to ask her if the sparks from the drilling could at all sort of maybe, I mean, POSSIBLY, start a fire in the exam room, given that there were what seemed to be three tall OPEN oxygen tanks right next to my chair? After all, it’s what took down the ValueJet flight over the Everglades, and why not a dental office? WHY NOT? But, ah, apparently not. Or I’m guessing not, because she replied with:

“RO RO RO. ROXYGENEO ARCHTY. SEE?”

And then she turned one of the tanks on and off, on and off, I supposed to demonstrate the safety of highly-flammable gases shooting through the air in a room that once bore the smoke of my burning, flaming flesh, and so I simply brought her attention back to my filling, yes, THE FILLING. DRILL, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD AND DON’T KILL US. And by the way, at this point, I realized that the person wielding a drill is in fact, not a dentist, and in fact, is a hygienist who doesn’t really speak in any sort of coherent manner (“FLELLYFLARTUGAS!”). And yet, she was holding a drill over my open mouth. And a giant needle. Yet shockingly, she fixed the problem, and when I open my mouth now, I no longer cringe in terror of a light breeze that will set off my pain receptors like a dinner of aluminum foil and sand.

It could be so much worse, red hair and all. Happy Wednesday!

*Peter Gabriel

20 comments January 30th, 2007

Tenth Avenue Freeze Out

Here’s some excitement! I wrote a while back about my eyebrows falling off at the ends in bits due to my thyroid imbalance. And ah, they aren’t growing back as I thought they would. In fact, they’re getting worse, because it’s going to take a few weeks for my new meds to take effect. I have uneven, sparse eyebrows that are starting to resemble weird little centipedes, and I’m just not sure what to do. And I have dark eyebrows, so this is not likely to go unnoticed. I’m just saying, appreciate your eyebrows, is all. Stroke ’em if you’ve got ’em.

I worked late tonight, and didn’t get home until around 8:30, which meant that our dinner options were limited to something like…Wendy’s. Nothing like a day that involves working late, no exercise and a trip to my local fast-food joint. I am the picture of health. I look and feel great, is what I’m saying. However, if I’d skipped Wendy’s, I would have missed out on the young hipster man (MAN) who came in rocking a pair of low-rise skinny jeans.

I’ll pause to let that one sink in. A man. In skinny jeans. I mean, holy Jesus, are there no limits? The answer is no, no there aren’t any limits and for the record, no man should ever be wearing skinny jeans in any sort of un-ironic fashion. Like if they’re re-enacting Sprockets, I’ll give it the thumbs up. But heading out with a couple of mod buddies to pick up a Big Bacon Classic? Not so much. No, just no.

In other mundane news, because I have to share this with someone(s) who will understand just how big of a pussy I’ve become, it was in the low 50s/upper 40s today, and I’ve never been so cold in my entire life. I mean, it’s freezing to the point of being almost inhumane. And I wore a scarf and gloves, because I just couldn’t take it. There, I said it. Flog me if you must. But it’s fucking cold as sin out there, and I don’t have to take it.

And finally, a bit of housekeeping: I know a lot of you have had trouble with the damn security code on this site, and man, do I realize how annoying that is, especially when you’ve come up with something thoughtful. I don’t know why it does that, but I do know that it’s sucky. However, even when you’re security code fails, I get a note of what you wrote/attempted to write, and what I can do is stick your comment on there myself. So, you know, comment away and I promise I’ll fix it.

Happy trails.

*Bruce Springsteen and the E-Street Band. My sister lived next to Little Steven for a little while, which was quite a trip. If I recall, he had an affinity for chihuahuas.

18 comments January 29th, 2007

Bowl of Oranges

First of all, Sam? Packing his knives and going? The level of aesthetic devastation is almost crippling, and to see him lose to a piddly little foamer like Marcel is crushing. And Ilan. Whatever, Ilan. I have to believe that on some level your frustration with Marcel is because you secretly WANT Marcel, and this isn’t the first time that crossed my mind, but truthfully, I always figured his crush was Sam. Hot Sam. Hot Sam with those damn tattoos. (Surely I’ve mentioned my tattoo fetish? No? Well, now you know. I love them on men. Well, anyone, really, but men. Sleeves. Yes.)

It was 65 tonight when I went for a swim, and when I walked into the pool in my hoodie and pants, there were people wearing puffy jackets and hooded sweatshirts and looking at me as though my mind was leaking out my ears, because this is winter! WINTER, you crazy swimmer! And yet, like any workout, when you get going, you’re not cold anymore.

However, part of me wonders if I shouldn’t have listened to them, because at least three times, for reasons unknown, I freaked myself out and thought there was an alligator in the pool with me. I hate that. I mean, dude, look, it’s irrational, because there’ s no way an alligator is going to just leap out of the filtration system and eat my feet off, but that has absolutely no bearing on how I behave in the water, particularly at night, which is usually when I’m swimming. I am also afraid of sharks at this time, and can often get myself into such a blind froth that I don’t breathe for too long and hyperventilate because great whites always hang out in small community pools.

Yes, this is lame, and I’m totally aware that this is lame. It’s been a busy week, and next week will be busier. I just couldn’t let that gynecologist post linger any longer. I’ll likely be answering some more questions from the way back machine (like last monthish? Right?) to make things easier for me without falling off the map completely, or leaving up old content about pap smears. No one should think about pap smears any more than is necessary. Tell that to the folks at Gardasil.

Have a great weekend.

*Bright Eyes. Man, oh man, I loathe him. But I do own the album, and what a giant mistake that was. Stuff it, Conor Oberst! STUFF IT.

17 comments January 25th, 2007

Is It Any Wonder?

Day three of the Great Swimming Experiment yielded new irrational concerns. What if I get swimmer’s shoulders? I don’t think I’m ready to have armpits that can crush walnuts, as convenient as that might be for all that nut-eating I dream of doing with my new body. I mean, running didn’t breed concerns of monster thighs, but with all the breast-stroking, I’m not sure what I’m going to do if I suddenly get big, broad shoulders and my husband calls me Helga.

Separately, I went to the gynecologist today, which was a thrill a minute, given that you lounge around in a paper robe while some dude feels you up then sticks his fingers in your hoo-ha. I actually really like my gynecologist, all things considered, but that’s probably not saying much, given that my first ob/gyn used to smoke while he took my vital signs, never used a nurse while he did the sensitive bits of the exam and later hanged himself in his living room because it came out that he had a cocaine problem and was $400K in debt to loan sharks. Strangely, I liked him too, but mostly because he was hot. We can dissect the implications of that at another time.

Anyway, you know, because I only really go to the gyn once a year unless there’s a problem, he gave me a pregnancy checklist just in case I get pregnant before next year’s exam. And then I hyperventilated and almost fainted and barely even noticed when he stuck his fingers in places I’d rather he didn’t, because GOD, I was walking out of there with a pregnancy checklist. It didn’t help that five seconds after he handed it over, he asked where I was in my cycle (Day 11) and then he brayed like a donkey and announced, “So basically, you’re ovulating RIGHT THIS MINUTE, and could get pregnant TONIGHT. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.”

And then I shot him.

I made that last part up. But I will say I’ve all but worn a plastic bubble over my entire body tonight, and if Ad so much as brushed up against me, I ran away and ate something smelly or farted or picked my nose or something. Brussels sprouts and eggs have been popular choices. Because I have a pregnancy checklist and I am actually afraid to use it.

And finally, because God, the oversharing has to end, my nephew got an assignment at school that required him to write about a story that has been passed down through the family. Instead of choosing, I don’t know, the time his grandparents emigrated from Italy or something, he opted to write, in that clunky prose that only 9 year-old boys can muster, about the time his Uncle Ad got really drunk in college and stole a billboard and got busted by his R.A. The closing line of the essay is “My uncle does a lot of wacky, bad things.”

We’re so proud.

*Keane

25 comments January 23rd, 2007

99 Problems

I’m not really sure how or why to explain the overwhelming excitement I have, once again, at the new television season that picks up in January. I’m also quite certain that this means that despite my best efforts, I haven’t managed to pick up an actual life that means that I don’t need to rely on the television for vicarious entertainment. That being said, I couldn’t care less about Studio 60 anymore, and I’m not sure I ever did, because a) I find it patronizing, and b) I have very little interest in the insider politics that surround network television, but, I’m also not a fan of introducing an assload of romance to the scene, and when I look forward to new television for weeks! And weeks! I expect a little more than a glorified snorefest/sendup of network television fraught with condescension and tinged with just enough romance to allegedly interest those of us they believe are too dumb to really get it. Oh, I get it all right. I GET IT. I just don’t like it, Aaron. And I’m not sure I like you. Seriously, it’s insulting.

Apropos of nothing, I’ve gained and lost a total of 18 pounds in the last few days, and I’m still dropping about 2 pounds a day. I recognize that sounds upsetting and weird and completely unhealthy, and if you’d asked me any other time, I’d have told you, hell yes, I’m bloody terrified, and also, might have a tapeworm, or maybe a wicked stomach flu, and hoo boy, it’s unpleasant to poop all the time, even in my chair at work! Really!

That’s not what’s happening, obviously, or I’d be in a set of Depends right now, and extolling the wonders that are Desitin and baby wipes. It’s that the steroids I was on last week caused me to…plump up, shall we say, and I honestly hadn’t even noticed appearance-wise, but I certainly noticed that by last Monday, exactly one pair of my pants fit, and seeing as I was exercising and eating healthy, it was a weird thing. And so, hey, I weighed myself and promptly fell over, because the numbers on the scale were higher than any number I’d ever seen in my entire life, relatively speaking, and suddenly it all made sense why small children would cower behind their parents’ knees and the ground shook as I drew nearer. I’m sure the meatloaf I made didn’t help (Dude, I made meatloaf and it was awesome, and I cannot believe it, I JUST CAN’T BELIEVE IT), but really, what seems like a 25 pound weight gain and subsequent loss in about a week is a bit…shocking, to say the least, and I haven’t decided yet if the rapid gain or the rapid loss was more surprising, because waking up every day and seeing the scale dropping from 2-5 pounds every morning was just as upsetting, because really, where is it going? How is it leaving my body? Am I sweating it out? Pooping it out? Where is it? It’s like a game now. My guess is that the highish doses of steroids caused me to gain a small truckload of water weight, and anyone with an ounce of insight is welcome to let me know their thoughts, because again, it’s creepalicious, because I’d never been on oral steroids before. (Not Fergalicious! And I ain’t promiscuous! Someone stop me! And I said oral again!)

However, the fact that I’m starting to be able to wear pants that don’t have an elastic waistband is a major plus, and in that respect, I’m not complaining.

Finally, I have a confession to make, and I know I’m not alone in this. Flickr sometimes makes me uncomfortable. More specifically, some Flickr self-portraits make me uncomfortable. I am mystified by the wild Flickr phenomenon, and am even more baffled by some self-portraits, and though there are lots and lots of people who do them well (and if I know and like you and have you as a contact, chances are I haven’t even given this a second thought, so we can just squelch the paranoia right here and now, and some of my contacts do them, and do them well, I swear), there are many who just make me feel like I’m intruding on some kind of private moment, and not in a good way. And while that might be the point, and maybe it displays my own discomfort with my smiling (or pouting in a seductive manner, perhaps) face in front of a camera or maybe my complete lack of knowledge for all things photography, I’m still a little oogy about it, for reasons unknown. Although I’m sure those reasons have something to do with taking yourself seriously, which I am incapable of doing, for better or for worse.

And it’s totally my issue, not the issue of the rogue Flickrer, I realize this. I realize there are lots and lots of people who think that blogging is the most self-absorbed thing on the planet and that this whole thing is a giant trainwreck (hee!), and who on earth would want to write to work things out? And they might be right. And just as they can’t imagine writing a lot of the time, I can’t imagine thinking of whipping out a camera at some of my most, ah, intimate moments, and more to the point, I can’t imagine having the time, but for those who do, I tip my hat to you, because I am too clueless and gutless to fathom it. And I promise, I’m not judging, but good god damn, the Flickr gives me the heebs sometimes. It probably speaks to some sort of deep-seated discomfort I have with my nose or something. Or maybe just my desire not to see people pouting at the camera like there is some sort of photographer named Hans screaming, “GIVE ME ZE SEXAY” when really it’s just them.

ETA: I’m not talking about all self-portraits, so if you have one, or if you’ve got photos of yourself on your sidebar or anywhere, I swear, I’m not talking about you, and I LIKE seeing what you look like! And even if you do self-portraits, I’m not necessarily referring to you – I like the 365 project, for example. Well, provided that you aren’t staring seductively at the camera or making your camera-face that involves some kind of pout that is not found in nature. I guess I’m thinking specifically of a…a…special breed of self-portraiture.

*JayZ of course. And I don’t really have 99 problems, or even one problem, and a bitch ain’t one, that’s for sure. Instead, I am very, very tired and don’t feel like finding something more appropriate.

20 comments January 22nd, 2007

Nightswimming

This weekend was one of the longest in recent memory – which is a good thing – in part because we had a visitor who arrived on Thursday, which made Thursday feel like Friday, which was great, except that I had to work on Friday, which felt like a Saturday, which is kind of on the wrong side of weekends. And now it’s Sunday, and Sunny is refusing to comply with any request, and has eaten three pairs of underwear in the last 30 minutes, and I’m watching the bittersweet end of a delightful weekend roll by like tumbleweed, and I can’t help but wonder: where’d that go?

Tumbleweeds, by the way, are precisely what we’ve got in our living room, because we’ve had not one, but two entire vacuums bite the dust, despite my desperate wailing and jamming my fingers deep into the vacuum to realize that it is indeed sucking and it’s certainly spinning, and yet: nothing is actually being removed from the floor. In this process, by the way, I nearly removed my fingers when I shoved them deep into the bottom of the vacuum while it was still running, which reminded me of a childhood neighbor who decided to stick her hand into a running lawnmower to check to see if it was working.

Right. Well, you can surmise by the fact that I am even recounting this story that it was actually working, and in fact, she mowed off her fingers. For the rest of the time that I knew her, she had prosthetic fingers, which mostly worked, because the missing fingers were the quasi-useless fingers – middle, ring and pinky, if you can count fingers useless, but to remove her thumbs would be to turn her into a dolphin, really. But what was so frustrating about the eerie fingers was that she chose a specific nail polish color and never changed it. To this day, I wonder how or why. Did she say, give me pink, I like pink, and don’t anticipate ever wanting anything but pink fingernails? And they were long. And plastic. And probably melted if she stuck them near a hot pan, wouldn’t you think? I feared for her near hot beverages, even if they were in mugs.

Also, look, I feel compelled to point out that even though it was DAYS ago, Allison‘s “moan-a-toanous” was perhaps the funniest thing I’ve ever heard, and I dare you to try to hold in the laughter while you say it: monotonous. Moan-a-toan-us. Use it in a sentence. Also, if I had a prize, she would totally get it, but alas, I don’t. MOANATOANUS. That beats the pants off of clandestine any day of the week.

Also! Also! Because I always like a report of visits and what people are actually like in person, I was not wrong in my initial assessment: Schnozz is freaking gorgeous. I mean, she’s hot. Very, very hot, to the point if I touched her shoulder with my finger, I am fairly certain it would sizzle. She’s even hotter than she appears in photos, and I know someone will back me on this. She can also attest to the fact that my dog is a kleptomaniac, and will run off with anything in sight, provided it looks like it might be a little bit exciting. Today alone, she discovered a pack of long-forgotten cigarettes from a bygone era, and came proudly sauntering into the living room with a pair of kitchen shears between her lips. In fact, during the course of writing this, Sunny ran off with two bras and a flip flop, and came clambering in with a bra on her head, like she’d just come from a party that involved debauchery, tequila and maybe some strippers. Hot lesbian love, doggy style. Stay tuned for videos to go on sale.

And finally, although I am no longer hobbling around like the gimp, sans rubber suit and ball gag, running seems like a not-bright thing to do until the cotton-like creak is gone. Yet if I don’t exercise, I will explode, so I opted to go for a long swim tonight in lieu of a run or bike or anything that made actual sense, because when was the last time any of you went on a long swim? Do you know how exhausting it is? After 40 minutes of swimming laps, I’m pretty sure that drowning was a very real possibility and that I did not care in the slightest, because at least I wouldn’t be swimming anymore. And it’s further proof that nothing I did when I was younger has any critical bearing on how I do things today, because although I swam competitively in high school and can do a beautifully efficient crawl, its efficiency was greatly diminished by my wheezing, heaving, whale-like self.

Have a great Monday.

*REM

18 comments January 21st, 2007

Intuition

Our local Quiznos has been shipping some poor soul out to the corner of the shopping plaza wearing a giant bean-shaped screen that screams “GET TOASTY” and every day I think I’m having a bad day at work or otherwise, I just think, seriously, I could be getting toasty right now on the corner of Pebblebrook Parkway and the 405. So shut up, just shut your toasty piehole, because life isn’t that bad. Not that I had a bad day today, because I didn’t, it’s just that it’s nice to know that the toasty man is there to remind me of how bad things could get. They could get toasty!

Although speaking of toasty, holy hell, it’s toasty as, well, a Quiznos sub at the moment, and my last walk with Sunny (where I half hobbled, being overly ambitious) was an endeavor in sweat, though that was likely due more to reasons related to the extended effort it takes to walk like a semi-normal person, although that did not stop my mulch-neighbor from hollering, “IS THAT YOU? SERIOUSLY IS THAT YOU?” I could only guess that I was supposed to be the “you” she was seeking, as confirmed when she approached and screeched, “What the hell is wrong with you? You’re walking like…like…Quazimoticus, I mean Quasi…Quasi…YOU KNOW.”

Quiznomoticus, maybe, would have been even better, to complete the toasty trifecta. Or bifecta. Or whatever.

This reminded me, by the way, of one of the pitfalls of being a written word person vs. an oral one. I mean, in the vocabulary sense, not the…whatever. Oral isn’t a dirty word, and yet…it is. It is! And once again I am reminded how utterly ridiculous it is that I will gleefully toss around the c-word like it’s water, but I am afraid to say perfectly normal every day words like ‘moist’ and ‘oral’ because they sound dirty. Because I am apparently from Victorian times, when women don’t show their ankles or use napkins. (OMG, napkins.)

Anyway, the written vs. oral thing has resulted in some very serious mispronunciations that make me cringe, such as clandestine. For the longest time, I thought that clandestine was pronounced “CLAN-destine” instead of the appropriate “Clan-DES-tine.” As in, I was probably close to 30 when I pieced that one together, after I actually mispronounced it in front of my parents who thought I was joking when I used it, like it was some kind of intentional mispronunciation or God forbid, a malaprop. Because, if you can believe it, it would appear that although I knew the correct spelling and usage of the word, no one in my life had apparently ever said it aloud, and neither had I. Although it’s more likely than not that I used it around other people who were either too polite or too amused to say otherwise, and that kind of gives me the oral heebs (um, oral heebs? My God.)

It is, however, a major improvement over the first time I did this, when I was 12 and kept saying “eppy-SKOP-al” to describe an Episcopal priest. Episcopalians, of course, were “Eppy-skop-ALIENS.” This revelation, by the way, was shocking enough to me that I remember it to this day, and I almost started crying at the clandestine conversation just thinking about it, and also, how many times have I done this in my adult life and had no idea? Many. I’m guessing many. And the humiliation isn’t over, of this I’m sure, given that I read a lot more than I talk, and mispronunciations lurk around the corner of every conversation.

“Homage” is another one I didn’t figure out until early-20s or so, and although for the life of me I can’t remember what I thought it was (“home-age” maybe, with a strong ‘h’ sound?) I do know that there wasn’t any oh-MAJZH bullshit coming out of my petite little lips. Wow, that was a bad phonetic attempt, but suffice it to say that I do, thankfully, know how to pronounce it now, and if I didn’t, Ilan uses it enough on Top Chef that you’d have to be dead not to pick up on it (though thankfully, I am not attempting a Kraft Italian dressing foam, and I’m not accenting quite in his snootypants way. And I’m wondering when he’s going to figure out that maybe having a girlfriend isn’t best for him, and perhaps he has a thing for Sam? Because everyone should have a thing for Sam. Because Sam is hot.)

This is a long way of saying, among other things, that people – and there are about 30 every day – who come here looking for the correct pronunciation of Jean Patou’s Fracas are really coming to the wrong place.

In other news, there is a wild frenzy here as we prepare for the visit from Schnozz, and that I am both excited and extremely nervous because I’m nerdy like that, and she might hear my snoring from two bedrooms over and write about it on the Internet. So here it is! A preemptive strike: I snore and I am not neat, and my favorite snack is peanut butter and apples, except I mix a little honey and I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter into the peanut butter to smooth it out. And Schnozz is hot. It’s all out there, before it even happens.

And we’re still on Motrin and steroids, so it’s not like it’s a barrel of excitement ’round here. I hope you have a great Wednesday.

*Jewel, in honor of her American Idol guest appearance tonight (an homage! Sort of!) that confirmed that she may very well be among the top 5 of People I’d Most Like to Punch. And no, no I don’t own this song.

39 comments January 16th, 2007

Run

There are a few things I kind of half-wished someone had told me before about having a crown put in and yet, strangely, I’m thrilled no one did, because had I known, there is absolutely no way I would have actually gone through with it, or even showed up. Because seriously, there was gum-shaving and soldering (SOLDERING) and some sort of flaming electrode-type thing that removed a large swath of gum near the site, which resulted in some kind of…of…BURNING FLESH SMELL, not to mention lots of weird smoke pouring from my mouth that did not involve tobacco. And….And! A warning from the dentist for me to close my eyes because of “blood spatter.”

I mean, it’s just about the grossest thing I’ve ever done, and I have done and seen a lot of gross things, if you know what I mean, and I think you do. There was also that killer moment where my TMJ kicked into high gear during the impression portion of our show, and I, ah, couldn’t open my mouth for 40 minutes and laid there near-tears while the hygienist tried to pry my jaw open with the force of her elbows until the dentist came screaming in with a cortisone shot, which didn’t kick in until after I left. And when I left, mind you, I didn’t realize that I had giant blobs of purple rubber all over my face, including a large piece about the size of a penny smeared on the front of my nose until a clerk in the health food store asked me, the hell? To which I responded by peeling it off and running away with my very bad fermented cabbage drink thing that I picked up by accident.

And from there, wouldn’t you think the weekend would only get better? Sadly, no. I mean, it didn’t get worse, and it didn’t get any more exciting, but ‘better’ is a relative term, because the rest of it was spent wandering around in a Motrin haze, which reminds me, dude: they shave off your gums, whittle your tooth down to the saddest little nub – a piece of corn, really, and who says corn teeth aren’t highly coveted? – and wouldn’t you think you’d get something stronger? Wouldn’t you think that this would at least get you Percocet, or maybe some Vicodin? Except you don’t, you get a Motrin pill the size of my kidney, along with more steroids and a mouth rinse that makes all food taste like mud. Which is good, oh so good, because it means I have zero interest in eating, which is normally wicked disappointing, because God knows I love to eat, except…I ripped something in my foot, or collapsed an arch or something during yesterday’s run, so running, for the time being is definitely out, and by “running” I also mean “walking” and if this continues by Wednesday, I’m getting a handicapped sticker for my car, or at least stuffing a chicken in my shirt and parking in the mother-to-be spots. However, if I’d gotten Percocet, this wouldn’t have happened, because I would not have been running, due to the busy schedule of drooling I would have been on, so it all boils down to the evil that is the dentist or Why Crowns Suck the Big One.

Aren’t we just a barrel of laughs? Dear sweet lord! It’s not all bad – there have been some delightful parts, really. Ah, yes. Delight! I mean, there has been lots of lying about, sometimes asleep, sometimes awake, and Ad has been waiting on me rather wonderfully and – perhaps the best part – I’ve been able to enjoy the pleasures of snuggling with a small dog without any of the responsibility, because I haven’t taken her out for a single walk since it all went down, because that requires walking, which again, I am hilariously incapable of doing. This injury, PS, seems to be caused by my sad little flat feet, and other than fixing the support situation with orthotics (done! DONE!), does anyone have any idea what I can do? I mean, ah, it feels muscular, not broken bone-y, and not doctor-worthy yet, although if that would get me crutches, I’d consider it. Perhaps also important is that it doesn’t hurt unless I’m walking on it. Blog readers as doctors. You can’t beat it, really.

Running. it was fun while it lasted. The service, however, is fantastic. In a few minutes, I am going to demand tea, and maybe some apples.

Hope you had a wonderful weekend, and I hope it was a long one. Happy almost-Tuesday!

*New Order

18 comments January 15th, 2007

Nothing Ever Happens

Over the last few days, I’ve finished a giant freelance project, a major work project, interviewed someone who only speaks Czech (which is Polish? Is that right?), and just when I was turning a corner, someone pointed out that my zipper was down. And yet, three more times, it came down, because there is a word for people like me, and it’s bloated. For the first time in my life, I took a damn Midol after work, and while it helped a little, I’m still closer to a post-blueberry Violet Beauregard than is natural.

Mmmm…blueberries. We have reached that special time where I can’t get enough food into my greedy little gullet, and I’ve been sitting on my hands for the last 30 minutes, desperately trying not to run downstairs and go Lardass Hogan on the blueberry pie on the counter. And yet I haven’t! Although truthfully the reason I haven’t has more to do with the fact that blueberry pies stain, and since we already have a documented chicken wing/pizza stain from an ill-advised bed dinner, who needs blueberry bed? And I am not ready to get out of bed right now, blueberry pie or not.

Yesterday, my next door neighbor came storming out of her garage screaming like a wild banshee, until she finally announced to no one in particular that there was a snake in her garage. A snake! In her garage! Our snake! And all of us are too chicken to help her, and since my pathetic efforts in sweeping him out resulted in little more than me squealing like a stuck pig, I think he’ll stay there.

In other, completely random news, I lost the outside ends of both of my eyebrows, which gives me a subtle, yet sinister look. And by ‘lost,’ incidentally, I mean that my thyroid hormones were so completely fizzled that I started losing my hair again, which manifests itself first in eyebrow loss. Which, while mildly annoying, isn’t so bad, and sure beats the pants off of going bald, I just really hope they grow back (They usually do! They do! I will not spend my life looking like Malcom Macdowell!) (And also, my fake thyroid stuff has been adjusted, so no more eyebrow loss and also, no more behaving and feeling like a crazy person, although no amount of Synthroid in the world can help with the blueberry feeling and/or pie craving. Or Triscuits. And an apple with honey and peanut butter. Nope, still not getting out of bed.)

Perhaps most importantly, though no less random, I am addicted to Top Chef, and the entire time I’m watching this, all I can wonder is who in the hell is this Padma person, why is she so damn vacant and what on EARTH gives her any kind of qualification to judge Marcel’s cherry reduction foam, other than looking vaguely like a bobblehead doll with a Madonna accent? And then I realized with horror that this strange Padma person is married to Salman Rushdie, and, well, consider my mind officially blown to smithereens.

And finally, I hope y’all have a nice long weekend. I’m too fried to construct anything even a little coherent, and given that I have a 7 a.m. root canal/crown fitting (7 a.m. I scheduled it. Can someone tell me what I was thinking?), I should go. The weekend will be a welcome respite. For my part, I plan to sleep a lot before embarking on yet another week packed with projects, Czechoslovakian expats and maybe a juicing machine run by Oompa Loompas. And although Sundry’s got the corner on this one, what are you doing this weekend? And do you have MLK Day off, as I do?

*Pavement

19 comments January 11th, 2007

My List

This morning I timed how long it takes me to take my daily dose of Synthroid. The answer? 12 seconds from start to finish, not including the time it takes to make coffee, which I do anyway. I am bloody sick of seeing Sally Field hawk osteoporosis medication by talking about how she has poor, over-scheduled friends who have to “make time every week!” to take their pills. Make time? Honestly? It’s a miracle I manage to take a shower every day, what with all of the PILL TAKING I have to do.

I’ve become increasingly irritated by advertisements this week, which is no doubt the sign of a declining mind. I started screeching at the radio on my way to work this morning, not just because of the absolute horror that is Smack That (um, oh my God? ), but because some woman was trying to get us all to join in her her quest for a hair-free face, and claimed that she started with her “upper lip, chin and eyebrows – and that’s just the beginning!” The beginning. What, pray tell, is the end?

I distinctly recall watching my grandfather sit in his leather chair and alternate between laughing his face off at any commercials involving animals in clothing (I don’t know, but he was wearing a cardigan while he did it. Does that make it better?) and screaming at any ad that irritated him. I have that leather chair, and if I had thinning hair, the resemblance would be pretty uncanny.

I’ve also been enthralled with lists, which is a first for me, and while it thrills me to no end that finally I have some shred of organization, I’m approaching it with typical new-thing excitement, and have documented my entire life to an obsessive degree, and nearly planned out every second. Right now, for example, I am blogging under the 20 minutes of allotted time for the evening. There are showers to take! E-mails to return! Books to read! (I scheduled reading time. Is that sick?) There is absolutely no room for spontaneity, which, while good in the sense that keeping to a list stops me from idly sitting, staring into space for 45 minutes (which I’d done almost nightly), if something unexpected comes up, like my husband pausing The Office for me on the TiVo so we can watch it together, it can throw my whole night off. I stood there awkwardly and said, “But…but…this is snack time!”

Snack time. Because I am four.

And now, as pathetic as this entry is, it is actually shower time – or rather, it is WELL PAST shower time, because I did watch The Office, and am I the only one who just lost it when Pam started crying? Oh Pam. You blew it.

Have a great weekend.

*The Killers

18 comments January 4th, 2007

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