Thursday, June 26, 2008

The dangers of wreaking excessive irony.

OK, the first thing I should stipulate here is that so far today my morning has SUCKED. I overslept by over 30 minutes, and of course on a morning where I have to be in super-early for this big, honkin’ meeting so I CANNOT be late and it’s overcast which may be why I can feel a migraine headache sneakily stalking me morning. (if you look over behind that lamp post you’ll see the migraine pretending to read an upside down girly magazine) The big, honkin’ meeting was rocky, to say the least, and it was one of those rare ones where I spent most of it having no idea what the hell the group was talking about. Which would be fine except I’m taking minutes, so I have to understand enough about what is being discussed to summarize it. Oh, and also correctly – did I mention that? That I have to summarize correctly? Yeah. So I know the rest of the day will be spent trying to make sense of 10 pages worth of “Wha?” Which I hate. And then two people nagged me about something which they were totally entitled to do except CRAPPY MORNING, so it made me even more cranky.

And the migraine just sat down in the bus seat behind me. sigh.

All of this to say that everything I’m about to cover is little and silly and petty. UNLESS you’ve had a crappy, crappy morning which has left you with no sense of humor and a dire need for yummy breakfast foodness.

I walk into the office kitchen to indulge in a little raspberry muffin, left-over from this morning’s meeting, because I goshdamn deserve it and because you can't translate "Wha?" on an empty stomach. Only here I find a co-worker. She’s on her cell phone, she’s barefoot (shudder) and she’s standing in front of the excess breakfast goodies. Is she gathering food and leaving? Oh no, because that would require her to be aware that there are other people. Anywhere. In the whole world. No, she’s standing in front of the food, chatting away and just nibbling at the muffins and bagels there. And chatting. And being all shoeless. And BLOCKING MY ACCESS TO MY MUFFINS! Trying to be a civilized member of society, I stand back and wait for her to get her food and leave.

She’s all:

“Oh I know! Can you believe that? I totally know. (nom, nom, nom) She just doesn’t think, right? Never thinks! (nom, nom, yummy bagel) It’s like she thinks she’s the only person on the whole planet, right? Totally! (nom, nom, top of muffin is best, nom, nom, leave muffin bottom behind, nom, nom) I totally know. It makes me so crazy, right? I know.”

At this point an irony-induced hysteria caused me to leap on her head and scoop out her very small brain with a plastic spoon. WOMAN, GET YOUR SHOES ON AND YOUR HEAD OUT OF YOUR NETHER REGION AND GET AWAY FROM MY TASTY BREAKFAST TREATS! MY PRECIOUS!! MY BREAKFAST FOODIES!!! Luckily blood and brain goo go ok on a savory bagel and muffin bottom.

And I totally see you, Mr. Migraine.

Monday, June 23, 2008

Motivational Slacking.

So one of my dream jobs/careers would be to write for a living. I’ve really idealized it into this existence where I would sleep until 9am each morning, and then I’d get up and sit in front of my computer, snuggled in some artful cardigan sweater, cradling my steaming coffee cup, tremendous and excellent words pouring out of my fingers into my next great novel. And I make big, fancy money and magical benefits, and I’m creative and inspired and get to travel to fabulous places to have fans tell me how much they loved my last book. And I would always feel fulfilled and sure of my place in the universe and I would love what I do for a living.

Now of course this dream is ridiculous and impossible. I hate coffee, and I bet authors never get dental, so clearly this is a fantasy. (and the first one of you that points out that you’ve been reading my words for some time now and have yet to be inspired or moved, or even particularly clear on what the hell I’m talking about, gets an e-sock on the side of your e-head!)

The other reason that this idea seems impossible is that it’s all that I can do to try to keep up here on this blog. I’m so embarrassed when I see that many days have passed and I have no new words. All the time I’m coming up with something that seems very post-worthy on the way home from work or standing in the shower, but I can’t actually compose the post on the bike or in the shower and making other times happen is hard! Or I’ll start a post, but when I come back to it much later I have no idea where the heck I thought I was going with that thought. OR I write down the initial thought, but can’t find any associated thoughts that want to come play with the initial thought. My creative thoughts apparently don’t play well with others.

Not that I’m willing to cut other bloggers any slack when they don’t post. I have blogs that I check every day and periodically there will be a day when NOBODY has done a new post. And do I say “oh gosh and golly, I’ll bet that he/she had a long day at work or had to go to tap class or was kidnapped by the Burmese Liberation Army (notorious for still connecting to the web via dial-up) and just couldn’t get a new post written. I understand completely.” Yeah, because I’m ever so reasonable and level-headed. You must be new…

I have a friend who blogs (blogged long before I did actually) and who will take these occasional long, big gaps in her blogging, which would be fine except for three things: 1) I love to read her blog and when she doesn’t update I have no new blog to read; 2) sometimes when bloggers you know update their blog they mention you and I seriously crave the attention!! and 3) due to her non-lovin’ of writing emails or chatting on the phone or living less than 90 minutes away from Hippyville the way I know what’s going on in her life is when she updates her blog! (and she knows who she are and she also knows that “where the heck does Femtastic get off telling me to hurry up and blog when she knows that I have 2 kids and a husband and a job and 2 Etsy stores and 47 hobbies I’m currently trying to do as well as another 236 that I’ve not yet found the time to do and when was the last time she mentioned ME in HER blog and YOU ARE NOT THE BOSS OF ME!!!” Which are all excellent, fair and good points. Maybe she would like to blog about them?)

On those nights when I’m sitting on my couch, watching dreadful tv and falling asleep, while knowing that I should be in the office squeezing thoughts out of my tiny brain onto this page, I think this: if you are ever going to have a career instead of a job; if you’re ever going to do what you enjoy rather than feeling like you’re wasting your time; if you’re ever going to be able to sleep until 9am on a Tuesday without being unemployed you must GET OFF YOUR ASS AND WRITE SOMETHING.

Either that, or learn how to curve the bullet to become a super-cool rockstar assassin. Your choice.

Baby's First Diva Tantrum

My 14-yr old nephew’s band asked me to take some pictures of them, which was good because I’d been BEGGING them to let me take their picture for like a year. I figured I’m a photographer (well ok, I’m photographeresque at least) and I’ve been all about rock and roll forever and I’m super-cool, so how would there be any problem with me playing Annie Leibovitz to their U2 or Rolling Stones or Guns & Butter?

So I ask the band to meet me at a local park at 9:30am one Saturday morning. Now before you say it, I KNOW that getting up early on a Saturday morning is not rock and roll! I know this! It should have been a midnight shoot in a back alley or the top of some abandoned building or a desert in Arizona! But cut me slack – there were summer vacations to be scheduled around. And curfews. In order to do my part to make it as rock and roll as possible, I stayed up all night the night before and showed up drunk and with a prostitute. I suffer for the art.

There are 6 little dudes in the band (and by “little” I mean “seriously, stop looking me in the eye, I changed your diapers, that’s enough being tall out of you. And that goes double for your little friends.”); of those six most of them were pretty easy to work with, one didn’t show up because he didn’t have a ride (yeah, because that is SO rock and roll) and then there was the Lead Singer. And like all Lead Singers, this kid was drama. D-R-A-M-A.

I’m thinking of simple shots, straight forward, and with really only one rule: no smiling. I’m doing shots like “up against the chain link fence” or “sitting on the picnic bench” or “under the tree” and I’m getting stuff that I think will work. Lead Singer is asking for things like “can you take a picture of our instruments and put it with a picture of fire and make it look like our instruments are on fire?”

Now I was so gonna let that go! But this was just the beginning.

LS: “Here’s what I want: we’re all standing on the grass and we’re pointing in the air. And they won’t know what we’re pointing at.”
FT: “…I’ll take that picture if you want. However you should know that in photography circles that’s called the ‘Sears Catalog Shot’. But I’ll take it if you really want me to.”
The Band: “NO!”

LS: “Here’s what I want: if you can just make sure that there are no cars coming down the road, and then we’ll all walk across the street like we’re just crossing the street.”
FT: “Are you talking about Abbey Road?”
LS: "Oh you know it?”
FT: “I’m not ripping off Abbey Road! What is WRONG with you?”

LS: “Here’s what I want, and I hope that nobody’s too religious but whatever: We do like the last supper picture (oh boy), but with our heads over the regular heads (ok, that’s not THAT bad I guess). And I’ll be Jesus.”
FT: “NO! And do you know why "No!"? Because “And I’ll be Jesus.”! That's why!"

While setting up the shot “standing on and around the 2 swings (an exploration of childhood, mirth and rock n’ roll)” Lead Singer is acting all hinky and I ask him what’s up. And he says to me this:

“nobody’s gonna want these pictures is all.”

“why, because they’re not cool enough?”

“they’re just not rock and roll.”

And sadly, at that moment, I killed him with the laser beams, ROCK AND ROLL laser beams, from my eyes. Had to be done.

OK, I didn’t kill him. I said to him this: “Dude (because that shows that I’m young and hip), I have been seeing rock and roll pictures and listening to rock and roll music and going to rock and roll concerts LIKE THESE GUYS (and I point at my chest, and my strategically selected Police t-shirt which I just got last summer because I am THAT COOL) since long before you were filling diapers. So if you could just give me half an ounce of trust that would be excellent.” (and then the rock and roll laser beam from the eyes.)

250 pictures. Very, very cool pictures. And even MORE important: no lives were lost. So I am a SAINT.

Thursday, June 19, 2008

Of course you realize that this means war...

It was one thing when you sent me, tra-la-la, down the scary, cement fire stairs. Tricky, but I survived. And I knew it was ON.

Then all those times when you tried to bring me down off my bike seat. You tried, OH YOU TRIED, but you missed. And you left all those big purple dents on the inside of my thigh. But still I survived.

But this time you go after my mother? A person’s MOTHER? Well this time you have gone too far, Gravity. This time it is WAR.

No kidding – my Mom was doing her daily walk of fitness and goodness and getting of the exercise last week, just like a good girl should (and this girl never, ever does), and she just caught the tippy tip of her toe on an uneven patch of pavement and went DOWN. Face FIRST down! And somehow she had left the house without both of her hands or something, because only one of them got out to break her fall. So. To recap: she broke her quick, forward, sidewalk-bound decent with her right hand and her left face.

This is something you are going to want to avoid. Think of this as a PSA or something: the more you know about not smashing your face into the sidewalk (and now the swirly gold star and it’s rainbow friends and the four piano chords of knowledge…) She looked SO BAD! And actually the badness came in waves of badness.

First night she just looked like somebody very much not her. Big, fat mouse under the eye, and big fat chin to go with it (a matched set – you get a much better price if you get them together) and the rarely-seen split lip both outside AND INSIDE the mouth. The amazing thing was how specific all the damage was located! I approached her from her right side and thought “wow, she doesn’t look bad at ALL! This isn’t such a- WOAH!!!!” and then she turned around and facial fatness all up and down her face. So not right!

All that first night the question was “get a stitch inside the lip or not? Yes? No? Still bleeding, still bleeding, STILL bleeding…” The thing was we knew that if she went to the ER for the fat, ever-bleeding lip they’d want X-rays and other stuff and she’d be there ALL night long, so she really needed to want that lip stitched up for this to be worth it. Instead we went old-school and stuck a tea bag in her mouth for a couple of hours. Luckily she likes tea – were it me there’d be that pesky gag reflex to keep having to deal with on top of the tummy full of my very own blood.

(hey, are you going to finish eating that?)

So then the next day her face went back to being really close to the right size and shape, but by then the color had arrived. Oh the array of reds and purples and almost-blacks! I told Dadtastic that he might want to avoid going out with Momtastic for a while because it did NOT make him look good! (but what can I say? Sometimes she just doesn’t LISTEN! [too soon for the domestic abuse jokes? Sorry. My bad.])

But wait, we're not done. A week goes by and the purples are starting to get green and yellow at the edges and the face it just about the right shape all the way around. Yay! So, to celebrate, Momtastic decided to go out to her alley garden, get her foot caught up in her bean trellis and GO DOWN AGAIN! FACE GODDAMN FIRST!!! So she comes to the Father’s Day bar-b-que with fabulous new purple on her already-purple, freshly fattened-up chin, plus a big, red gash all scabbed over. You know, it’s what all the cool kids are sporting these days.

I have told her that if anything else falling-down-related happens I’m going to get her a football helmet and insist she wears it from now on. I am SO not kidding about this. Oh, and Gravity?

Bring it, bitch.

Tuesday, June 17, 2008

Big Finish, now with more JAZZ HANDS!

SO MANY THINGS! This weekend was chockoblock FULL of STUFF, to the point where I just couldn’t keep up with all the post-worthy items. There were monumental accomplishments like college graduations, and silly little things like photo-shoots for baby rock bands and suddenly it’s Tuesday night and MUST POST! So here I am, but it’s gonna take me a few days to catch up. Bare with me, my peoples.

Remember months ago when I was giddy-gleeful over my shiny, tappy tap shoes? And how excellent it was that I was taking a tap class? Well shine me up, my people, because I done did it! From September to June I tapped and tapped and TAPPED, all working towards the goal of last Saturday. Saturday night I pulled on the least flattering, spandex-and-silver-glitter costume ever made, along with my now-broken-in, soft-and-comfy tap shoes, and I ROCKED the KASBAH, peoples!

(an aside to the people who pick out the costumes: Please note the figures of your students in the future and avoid things that accentuate, nay HIGHLIGHT, tummies that could honestly be compared to semi-deflated soccer balls? Also, no silver glitter. In fact, let's just say no glitter period. No matter how snazzy it might look in the catalog, the costume owner lives in fear of freeing it from the sealed ziplock bag for fear that they will never get all the shedded glitter out of their house. Or car. Or driveway. Or anything ever good god it is EVERYWHERE.)

I wish I could say that the packed theater of about 300 or so audience members was there just to see me prance around for a solid 3 minutes, 21 seconds. Except that would be absurd and also that much pressure would lead to excessive wetting of my spandexy pants. See, here’s the deal: the dance school through which I mastered the art of the tap, the punch, the paddle, the shim-sham, well they teach a pile of classes! Tap, but also jazz and ballet and hip-hop and hip-hop and HIP-HOP-HIP-HOP-HIP-HOPHOPHOP! (no kidding, there were a whole lot of hip hop classes) And at the end of the 9 months of classes we all shake our trained booties in a big, fancy show on stage at the local performing arts center!

Not the local high school. Not the tiny repertory theater. This place has hosted rock bands and traveling broadway shows and Garrison-frigging-Keillor! The BIG TIME! And where Garrison stood and spoke folksy-but-eloquent wisdo-humor I scuffed and chugged and shuffle-box-stepped. Here are some things that I learned from this experience:
  • No matter when I last went #1, within 5 minutes of stepping on stage I will still have to pee.
  • Making a mistake? Acceptable. Saying “Oh crap, I screwed up!” on stage? Not so much.
  • If you’re 4 years old and wearing a dress that looks like it could also be a blue-and-yellow wedding cake you don’t need to take a single dance step; you’ll still bring down the house.
  • As uncomfortable as “suck-everything-in” underwear are normally, they are an unholy experience once they’ve been wedged into normally sealed areas via dancy-dance movements.
  • The ones who have all the fun are always more entertaining than the ones who think they’re hot shit. Even if they are actually hot shit.
  • I don’t care HOW old I am! I performed, and now someone better take me to get ICE CREAM!
I’m taking the summer off to reward my lame, craptastic feet for lasting through the performance. But I predict that in September there will be another post reminding you that tap dancing is SUPER cool. And so is me. (super-cool, two three four and DIP!)

Thursday, June 12, 2008

What I should be when I grow up, chapter 1

The other day I came home from work to find a great, big box from one of my best buddies who doesn’t live in Hippyville. (she was my excellent boss when I lived in the big city, and she’s OBNOXIOUSLY smart, especially since I’m older than she is so in THEORY I should be smarter about something, SOMETHING, but no, she knows everything. And also she is always so danged on top of everything and prepared and organized and at a certain point I realized that I either had to choose to hate her INTENSELY with the fire that only a combination of envy and intimidation can provide, or to find her amazing and cool and follow in her footsteps whenever possible. I chose option B, but because of option A I’m going to call her Goofy (and also because she has mad love for all things Disney. But mostly its just the 'being perfect' thing. Revenge at last!)

I was not expecting a box, but the Goofster has been known to spontaneously send little awesome packages, so ‘YAY!’ When I opened it I found a great and excellent homage to French Canadian, spandex-clad, bendy-twisty fabulousness! (In other words: Cirque du Soleil stuff! Woo Hoo!) We're talking CDs and books and cool, cool stuff. And did I mention it was spontaneous?

Goofy and I discovered the magic and majesty of Cirque many years ago w/ Saltimbanco, and we’ve both been ape for them ever since. Like SUPER ape! We go see the shows, but we also wear the clothes and listen to the soundtracks and walk the walk and talk the talk and Cirque, Baby!!

(note: ok, we don’t really walk the walk, because I’m pretty sure that walking the Cirque walk would involve putting one’s legs behind one’s neck, and possibly one’s head up one’s rear-area. Which we just aren’t doing. And we also don’t actually talk the talk, because I believe the Cirque talk would be French. And I’m more likely to be able to put my head up my rear-area than be able to speak French.)

Anyway, I don’t know what this box means. I don’t know if she’s giving me all of her awesome Cirque bounty, mayhaps because she’s decided that she’s received all the magic that she can from our French-Canadian heroes of contortion and flying? Or did she hit the Ebay motherload on Cirque stuff, thereby totally completing the entire Cirque collection, and these are the things she already had? Or did she decide that she wouldn’t be able to be my friend anymore if I didn’t have just a bit more Cirque coolness? Or possibly this is pre-emptive willing, due to a premonition that her time is nigh? Picture me on my living room floor, surrounded by this jackpot of Cirque fabulousness, rolling around on soundtracks and programs but afraid to like it too much just in case it’s actually a portent of badness!

And then I thought this: maybe Goofy has sent this as a form of career guidance! Maybe she believes that she has found the right career path for me! And it involves juggling fire! Hanging myself from my earlobes! Hot Human Pretzel Action! And EXCLAMATION POINTS!!!

(the sane and rational among you have probably already started crafting your helpful emails suggesting that maybe I could just call or email Goofy and ask her the story behind the fabulous box of Cirque goodness. Emails I will ignore because sanity? Rational thinking? HAH!! Since when do I traffic in such goods?!?! DOUBLE-HAH!!) Now pardon me while I figure out how one limbers up one’s earlobes…

Tuesday, June 10, 2008

Policy planning at milepost 2.5...

(my favorite cousin and I are walking her cool dog on the newly-opened walking trail and pass a motorcycle cop chatting with one of the organizers of the walk/run/thing...)

Cool Cuz (CC): I think that cops should only be allowed to pull over people on the same mode of transportation that they’re on.

Femtastic (FT): You mean motorcycle cops should only be able to pull over people on motorcycles?

CC: right, but also bike cops should only pull over people on bikes.

FT: interesting...

CC: And mounted police should only pull over people on horseback. Of course I guess the bike cops are a self-limiting thing anyway. I guess they could also ticket people on foot.

FT: Oh no, I’d say only beat cops should be pulling over people on foot! I think you’re totally on to something here.

CC: well foot cops could ticket people. Not so much ‘pull them over’ You know, since they’re on foot.

FT: oh see, but I also think that all cops should be required to use lights and sirens when pulling someone over. If they’re not in a vehicle with gumballs then they should have to wear a helmet with a big flashing light on top…

CC: …and a siren!

FT: Man, we should SO run for public office…

Sunday, June 08, 2008


OK, I know this doesn’t sound like me, but there was this walk/run/thing on Saturday to commemorate the opening of this new trail that runs around our new, FUTURISTIC AND FABULOUS hospital. And I did it. And I did it VOLUNTARILY. No weapons of any kind were put to my head! It was kind of a work thing, in that the people that I did it with were pretty much work chums. Since it’s so not me to get up early on a Saturday at all, let alone to walk 5k, I’m not sure why I joined in. Whatever.

Now even though I, myself, started this by saying this doesn’t sound like me it was still super-annoying how many people acted like it was some kind of modern miracle that I was going to do it. And there were a bunch of people who offered to come get me in their cars on the path if I couldn’t finish it. (they were probably kidding. Still annoying!) Come on people, I do bike 30 miles to and from work each week! I tap dance for a couple of hours a week! I chase after my best friends kids whenever I can. And, most importantly, I RARELY use sound judgment when deciding what to do with my body! Case in point: right before the walk I’m surrounded by people eating healthy breakfasts and drinking out of their healthy water bottles, as I sit in my car finishing my ice-cold Pepsi and McDonalds hashbrown. So a spontaneous 3.1 mile stroll sounds JUST like something I would do.

Tangent: I stopped off at the McDonalds for my strategically planned breakfast food (because I already had the Pepsi perfectly chilled, but can’t just drink a Pepsi with nothing salty to go with it! That would be CRAZY!! And so OBVIOUSLY that meant McDonalds hashbrowns) and I’m perfectly on time and only a few blocks from the trail, right? But then I watch as the dude in front of me (who spent a LONG TIME giving his order, so I knew he was either getting a LOT of food or had asked for the nutritional breakdown on every single item on their breakfast menu) pull up and get handed a petite little bag. Much too small for all his ordering. But just the right size for one woman’s morning hashbrowns. And then I watched the interaction between this guy and the confused and fairly shellshocked (or still hung-over?) drive thru girl and it became clear that they’d somehow lost his whole order. But they had my hashbrowns! And the clock’s ticking and I’m now officially into the “running late” window and he’s STILL talking and she’s even more confused, and has tried to give him my hashbrowns a second time and I HAVE GOT TO GO!!! Finally I pulled out of line, pulled up next to lost-his-order guy and got out of my car. I walked around the nose of his car and started to knock on the now-closed window, completely freaking out everyone inside the place, who are clearly all discussing how people are just not supposed to walk up to the window and DEFINITELY aren’t supposed to knock on the window, and who has to go talk to the crazy, intense and hungry-looking crazy lady? At last they open the window and I ask for my paid-for and ready-to-go little bag of hashbrowns there on the counter right there, right next to the bigger bags, no not that one, no the little one, the one you keep trying to give to this guy (who starts to assure me that he never did anything to my hashbrowns, like I’m afraid he managed to lick them during one of the times they pushed them at him – not worried, buddy!) GIVE ME MY HASHBROWNS I HAVE TO GO!

Needless to say, I got my hashbrowns and arrived just barely in time. End of tangent.

I will have you know, my friends and scoffers alike, that I finished that 5k walk! And I did it in UNDER an hour! And that my feet didn’t even hurt and I didn’t fall down in a heap or come home and collapse or anything! That is right! Take that, people who may or may not have been kidding when they offered to come rescue from my ill-thought-out spontaneous exercise!
New, shiny white walking shoes: $45
Walk registration fee: $15
Official walk t-shirt: $5
McDonalds hasbrowns: $1
20-minute mile bragging rights: priceless.

Wednesday, June 04, 2008

No Good Deed Goes Unpunished.

My recurring readers (and really, unless I know you personally I cannot FATHOM what keeps bringing you back! For that, and for so much more, I give you WOVE, WOVE, WOVE!!!) will remember that back in December I had some super trips to the dentist. (and by “super” I mean “G-A-A-A-A-A-A-H!!!”). After all the dental visits that I did tell you about I had one a few weeks later which I did NOT tell you about (or did and just can’t find the post anywhere, and how sad is that?) where I went back to my dentist, whom I love very much even though his is a dentist, and he put on my new, shiny, white crown where all the other stuff had happened. And everything after that was perfect, happily ever after THE END.

Except that the new crown (wow, having a major déjà vu that I’ve already told you guys about this. Maybe you beloved recurring readers should go get a soda or something?) didn’t fit right. There was a gap between it and it’s neighbor, which my dentist identified right as he seated the new crown. And he said to me “oh gosh and golly, there’s a gap here which just might collect food. If it DOES just let us know and we’ll have a new crown put on. We’ll keep the molds and we’ll just take this one off and put the new one on and it will be easy-peasy, eggs and cheesy, hip hooray and let’s have cake!!”

Of course what I heard was “this crown is golden and perfect, and if there IS a gap it’s no big deal and you could just buy a bunch of those flossy sword things and there’s no reason to come back at all, maybe ever, ever again amen and thanks for the money good bye.”

Sadly the gap WAS a food collector. I even found myself calling the dentist one day and begging him to SQUEEZE ME IN in order to remove some bit of apple-stuff that was so tightly wedged down into that gap as to be both unflossable and EXCRUTIATING! They took pity on me, got me into the chair that day and proceeded to remove the apple bit, plus endless other bits of food which my good dentist eventually described as “half of a box lunch” crammed in there. This was despite all my flossy good actions! Needless to say at that point the jig was up and I had to admit that there was food cramming issues with the gap and yes, I should just go ahead and schedule an appointment to come in and have the gappy crown replaced.

Oh my beloveds, I did the right thing! (eventually) I called and scheduled an appointment for my new crown! (several weeks later) I drew on my inner strength and my knowledge of what was right and wrong and made the call! (after my Dad called me at work and completely shamed me into calling. Which is the down side of having the same dentist as your parents. And who isn’t above tattling.) Today I trekked to my cheery, always smiling (of course, because his smile is obviously perfect, isn’t it!) dentist for the changing of the crown.

He had told me that it would be an easy deal, but I had my heart broken before, so I still brought my CD player, headphones and a new dental mix (track list below). AND I trimmed my nails so as to reduce the damage done to their armrests! They put back the chair, I plopped on the tunes and they started terrible things inside my mouth. Between songs I heard the phrase “cut it off” and tried very hard to swallow my tongue for a quick death (stupid suction hose thingie!!). Finally, though, they were done and I thought “whew!, it’s almost over!” They plopped on the new tooth, ran floss one either side of it and announced:

“now there’s a big gap on BOTH sides.”


So apparently the artists, the geniuses, the miracle-workers who make dental crowns did the exact OPPOSITE of what they were supposed to do. I attempted to make the argument that maybe these larger gaps would be easier to floss and therefore I could just live with this new crown and please, PLEASE do not make me do this a third time!

I have to do it a third time.

Right now I have a temporary crown in there while they send the 2 wrongish ones back. You guys know about the excellence that is the temporary crown, right? Never bites quite right, feels lumpy in your mouth, tastes like chalk? Yeah, good times. And tomorrow I have to call and ONCE AGAIN voluntarily make an appointment to go back to the danged dentist for what is SUPPOSED to be the third time, and therefore the charm.

Femtastic’s 2008 Dentist Chair Mix:
“Wine Red” (by A Hush Sound)
“Keep me in your Pocket” (by Charlotte Martin)
“Heavy” (by Holly Brook)
“Spinning” (by Anne Heaton)
“Love on the Rocks” (by Sarah Bareilles)
“Headlock” (by Imogene Heap)
“A Dark Congregation” (by A Hush Sound)
“Pigeons” (by Genesis)
“Bruised” (by Ben Folds)
“Every Time it Rains” (by Charlotte Martin)
“Sunrise” (by Simply Red)
“Heal Over” (by KT Tunstall)
“Breakable” (by Ingrid Michaelson)
“When I Grow Up” (by Pussycat Dolls)
“Spinning” (by Zero 7)
“Waiting Under the Waves” (by Kris Delmhorst)
“So Sorry” (by Feist)
“Kalamazoo” (by Ben Folds)

Tuesday, June 03, 2008

Can't Touch This.

I bring you this month's fabulous desktop enjoyment, in the form of dancing catness. And we all know that this image was taken with some kind of sneaky nanny-cam. Kitties never get their groove on in front of people like this...

(courtesy of I Can Has Cheezburger)

Sunday, June 01, 2008

Speed Dating Report Card

So the results are in, as they say, and the “interested parties” from all the dudes I speed-datified with are:

Dudes 2 and 3. Or, for those of you who really don’t feel like clicking the link and re-reading the previous, super-long, super-rambly post, “lawyer/politician, huge head, tiny teeth, maybe no eyes at all” and “Navy guy, has possible crush on Dude 2.” Winners. Really.

Someone asked me why I wondered if Dude 3 was smitten with Dude 2, and the answer was simple: that was all he talked about. Why was he doing speed dating? Because Dude 2 asked him to. What does he do? He’s a law student, just like Dude 2. Where has he lived? Here, and also in Washington state. Which, by the way did he happen to mention, is a place where Dude 2 had also lived? And didn’t I think that Dude 2 was dreamy? And couldn’t you just dive into the limpid pools of his blue eyes? Sigh… (wait, he has eyes? Are you sure?)

So I’m a little confused that those two opted to meet again. Here’s my conclusion: Dude 2 opted to talk again with ALL the women because that’s how he rolls (and because, with his squinty, possibly-non-eyed eyes and non-stop talking about the law and politics and SO DANGED INTERESTING, RIGHT?, he had no idea what any of the women looked like or said so best to paint a WIDE SWATH). And Dude 3 opted to talk to me again because he’s hoping it will be some crazy 3-way date. And I won’t show up. (know what I’m sayn?)

Really Very Extremely needless to say I’m not planning to connect w/ tiny teeth or his special man-friend. So thus endeth speed dating. Bleah.