The One About The Orthodontist

Nice Bossman from Heaven told me to take the day off today when I told him I’d be late due to an orthodontist appointment. Really, it wasn’t that I was just gonna be late, but that I’d miss two thirds of the day since I insist on seeing an orthodontist located two hours away. It’s all logical and easy in my head when I reason out that I had an awful orthodontist when I was younger who left me with an increasingly noticeable snaggle tooth despite being paid thousands of dollars and having total control over my teeth for 3 years. When I found a great doctor last year and then moved down to C-ville soon thereafter it seemed worth it to make the trek every 2 months or so. But that was when it was every two months or so. In the past 4 months he must’ve had me up there 10 times. At first I was dealing with the the drive and the ridicule I receive from friends and co-workers over my apparent dependence on this mystery man, but today I almost had it.

I arrived at his office clean, but still obviously disheveled. Some mornings I wake up and all I’ve gotta do is throw my hair on top of my head and I’m immediately convinced I’ve never looked better. Other mornings, despite 8+ hours of sleep and meticulous make-up application, my face looks bloated, tired, and old, and kinda like someone hit me with a board the night before. Today was one of the latter days.

I knew my agenda for the morning involved my appointment, the drive down to Charlottesville, and a workout, so while I made the effort to shower, I figured I could get away with a bordering-on-slutty tank top I wouldn’t have normally worn were it not for the stifling heat and my lack of self respect. Of course, I get there and am promptly informed by the assistant that today will be picture day for me. So I do my best to arrange my bra straps just so in hopes that they will somehow miraculously not peek out from the shirt when my picture is taken—a picture which is destined to be displayed on the waiting room wall, with all the rest of them, and that I am fairly sure is certain to make me look strung out and/or entirely destitute.

Following my photo shoot I casually mentioned to the good Doctor that I had in fact managed to break my second retainer—a point I’d neglected to disclose 2 weeks ago when it happened because it’s not really totally broken per se, and also cause that piece of plastic crap costs $150 to replace.

“Oh how did that happen? Are you soaking it in really hot or cold water or brushing it too hard?” the assistant asked.

I decided against letting her know how disgusting I actually am and rather than admit that I broke it while shoving it in to my pocket, likely in a flurry of action when something chocolate was placed in front of my face, I told her it broke while I was taking it out. Lucky for me no ever asked how I broke the first one—it was death by pocket for that one too.

A short muffled conference between doctor and assistant ensued and next thing I know I’m advised that I’ll be getting a new retainer. An old-school metal and wire one, much more visible than the clear plastic I had before, but much more durable.

“It’ll be touch to break this guy,” he assures me, “unless you do something like step on it.” Little does he know how likely this is.

I left the office defeated—I’d been immortalized for their wall at my worst and had subsequently revealed myself to the staff as completely incapable of handling the care of a piece of plastic, a metaphor I somehow imagine they extended to my life and my inability to say, run it. But I can’t stay mad at the Doctor. I know my teeth are gonna be straight after this and I’ll never have to suffer the indignity of a snaggle tooth comment again. So I’ll be back to get the new retainer. I won’t like it, but I’ll be back—a two hour drive in two weeks at that.

Everyone Else Posts Open Letters to the Person(s) They Hate at Their Gym, Here is Mine

Dear Fellow Gym Go-er Guy:

• Who I met one time at a party
• Whose name I have no notion of despite being told it multiple times
• Who insists on talking to me every damn time he sees me at the gym, even when I don't pull out my glorious noise canceling earphones or stop lifting within the first minute of his hovering over me
• Who I know nothing about other than where he works (the Sprint Store) and thus have nothing to talk about with as there is only so much small talk in the world
• Who insists on initiating contact every single time by clenching his teeth and striking mock body building poses until I take out said earphones and fake laugh
• Who totally does not take a hint to leave when I've given him the time of day and gone so far as to talk about the weather or traffic or something but then stop talking and sit there in awkward silence,

please stop periodically asking me if I remember your name. I don't. Also? In general? Just stop talking to me at all.

Thanks much.

Last Night

This

Oh Say, Can You Send Me More Free Junk?

Something was obviously amiss when my order from Victoria's Secret arrived looking like this:

But at least the Postmaster had included his kind words about how he "regret[ted] the damage to [my] mail" and "hope[d I would] understand," which, fine, I do/am forgiving. It was only when I finally got through the 2 f-ed up bags that I grew a bit concerned when I found the bra I ordered all scuffed to hell, like it had either inexplicably come out of its packaging and wound up snaggled in some greasy mail sorting contraption or someone else had previously tested its fit by getting hot and heavy on newly laid asphalt.

Next, I pulled out half the swimsuit I ordered, which, yes is what I expected as the top is backordered. According to this invoice should have been the second of the two items included in this mailing:But wait! There was still more! First this, which, huh? Had I known this product even existed I still would have had no desire to get it, even for free. According to its instruction manuel it's some bag in which to wash bras, which, while I've heard of, never thought of as something my life was lacking. I've already managed to kinda break it (who knew the support piping was made of inflexible plastic) but no worries, I'm sure that small alteration will do nothing to effect the way it sits unused under my bed for the next 10 months.

Just when I thought I'd lucked(?) out, I realized there were even more presents in store. Namely this...except wait, the picture won't upload, but suffice to say it's the top to this suit in a size medium--an article of clothing that might house approximately one fourth of one of my boobs if I really stretched it and which I never would have come even remotely close to thinking about ordering.

But all of this is not to say I'm not excited by free stuff. What's more American, really, than wanting to get something for nothing? So rather than send back the unwanted bra sack and fabric swatch I will keep them both, in all their useless glory, and in doing so will, one day late, celebrate America and the triumph that is our freedom to horde impractical junk.

Success!

Two Posts, One Day!

Isn’t it always the case that you never do anything productive when you have the time, meaning when you do have something imperative to attend to it’s all you can do to find one free minute in which to cram in all your work. Tonight, rather than bettering myself in any way shape or form I’ve wasted almost all the evening

1. Surfing lame internet sites that have nothing new or interesting to say because, hi, why is no one posting anything whatsoever—the holiday isn’t til tomorrow, entertain me now
2. Uploading CDs I never really liked in the first place and probably will never listen to again to my iTunes (how many albums does Oasis have? This one is not the one with hits and thus it is, for all intents and purposes, dead to me. But maybe?…someday?, I’ll be totally dying to listen to it. P.S. for real, is Oasis still a band?)
3. Making an ice cream cake in what has somehow become a yearly ritual that I’ve felt compelled to undertake every July 4th for the past 3 years.

Two years ago I did the classic American flag-decorated cake made with blueberries, strawberries, Coolwhip (blech! what was I thinking?) and all that nonsense which, quite honestly, looked awesome. I’m told it tasted alright too, although in my humble opinion I made a fundamental error when I didn’t include at least three kinds of chocolate in that one (really it should’ve been more like 5—to offset the nutrition from the berries and all). Unfortunately, due to the combined effects of partying in the middle of nowhere, some psychedelics, and one special friend who decided to freak the fuck out forever and ever I missed all of said cake and will have to make due with the memory of a bunch of drunkards I’d never met telling me it was “like, totally awesome.”

Last year, I, with a little brainstorming help, came up with idea of decorating the ice cream cake with the Iraqi flag. We’d been over there almost a year and half at that point and most everyone I know was already convinced of what a total debacle it was. I figured I’d be the star of the party by presenting this delicious, yet ironic frozen delight that would provoke both laughter and contemplation.

Alas, much like the invasion itself, the cake was doomed from the start. Giving myself less than 4 hours within which to create this masterpiece meant the work of art I had envisioned, when fully realized, amounted to little more than a shapeless blob of ice cream atop sodden pound cake that even to me, dessert consumer extraordinaire, looked inedible (ok, ok I may have tried a tiny bite, maybe). Last time I checked it still continued to reside, in hardened, freezer-burned form, in Adam’s ice box, although his recent relocation means it must have met an alternative ultimate end (I hope). If not for his move we could have symbolically pulled it out too if the government ever goes through with that suggestion.

This year though, I’ve set myself up for success. Over two days I will craft the ultimate ice cream cake featuring a home made cake base, what I’m told is going to substitute perfectly for those delicious Carvel crunchy things, and 4 different chocolate ingredients as well as coffee and mint. I will arrive to the party tomorrow victorious and play the belle of the ball for the evening as I am commended again and again for my over the top efforts.

My only hesitation came in driving back from the store when I wondered how I should decorate the thing. I’d decided the old stand by American flag theme was a little too middle aged stay at home mom-ish and I needed something fresher and edgier, yet still apt for July 4th. With limited decorating supplies and despite the fact that I fell asleep when we rented “Team America: World Police,” I settled on “America, fuck yeah!” After relaying my plans to Ray, however, he had a much better idea: “America: Fuck. Yeah.”

Pictures of said piece de resistance to follow (unless of course it winds up being an utter failure, in which case, fuck off, I’m busy eating leftover ice cream).

Triumphant Return!

I have returned from the world of 'spend every waking minute with your handsome and amazing boyfriend who is moving to Texas' as well as the land of 'continue not to blog post-his departure as you are all bent out of shape and uninspired and fully aware that no one wants to hear you talk about how attractive/generally perfect he is and until you can wrap your head around something else you should shut up'! So there's that. Still getting back in to the swing of things but hopefully more frequent/interesting/worthwhile posting to follow...or maybe just more frequent?--why not aim low, huh? But before all that, one more picture you don't care about, for old time's sake, and because he's cute, you know?