Dealing with Dentistry

Oh man. Since when has the dentist become such a traumatic experience? It's not like I enjoyed it as a kid (I remember gagging when they tried to make me sit with my teeth in those fluoride foam trays and spitting pink stuff all over the place) but it wasn't a place that I dreaded beyond comprehension. My lukewarm feelings are no more. The dread is real.

Exhibit A: Gentle Dental.

A hellish, cream-walled prison of confusion, pop-up fees, receding gum lines, and Novocaine.  The first visit almost exactly one year ago should have been enough. I was sideswiped with a need for different x-rays even though I had recently had x-rays and would have to pay for these out of pocket. Already smarting with this indignity, I was forced to bite down on unpadded bite wings (they were out of the pads) which cut into my gums quite painfully, while staring at a ridiculous mural of a tropical white sand beach dotted with palm trees. This kind of crap (the mural, the missing pads) does not inspire confidence. The resulting struggle was epic and in an embarrassing turn of events I found myself glaring at this woman in her baggy scrubs and telling her she was hurting me. With exclamation points. Because she was. I realize this is somehow against the rules of modern dentistry. Going to the dentist sucks but you deal with it. You need take it like an adult, even if it feels like an advanced and creative form of torture. If you don't follow the rules you are treated like you're five and told what a great job you're doing as you sit there suffering. The whole thing is a complete humiliation.

So it was that I found myself too cheap to deal with the necessity of paying for new x-rays yet again and returning to same dentist office for my cleaning a year later. It was a mistake. An adult would perhaps acknowledge that this place was not the right place for me, learned from last year's mistake, and found a new place to go, x-ray cost be damned. But apparently the challenge of find a new dentist was too much for me. I just wanted to get it over with. So there was this: my dental hygienist with remnants of a heavy french accent who insisted on asking me questions about my life throughout the cleaning (why do they do this when their hands are in your mouth?), the exam which revealed two cavities (allegedly) and was conducted by a dentist not much older than me who called me sweetheart repeatedly and appeared to imagine himself a possible shoe-in for Vince Vaughn in Swingers. Desperate to avoid making another appointment, I signed on to get them taken care of then and there. The whole thing took on the air of a bad dream as I was shuffled from the cleaning room to the lobby and back again, was informed of the cost of the fillings after they deduced coverage of my weak dental insurance, and then the found myself in the midst of sudden dental chair and Novocaine-needle freakout which resulted in tears streaming silently from under the Ray Charles glasses they gave me, and the eventual administration of nitrous oxide. This made the dentist's schtick almost bearable (at one point he told the hygienist that he needed the area to be dry, desert dry, Gobi dry, Sahara dry, but thankfully I was able to ignore this as an indictment against against his dental qualifications, and remain sitting still and breathing through my nose.

I left with my Quasismodo face (you know how it feels) and vowed never to go back. For real. I'd like to think that I could hold it together in a different dental office, one that doesn't constantly inspire words like "chartalan", "highway robbery", and "malpractice" but we'll see. I'm not convinced that dentists aren't secret sadists, every one, but I am looking for recommendations. I need a new dentist.

Code name: DH

The term DH was spawned this weekend on a sidewalk in Bend. Sam and I went over there for the Pole, Peddle, Paddle. I did the downhill and paddling portions and the whole thing went like clockwork. I began the race on time, so things went infinitely better than last year. We got 6th place and substantially improved our time! Not quite champions, but still winners.

But anyway, back to the dumplings. This thing happens when I get hungry, and it's totally horrible. I go from being a charming, intelligent young lady, to a mumbling, irrational savage. I am filled with despair. I give up on life. And woe to the person who happens to be with me, attempting to help (i.e. Sam). I am not going to do a complete reenactment of the situation because I would lose all credibility. Plus, Sam would probably feel misrepresented, as this is the sort of thing that deserves both sides of the story. These are the facts: Sam purchased a dumpling from a man with a food cart and a ponytail.  And then we got in a fight about the dumpling.

Even in the midst of this fight, I knew it was totally, obscenely ridiculous. The whole thing was so juvenile that I couldn't even justify it to myself. That didn't stop me from continuing on, bludgeoning reason out of the way, crossing my arms, and refusing the last bite of dumpling. Sam, in fact, threw the last bite away, because we were both too stubborn to eat it.

Once the dust settled and we walked away from the scene of the crime, we both acknowledged it was ridiculous and moved on with our lives. We got dinner and I became myself again. However, we have also discovered that if I am "dumpling hungry" or DH as it is now known, things need to be remedied quickly. For all I know, Sam is planning on packing Cheerios in a baggy for our next adventure out of town.

Summer Thighs

Okay. So I totally hate shorts. I think they're unflattering. I have been on a crusade against shorts for years. This is mostly because they look horrible on me. I have the torso of a tall person and the legs of a short person, weird scars on my knees, and shaving intensely irritates my legs. None of these qualities are conducive to shorts-wearing. So I have to admit there is some jealousy mixed into my hatred of shorts.

And now that we are getting some sunshine in Portland, people have started dusting off their shorts, their rompers, and their spandex. I can't say that I'm celebrating. But as I biked home yesterday I mused on the future barrage of shorts and I thought, I need to accept shorts. They're not so bad. Maybe I should start wearing shorts this year, as an affirmation of life. I should stop hating.

And then I stopped at the light at 28th and Glisan. A server came out of the Lucky Inn with drinks for some of the derelicts sitting at the picnic tables. And she was wearing this.

Shorts that were basically underwear with suspenders attached + patterned maroon control-top pantyhose + ironic old lady orthopedic nurse shoes. The support portion of the hose (the opaque part) extended a good six inches past where the shorts ended. To which I say, SICK.

I took back my vow to accept shorts then and there.

What do you think about shorts? What do you think about control-top pantyhose as outerwear? Has a new movement begun?

TCB

I have been working a lot of overtime. In the midst of these long days, the last thing I want to do is try to be informative, funny, or articulate . I apologize. I'll be blogging more soon.

Orphan

My parents come home this Sunday. I say, it's about time. Now that they're retired they can do things like take month and a half long tours around New Zealand (photo from their travels above). I don't know about you guys, but when I did the requisite study abroad (in New Zealand) I wrote these epic emails to friends and family about what I'd been up to. I've read some of them, years later, and they are sprawling, rambling, information-filled tomes filled with names of mysterious towns, new best friends, hilarity, and drama. I put some effort into those.

Do you know what I get from my parents? Three sentences, at most a small paragraph, of point-blank information with the occasional exclamation reminding me that I am at work, sitting at a desk, in a town that refuses to acknowledge spring.

Some excerpts:

We are flying to Christchurch this afternoon.  We are healthy.

We spent last night up the Hokatika River with the black flies.  They left us with fond memories.   

Just wanted to let you know we are okay.  We are in Puhrara on Gold Bay.  We waded into the Tasman Sea today.  Life is wonderful.  

While they were gone I went through a crisis with my taxes, Newt got in a dog fight, and my car broke down (my dad is my mechanic). I have to admit that I had some moments of separation anxiety but I like to think that I conquered them and found adult solutions to these problems. Or not. I took my taxes to accountant, abandoned my car and started biking everywhere, and Laurence took care of Newt. I'm glad they're finally coming home.

Terror in the Streets

So, to those of you who were duped by my April Fool's post, I'm not sure if I should be flattered or offended. It's good to know my satirical powers are convincing, but it's also slightly disturbing to know how many of you are ready to believe I am one tiny step away from batshit crazy. Seriously though, if  I start talking Master Cleanse or Beyonce's groundbreaking role in Dreamgirls, feel free to stage an intervention.

Anyway, I'm totally done lying now. I am back to telling the truth. On my way to work I saw something horrible. Something that made a tiny piece of my soul die. I had a unicycle sighting. It's raining hard today and it's cold and here comes this nondescript gnome-faced guy on a giant unicycle. The worst part? He was wearing short shorts.

Bah.

Passive Attack

I stayed at Sam's last night. As you all know, he lives in NW but I probably have not described his building to you. It's a large brick building with four floors. It's located next to the world's loudest Wells Fargo ATM, the beeping of which you can hear at all hours of the night. The interior often smells like curry, or marijuana, or a combination of both. There is a lot of orangish carpet, and lots of stairs, and a decrepit elevator. In the summer there is always a group of lurkers who sit on the stoop and drink beer and sometimes they barbecue. They always do this in front of the door and then I have to shuffle through awkwardly with my bike, trying not to knock over beer cans.

Today the apartment building hit an all-time low. I rolled my bike to the elevator, pushed the button, and it opened to display an decrepit, elaborately stained twin mattress. Like, full-on Venn diagrams of late-night bladder release. That sad abandoned thing was just sitting in there, enjoying the ride, undoubtedly shedding bedbugs and fleas on every floor. I then had to share the elevator with it, a presence more ominous than any lurker with a beer can and a plate of curry. Can you catch bedbugs just by standing next to an infested mattress?

I'm just so sad . . ..

Theme of the weekend. I lost my wallet on Friday on the walk from Gravy to my house. Pretty disappointing but it hadn't happened since 2004 or something like that, so I guess it was time. I got  over it.

The theme really gained steam on Sunday. Bears vs. Packers. Pretty sad. Sam is obviously a huge Bears fan so we went to Spirit of 77 and watched the game. So much yelling and heckling. The Bears' quarterback blew it and for the rest of the game they kept zooming in on his sad, sad face as he moped on the sidelines. People kept jeering at him. Football fans are so intense and I couldn't help but jump on the bandwagon. Yes, I heckled. He just looked so pathetic.

Something really horrible happened on Sunday evening. Sam introduced me to The O.C. Yeah, that psuedo-soap opera show that died ages ago. He has Season One on his harddrive; I watched the first episode and was hooked. I made us watch like, six episodes in a row. The main character just tilts his head all the time and frowns to communicate how sad and brooding and angsty he is. It's totally hilarious. I heckled him too. I realize it's pretty sad to sit there and jeer at a television show aimed at teenagers, but I was really, really enjoying it. I'm sorry. If you never take my opinions seriously again that's okay.

Anyway, I looked through the Sartorialist's photos today and check this out:

That's the face! That's the face I saw all weekend. Bahahaha. I love that jacket though. Nice job Junya Watanabe.

The Angel of Death watches me crash

So, I don't really hate biking in the rain. I have all the requisite stay-dry gear and while I hate showing up places  and immediately taking off my rain pants (awkward) and revealing unfortunate half-wet helmet hair that never dries right, I have this kind of martyr mentality about the whole thing that makes it enjoyable. You really feel Alive, or something like that. Plus the Northwest Curse has descended upon me, and every time I ride my bike to Sam's it starts pouring only to let up the moment I arrive at his apartment. If I didn't ride in the rain I would never see him again. Basically, I'm resigned to enjoying it. Last night however, I really feel like the rain got the best of me.


I was biking home from work and was planning on turning left from 28th onto this quiet side street. The sidewalk is designed to allow you to do this with ease. It looks kind of like this:

Yesterday it looked like this due to some heavy rains that occurred earlier.

I didn't want to get my shoes soaking wet so I developed a plan. I pointed my bike in the right direction (was going relatively fast from the slight downhill across the 28th bridge) and lifted both my feet off the pedals so they would clear the lake. I then hit, not the gently sloping part of the sidewalk that is supposed to accommodate bikes, but the curb. I ran my bike right into the curb. The pillars that mark the entrance were apparently not enough of an indicator for me. The force shot me crotch-first onto the frame of my bike and my left foot into the deepest part of the puddle. If I was a man I probably would have to give up any dreams of siring a child. As it was, I started howling and cursing, and trying to get away from the humiliating scene as quickly as possible. While making my getaway I saw something white out of the corner of my eye. I  looked up to see what I thought was the angel of death, only to realize it was a women in a bathrobe watching her dog poop and my failure. Yes, there was a witness to the stupidity.

Defeat

Sam and I had a bet riding on last night's Blazers game. Due to his childhood proximity to Chicago, he is a Bulls fan. I am, of course, a Blazers fan. My hatred for the Bulls harks back to the '92 finals when it was Mike versus Clyde and you could get those commemorative glasses from Dairy Queen.

So, if the Blazers won, Sam was going to have to wear my Blazers jersey to the upcoming Blazers/Bulls game in February. If the Bulls won, I would have to wear his stupid Jordan jersey to the game. And the Bulls totally won.

Ugh.

So Many Things

I had this ridiculous day yesterday involving a lost wallet, lost keys, and incredibly high levels of stress. I tore my room completely apart. The nice thing was that I found my Star Trek sweatshirt. The bad thing was that my keys were still missing after all that. I also realized that I have an ungodly amount of stuff. Stuff that I never use, never wear, never touch. I don't know why I have all this stuff but I threw a bunch of it away yesterday. Plastic forks, buttons for sweaters I don't own anymore, weird pink lipstick, miniature water color sets. My goal is to throw or give something away every day. I need to pare down. If anyone would like new clothing or art supplies or random jewelry, please send me a message. I will make you a care package. I will even mail it.

The keys turned up. Finally. But they were in my friend Emily's car, tucked under the seat. The search was doomed from the beginning.

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Hot Beverage Failure

I like to think of myself as a reasonably coordinated person. My fine motor skills are good, (I have recently developed a compulsion to draw girls wearing detailed strangely ruffled outfits which I then compulsively color in highlighter. They are all over the scrap paper on my desk.) and I can do things like olly on a skateboard, climb rock walls, and not fall over when riding my bike in traffic. But when I do things like knock over a full, freshly poured travel mug of tea with the kettle that I filled it with, I really start to wonder why I am not dead yet.