Light, light, light...and birdies

Had my second coaching call this morning. Interestingly enough my coach mentioned she'd had a vision of me surrounded in light (and tweeting birdies) during a meditation she'd done upon awakening. I had, just the night before, done a meditation where I imagined myself surrounded in light. No birdies, though.

I don't know. Part of me feels the need to counteract the laying bare of what I feel are my dorkier emotions and actions by saying something along the lines of "Oh, what a bunch of New Age caca."

But really, that caca has helped me out a lot. And I have a lot of respect for the woman who is coaching me. And I feel like she's in my life for a reason and the coaching has come to me for a reason. I certainly am discovering that I spend a LOT of time telling myself how much I suck. But I don't really suck at all.

So I've got affirmations stuck up in my living room, bedroom, and bathroom. And I'm meditating more. And taking myself out on dates. Saturday I went with myself to the Episcopal church thrift shop and then ate some Vietnamese spring rolls and a big bowl of pho whilst reading the Utne Reader. The only bad side of the date was that I was wearing a shirt that was too low cut and it made me uncomfortable to be out with me.

Luckily I had a sweater.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The blogging has come to bite me in the ass.

Okay, peeps. So first you'll want to refresh your memory of the salad farmer my idiot (though lovable!) sister refused to even speak to. You'll find it, and the subsequent comments, which you should read in order following the post, here.

Okay, you've read that, yes? Good. Now I would like you to take a look at this blog, created on Friday.

I'm sorry...maybe it's terrible of me to type this...but this is some good stuff! "Anonymous" suggested that perhaps I was a wee bit of an idiot myself to put the first name and company name of someone I was blogging about on my blog, and perhaps I was, but perhaps also I secretly wanted to be found.

And Shortysaladpants, let me just say that you have balls, sir. I salute you.

Dr. Moo was actually heading back from a visit to some of her vet friends in Massachusetts (we didn't cross paths but Tess the Wonder hound did have some stress diarrhea, which her vet friends pronounced "cute") when I called her to tell her of all this.

You can probably guess what her response was. She accused me of acting and sounding just like our mother (who recently told me I should become a cop because I'm strong and there's a shortage of them in Manchvegas). I told her that she was being HORRIBLE. Because she is being HORRIBLE. But what can I tell you? She's one of the five most stubborn people on the face of the planet.

I did get her to agree to meet Ssp for coffee if I went along. So I'm going to try and set that up, maybe online, maybe offline. But I will keep you up to date.

Well, Valentine's Day must be fast approaching

Because things are getting shit-storm CRAZY in the love lives of the McPolack girls.

First let's get the boring post out-the-way: I had my date today that I was going to have on Thursday night but had to cancel due to illness. The date was with a tech support fellow. He was handsome, fit, interesting, has a good job, is an independent fellow, is smart, and well-read. He paid for lunch (!!!) which was great because I seem to go on these dates where we split the appetizer and entree and the bill and I want to be wooed, g-dammit. I mean I'm all for independence and I am independent, but...

Anyhoo, after lunch we walked from H.Square to Formaggio Kitchen which was closed at 3 because apparently the rich don't shop past that hour on Sunday. Nor do they eat baked goods as Hi-Rise was closed as well. We walked down to Porter Square from there. He asked if he could buy me dinner sometime. I said sure and I waved goodbye.

Well, here's the thing. I just didn't feel anything for him. There wasn't anything wrong with him. See above for all his good qualities. I will have dinner with him again because never say never but I didn't want to hump his leg.

Okay. I'm going to do the exciting post next. Which means you can see above for it.

Where I was

When the Challenger blew up I was home sick, on the brown sofa next to the blue plaid chair in the living room of our first house in Chester. I was 12 years old and in the eighth grade. There was noone for me to call. I was just horrified. And sad. My mom was (is) a teacher, at that time in the next town over from Concord, and was almost exactly Christa McAuliffe's age. I can't believe it's been 20 years. I'm glad I'm not 12 anymore. I still think of the astronauts. My thoughts are with their families.

tweet tweet tweet twitter tweet

That would be the sound of the wee birdies circling my head today as I waited in line at the Market Basket, still feeling sickly, and utterly absorbed in the latest issue of US Weekly. Who did wear that black Balenciaga best? Ashlee Simpson? Or Demi Moore? Oh, let me take a closer look. Hmmmmmm...

I look up from my reverie and realize that the cashier at the next register has been trying to get my attention for awhile now. She's just opened up and I get to be next in line. She's smiling nicely and so are some other customers. I am sure they are all thinking "Look at the dingbat with the pink cheeks and the blonde pigtails. It must be fun to be so oblivious."

It is.

I love head colds.

I got flowers from a man!

But it's not what you think.

It's better.

I found a small datebook in the street in front of my house earlier. It had a lot of numbers and medicines carefully written on its pages. It also had a name, address, and telephone number. I called the telephone number at around 7:45 and the phone was answered by an elderly-sounding gentleman who called me an "angel" when I told him what I had and asked if he could stop by and pick it up.

One hour later, my doorbell rang, and sure enough it was a lovely elderly gentleman holding a beautiful bouquet of pink roses. I gave him the address book, he thanked me kindly, presented me with the flowers, and then slowly shuffled back to his car as I called out "Thank you! Be well!" after him.

Don't F with the O

Boy howdy do you not want to make Oprah angry.

But boy howdy does it make for some fascinating tv.

So fascinating in fact that I have spent the last hour trying to sum up my feelings about it in a way that is as interesting to read as watching the show was. And you know what? I just don't think it's possible.

But I can give you some highlights!
1. Maureen Dowd, saying something along the lines of "I hope Oprah kicks Frey's lying bony ass out of her book club." Curiously enough, the transcript on the NYT site does not note the bony ass part of Dowd's statement. Oh, she said it, all right.

2. Oprah not taking any shit from Nan Talese, publisher of the book, who kept pussyfooting around her role in all this, refusing to take responsibility. There was a Washington Post columnist -- a man -- on a little while later, and he talked out of both sides of his mouth, telling Nan Talese he didn't agree with her while simultaneously kissing her ass. He feared the Nan Talese. But Oprah fears nobody.

3. Listening to Frey try, piteously, to defend himself. O: "Did you even have two root canals, James" J: (wheedling) "Uhmmmmm." O: "Come on, James, you either had them or you didn't." J: (whining) "Well, as far as I remember it I did." The man even talks with a bit of lisp so it was more like "Ath far ath I remember it." Damn.

4.. The look on Frey's face. He was utterly destroyed. And to be honest, while I know what he did was terrible (heck, I've said as much on my blog) I felt pity for him. There, I said it. I realize he's made enough money off his book so he'll never have to work again but the man has ruined his life. He's lost his integrity, all of it, utterly. He'll never be able to buy that back with money. It's frightening to me, how astoundingly he has fucked up, because as a fellow addict (and while much of his book is a lie it is true that he's an addict) I know that you can quit the booze (or the crack or the porn or the potato chips) and still be a deeply, deeply disturbed individual. And I worry about myself.

When I was small, I'd have this nightmare where I'd wake up, get out of bed, and creep downstairs to the kitchen -- to discover the devil, cloven hooves, forked tail and all (actually looking curiously like the one from the cans of Underwood deviled ham that my mother used to make into sandwiches), frying up my parents. He'd look at me sideways and catch my eye and smile, like we knew each other, like we were thick as thieves. I'm getting a little out there with my metaphor, but that's how I feel about the addiction sometimes -- it's waiting there in the dark, and it knows me, better than I know myself. And if I'm not careful, and by careful I mean full of care, for myself and for how I live my life, it will come for me and the people I love.

Redemption is a powerful, powerful thing. What will be interesting to see is if there is any for Frey. I don't think he's a monster. I do think he got what he deserved. I hope he comes out on the other side of this a better human being than he is now.

James Frey, F'ing Bastard, Gets His, Today on Oprah

My faith in journalism is slowly being restored. Slimy poohead James Frey is going to be torn a new one on Oprah this afternoon, McPolack has learned from 2 of her crack reporting sources. I also just now got an email from the Oprah show telling me of the show as well. One of my crack reporting sources sent me some of the transcript. It talks of O looking "visibly pissed." Yee-haw! I'll post my post-show later.

Ick

So I've got a g-d head cold which when combined with PMS makes me one big B.A. Baracus. Or maybe it's B.A. McPolack. Whatevs.

Anyhoo, I am pretty in touch with my body and like to think I am impervious to any sort of illness so when I started to get an itch in my nose last night I debated awhile before getting out of bed and sucking down some Airborne.

Honestly, I don't know if that shit works. I tend to attack the cold with lots of tea and naturopathic stuff, and while it's probably just as bullshit as the OTC stuff, at least it's not laden with chemicals.

Oh, and I have a date tomorrow night and I am annoyed about that, too. I'm not saying I'm proud to be annoyed, I'm just saying that I am. It's with a guy from an Internet dating site. He pursued me pretty aggressively and we're meeting in Harvard Square at 8. He was all "if we like eachother we can go see this cool band play after dinner" and it says on his profile that he wants someone with energy to go out on a weeknight. Um, that is so not me. I don't know why I am even going on this date. Ooo, and also, why do we have to spend like nine million hours together on our first night out? I just want to have some chow and go home. Actually, at this point I just don't want to go at all.

I think I may have finally given up. I don't really think I am ever going to meet anyone interesting and available ever again and I honestly don't even fucking care. There. I've said it.

I hate being sick and cranky.

Ummmmmm...Okay........

So I'm jogging in Cambridge this morning, on Lakeview Ave, which connects Huron Ave (more of a commercial/residential street) to Brattle Street (one of the fanciest streets in Cambridge). I am essentially jogging in Rich People Land. And it's snowed last night and there's only room for one on the sidewalk and in front of me is an older gentleman walking 2 dogs. I jog out into the street to go around him and as I am jogging by I notice:

1. He is smiling at me
2. One of his dogs is a CORGI!

I loooooooooooove corgis. So I jogged over and we had the following conversation:

McP "Hi there! May I say hello to your corgi?"

Man: "Sure."

McP (feeling a bit bad) "Oh, and to the other pooch as well"

Man: "Actually, she can be a little nippy sometimes"

McP (bending down to scratch corgi under soft, soft chin) "Oh, okay."

McP (to Corgi) "Hi sweetie! Hi barky jones! You're the cutest! yes you are!"

Man: "That's Bailey Williamson. In a past life he was a soybean farmer from North Carolina but he got shot for makin' moonshine and came back as a corgi."

McP: (uh, what?) "Oh. Well, moonshining isn't such a big deal. I bet he's glad to come back as such a great dog."

Man: (pointing at Schnauzer) "This one was Cleopatra, and well, you know what happened with her and Marc Antony."

McP: "I can understand why she'd be a bit cranky. Well, gotta go. My name's McP, by the way. Nice to meet you."

Man: "I'm Tim. See you around the neighborhood!"

Only in Cambridge, my friends. Only in Cambridge.

In Which McP Blogs From a Hipster Coffeeshop, Thus Becoming a Cliche

So I'm sitting in Diesel, hipster coffe joint, purveyor of the yummiest snack-size sticky buns, and home away from home for me when I'm working from home. I spent the last hour doing some script comparison, drinking strong coffee out of a pint glass, and eating a cookie. (They were out of sticky buns). I didn't realize I needed to download more documents so I can't do anymore work until I get home and...well, this is exciting, dear readers! A hairdresser in a newsboy cap just interrupted my typing and asked if I might want to come in and pay 20 bucks for a 70 dollar haircut at the Vidal Sassoon on Newbury Street. She was actually a wee bit snarky, telling me my hair was kind of thin and that her cut would give it some life, and also looked a bit irritated when I told her I couldn't confirm a date two weeks in advance, but whatevs. (BTW, Im trying to make "whatevs" the new "whatever". I like how very, very stupid it sounds. Let's start shortn. evryth.!) It's a bargain fancy-pants haircut and I am excited. Also a bit scared in case Snarks Mcdumbhat f's up my do.

Anyhoo, back to the coffeeshop blogging. Diesel is fairly good-sized. It's front wall is a garage-door thingy that they open up in the summertime, it's got pool tables and a photo booth, and sofas and a loft. Looooooooooooooots of people sit here with their laptops for hours. The shop is populated mainly by skinny boys with cute saggy-jeans-enmeshed butts, girls wearing newsboy caps, earnest chubby young buzz-cutted lesbians, older lesbians with slightly longer hair, some standard-looking folk, and me. I don't know that I really am a type. Today I am wearing brown pants from the J'sCrew, a white t-shirt, and a fitted black sweater.

Let's just call me "Maggalicious."

Ahem.

So back to the hair appointment. The reason I couldn't confirm is because I am on the fast track to full-time employment. There's no real reason for this other than that I just decided it would be so, did a pink-bubble meditation technique that's sort of related to it, and got a great lead on one job, complete with personal connection. Also a friend of mine is training to be a life coach and I'm going to be her first coachee, which means I get to spend the next 16 weeks changing my life for the low, low price of: nothing. I start tomorrow morning at 7:30.

I'm at a loss for a good way to end what has turned out to be a rather long post but end it I must, as I have to go number 2 and there ain't no way I'm doing it in the bathrooms here, what with those hipster boys' jangly caffeinated nerves causing them to shakeshakeshake their junk all over the place while they're peeing. Whatevs!

Spooky

I watched, on and and off and for the umpteenth time this afternoon, The Shining, for my money one of the best and scariest movies ever. I like its look and feel -- bleak and beautiful and creepy -- and the blood pouring from the elevators, and irritating Shelley Duvall, and that sweet little boy and his Big Wheel.

I'm definitely more drawn to spooks and ghosts and mouldering things than I am to, say, Freddy Krueger. Miss Havisham always freaked me out, as did Wentworth-by-the-Sea, in between its past and current heydays. My dad had his high school graduation dance there, after which the hotel closed for decades. I remember talking with a dean at a community college I worked at; she and her husband snuck into the Wentworth's carriage house and found the place set up, perfectly, eerily, for a dinner that would never be held.

I've done my own b&e's over the years (more e than b), including one at an abandoned house in my hometown, which was still entirely furnished, and featured an odd whirled-in hole in the kitchen floor into which the refrigerator was toppling, and my foot going through the ceiling in the upstairs hall as I tried to get a closer look at a gramophone and a stack of records. I've also thrilled at the idea of someone laying her icy fingers on me, a la the scary imagined bits in Anne of Green Gables.

Well, I assembled the lasagne...

...so that's one (sort of) productive thing I did today. Sixty degrees outside and all I did, mainly, was sleep, eat, and watch the tube. I did go out briefly, to the used bookstore around the corner, and to get a sticky bun at Diesel. Oh, and I wrote back to yet another Internet Potential Suitor.
And read a wee bit. And cleaned a wee, wee bit. But mostly I was a vegetable.

Tonight, however, shall be much, much different, as I will eat a vegetable, or several. I am going to Club Passim with L to see Rachel McCartney. L broke up with her boyfriend this week and she is determined to get right back out there in the world. I am determined to keep forcing myself out there as well, so it's a night of hippy food, folks, and fun. I'm kind of excited.

I'll have to be very careful to wash the meaty smell from my lasagne-assembly off me, though, before dining out at the vegetarian restaurant. I am serving "hearty meat lasagne" tomorrow evening. It's got piggies and moo cows in it, although I did walk to Whole Foods and pay good money for meat from beasties that were treated real nice before they were slaughtered.

Hip Openers + Hot Yoga Instructor

= Raaaaaaaaaandy McPolack.

Damn.

If loving your yogi is wrong, then I don't want to be right.

I took my first intermediate class this evening. It showed me, first, how weak I truly am and second, how worth it it is to be weak because then the hot hot yoga instructor comes over to gently correct you. Oh and you get to watch him execute all sorts of sexy, noodle-like poses.

Dr. Moo, Skank-ass Ho

Dr. Moo caused quite a stir the other day when she stripped to her jogbra (and pants!) so as to better fit both her arms into a bovine's behind. She was trying to get chains around a calf so she could pull it. She was also apparently making one farmer a wee bit uncomfortable as that farmer called the main office to complain. One of the other vets spoke with him, and then went to the dispatcher for her opinion as she's one of the only other female in the office, other than Dr. Moo.

Well, score one for the ladies. The dispatcher said she didn't think it was that big a deal and if they were going to do anything, they'd have to make it practice-wide, which would mean no more working shirtless for any of the men. Which of course the men found unacceptable.

Dr. Moo couldn't understand what all the fuss was about in the first place. I think being knee-deep in cow shit may have made her forget that she is 27, blonde, and a size six. Regardless, it's not her fault she's hot, just like it's not mine that I am.

It's tough being fabulous.

Mustafa the Lovely Laundry Man

I took my little work laptop and my big bag of laundry with me today to the Friendly Corner mini-mini-mall in North Cambridge to wash up my stanky clothes. There, as always, was Mustafa, owner of the laundromat, and the Friendly of the Friendly Corner. He fell yesterday and dislocated his shoulder and the morphine was wearing off but his wife was coming soon to get him some pain meds and he was feeling a-okay. Today I found out that he used to be an electrical engineer.

There's a big banner out in front of his laundromat that claims they've been "Rated Number One." Unlike the Thai place around the corner from me, whose food sucks, his place lives up to its advertising. I've never been to a nicer laundromat in my life.

Oh, and they've got lots of great magazines, too.

I'm heading out shortly...

...to pick a friend up from his endoscopy at Beth Israel Deaconness. It's no big thing. But it is the sixth night in a row I've had plans, which is rare for me. I tend to like to have my space. Instead, I've had dinner plans (at least) every night since Friday. It's nice, actually, and it makes me appreciate the eventual evenings I will have alone more.

The weather today has been very off-putting. Warm and windy. Like April in January. It has made me feel both springy and excited, and ill-at-ease, all at once. I want my winter!

Tough

While dining on salad and watching Desparate Housewives with my German and Chinese friends I discovered they just may be more than ready for the pain of childbirth. One, a la that bastard James Frey, underwent a root canal without anesthetic, only hers was for real. Apparently the nerve the novocaine would normally be shot into was infected and so would have no real effect anyway. She didn't find out until afterward that they could have offered her an antiseptic to clear up the infection in the nerve before performing the root canal.

She said the pain was excruciating and that she is deathly afraid of dentists now.

My Chinese friend had her own tale of woe: While working at a family doughnut shop, a large piece of metal fell from somewhere and sliced open the the top of her foot. Her uncle, not wanting to pay a hefty medical bill, took her to a doctor friend of his early in the morning. This doctor had run out of anesthetic and so she was stitched up without it -- while she watched, mind you, because she wanted to make sure he was doing a good job.

All I have to say to that is: yee-owch.

However, there is some pain to which none of us are immune. Friend #2 called about 15 minutes ago; she just broke up with her boyfriend and is on her way over. We're going to eat pizza and steamed broccoli in a grapeseed oil-garlic-ginger sauce.

Parallel Universe

One of the great embarrassments of the McPolack family is that not one, not two, but all three siblings flunked their driving exams the first time out. My brother and I flunked the written, whilst Dr. Moo's driving skills were to blame.

My second appearance at the DMV resulted in a license, but not before I was brought nearly to tears by my angry test administrator, who was pissed at my inability to parallel park. "Just forget it!" he barked. I was sure I was going to be hanging my head in shame for the second time, but low and behold I was given a license. "Ah, you'll always live in the woods and won't need to parallel park," I was told whenever I mentioned my worry.

If only they'd told me "That is, until you are in your early thirties."

Last night was my comeuppance. I was going to visit my German friend, to eat salad and watch Desperate Housewives. She lives on a very busy street in Somerville and there is only parallel parking. I thought I'd be safe and there'd be plenty of places to park since it was Sunday and you don't need a sticker. That didn't turn out to be true. But still I found a spot that looked totally doable and I pulled my car up so I was in line with the car in front of the space's mirror.

And proceeded to spend what felt like the next century twisting my car this way and that while some fucker in a SUV waited in a handicapped space, watching me. I did some crazy mumbling (somewhere along the lines of "Brarrrrgrrumpleffffffuckerarrrrrrrrrrrrryargrr) and sat with the butt of my car in the street, again for what seemed like a century, until the SUV pulled into another smaller spot across the street, of course parallel parking effortlessly.

I got out of my car and waited for the SUV driver to get out because I was pissed at him for staring at me and also totally embarrassed and discombobulated. It was a British dude, and I stammered something at him about what a terrible parker I am and he said something along the lines of "Oh, it's easy" and then kind of quickly moved away from the crazy person (me).

I ended up going upstairs and handing the keys to my German friend, who went downstairs and straightened my car out while I sat on the sofa and took some deep breaths.

You lie like a rug

I watched a little of James Frey's appearance last night on Larry King Live but quickly changed the channel to watch the last episode of Country Boys on Frontline mainly because I was so, pardon my use of overused naughty words, fucking pissed. Frey chose to spin what he did as artisitic license.

Well, Frey LIED. A LOT. He didn't take artistic license. He instead decided NOT to tell the truth on some pretty serious accounts but then sell it as such. And then I turn on the tv this morning and find out Oprah is fucking backing him up. Oooooo, it makes me so mad I could spit. I went to school for journalism. It's not quite the same field as memoir-writing, where, admittedly, you can certainly embellish stuff here and there and you are recreating things from your mind rather than out of whole cloth but still you can't just fucking make shit up.

Frey is a lying asshole. And nobody is calling him on it, save TSG. I am embarrassed for the journalistic profession.

It's a three-pot night...

...on the McPolack stove. I am making shrimp in a lemon/parsley/garlic/butter/olive oil sauce with tortellini, and a side of steamed broccoli. I braved the Market Basket again today, where parsley was just 89 cents for enough to garnish the plates of an army and where I was hit upon by a man wearing sunglasses on a cloudy day who was walking a very muscular pit bull. The exchange went something like this:

1. McP *watching pit bull and thinking "gee, that is a very large pit bull. I hope that guy isn't breeding him to fight other dogs."*

2. Pit bull owner, in Spanish accent: "I like whales." Said in as dirty a manner as such a phrase can be said, and it's dirtier than you think. Was in reference to the whale on my license plate.

3. McP "That's fabulous!"

4. PBO: "Thank you. I know."

5. McP *gets in her car*

6. PBO *saunters away walking ginormous pit bull while waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaatching McP get in her bitchin' Honda.*

I was wearing my new Wonderbra, which I got for only 7.99 at Marshall's. I got a lot of looks in the produce department, too. We can all figure out what the joke is there.

TV or blog...tv or blog...

...tv or blog.

That is the dilemma I face at the moment. I guess I have chosen blog, though with one eye on the tv. Gilmore Girls is back from reruns and while it's no Buffy I still kinda like it. Then at 9 it's part two of Frontline's Country Boys, an engrossing, sad documentary about two teenage boys in Appalachia. I don't know when I'm going to wash the dishes even.

In other McPolack news, I got the best desk ever, for forty bucks. My German friend sold it to me as she bought a place with her boyfriend and no longer needs it. It's big -- like 4' 8" by 2 and a half feet or so, and I think it might be oak. The veneer in the front is chipping off a bit in one place, and it's got stains and I couldn't screw a couple of screws in but this baby's got character. This is a desk where important things get done.

And I am excited to do important things on it.

I also kind of want to give it a name. But more on that later. Back to the tv!

Drunk Tales

Some interesting shit is hitting the fan in the life of addiction memoirist James Frey, who wrote A Million Little Pieces, a book so graphic in its descriptions of the places addiction can take you that it defies superlatives. It was also an Oprah's book club pick. I found the article very interesting as 1. I have read the book and 2. I am an addict and have been to some pretty hairy places both inside and outside of myself.

Frey's book freaked me out a bit, as addiction memoirs tend to do. It reminded me why I can't ever drink again, or smoke a doobie, or make myself throw up. (In case you're wondering, yes, it's because it can kill you, but also because the killing can be slow, and terrible beyond your imagination, and you can take other people, sometimes lots of them, with you.)

I believed what Frey had to say at the time. Now, he's looking a little Jayson Blair to me. It will be interesting to see how this all plays out.

Oh, and if you're looking for a good -- and true, at least to my knowledge, addiction memoir -- my favorite is Drinking: A Love Story by Caroline Knapp.

God help me

For I just spent the last hour watching an Oxygen tv movie called My Sexiest Mistake. Alone. In my pajamas, a pink zip-up hoodie, and with a kitty in my lap.

Um, hello, men in their forties?...

...STOP WRITING TO ME!

If I say my age range on the dating sites is up to age 37 and you are 43 I am not going to write back to you. I am just not interested in men that are that much older than me.

By the same token, if you are 18 and on MySpace, do not write to me and say you want to "experience" an "older lady". It will not get you laid. (Although yes, the "experience" would be as good as you might imagine it could be, if not much, much better.)

Geez.

Great confidence is not instilled...

...when the dentist's assistant,who looks (and acts! and sounds!) like one of Marge Simpson's sisters, only more tank-like in body shape, starts bitching about how early she has to come in the next morning whilst the dentist is wielding one of those sharp and pointy things that they seem to have in every size and shape. After talking things over with the dentist, we decided that one of the fillings could wait until next time, but the other (sorry, tank-shaped Patty/Selma Bouvier-o-bot) I wanted taken care of today.

Whilst t-sP/SB-obot barked at me in her gruff and scary voice "Are you all right?", in essence ordering me to be all right or face dire consequences, the dentist stabbed the corner of my mouth repeatedly with the sharpest and pointiest of his sharp and pointy tools, that damn needle. He hit the jackpot finally, sticking some nerve in my mouth that brought on near-instantaneous numbness, but not before I had the weirdest mind/body experience where I simultaneously felt and could see before me little fractures of electricity shooting out through the left side of my mouth and through the inside of my chin.

"Arrrrr." (the Bouvier monster said in my mind) "That means he hit it perfectly" (the Bouvier monster said out loud) when I commented on the jolt I felt. Then she smiled coyly at the dentist. She's apparently been dating some other guy in the office for 7 years and he likes to go out for drinks with the group of guys from the office who go out for drinks. Which is what she said to the dentist over my head while I worried the address lable on a chick mag.

I get the feeling that my dentist is relatively new, partly because he's young, and he's got a bit of an accent (he's Asian) and is very thorough. So I wonder if she was trying to intimidate him. Just who could she sleeping with?

My guess is it's the guy that sharpens all the sharp-and-pointy things.

Oh, also the P/T-bot sucked at sucking. She kept kind of randomly poking the suction tube around in my mouth, totally missing an uncomfortable phlegm globber (I know, I know. Eeyew!) stuck in the back of my throat, and at one point she whacked my teeth with that gun-like thing they use to set fillings.

But the night ended well, with the dentist flirting with me and handing me a free magnet that said "You should love your dentist."

Well, okay. But I'm NOT going to love your assistant.

Owwwwwwwwwwww

I have to leave for the dentist soon. Two more of my cavities need filling. Why, oh why must the novocaine needle be so long and so metal? And the poking and the drilling...and the drooling...ugh.

I think I can feel my teeth screaming.

Mawidge

My Japanese friend got engaged to her American boyfriend on Christmas in Kyoto. She said yes, which I guess means the family trip went well -- she was worried about how her bf would get along with her dad because he doesn't speak Japanese and is tall.

My brother got engaged as well and is to be married in September. He's tall, too.

C'mon baby, light my fire

Anyone out there ever watched Dog: The Bounty Hunter? It's grade-A cheese that will make you proud to be an American. He and his wife have mile-high bleach-blonde hair and wifey has ENORMOUS gravity-defying bosoms and totters around chasing criminals in teeny-tiny high heels. And she wears way too much makeup, natch. I also enjoy costar Leland, who reminds me of a boy I nearly dated in a twelve-step program some ten years ago. They're both skinny and muscly with long hair and lots of tats, but also sweet. The difference with twelve-step boy was that he was a motorcycle mechanic and always covered in grease and I smoked at the time and was forever afraid of ashing near him, for fear he'd go up in a puff of smoke. I remember smiling at him in Friendly's over a cup of coffee -- I think he was wearing a leather vest with no shirt -- as he was a biker along with being a bike mechanic -- and trying to keep the cherry end of my ciggie away from him even as I swayed ever closer.

I wonder what ever happened to him.

Soft and pleasant-smelling...

...would be what my breasts are, as I discovered at yoga tonight, when I did a pose that involved some bent-over chin tucking that brought my face and my tatas thisclose to eachother. They were certainly better-smelling than the stinky bald man next to me, who bumped me a couple of times during sun salutations and had his big bare foot within a foot or two of my face.

Happy New Year

So my New Year's Eve this year was not as pathetic as years' past, when I was either a. smooching the chickenfucker (bawk bawk!) or b. going to bed at 10. I prefer b. Although now I prefer c. Have dinner at a fancy restaurant and then go see beardy, fetchingly shy Duncan Sheik play a free concert at the Orpheum. Actually even more preferable would be following watching Duncan Sheik by making out with Duncan Sheik (DS: "Um, here's a song I wrote" *shuffles feet back and forth nervously "Um, okay, here goes." McP: "Um, can I hump your leg?") but I settled for watching California Eating snack on her husband Cinema Tech instead. They are infectious in their loving and I could have given our fellow reveler AM Esq. some kisses, would that I were a lesbian.

And BTW, I don't know where this beard-loving is coming from, but all of a sudden I am ALL about the facial hair. I started with the five-o'clock shadow, then moved on to the neatly trimmed (sort of) beard. I suspect it'll be a steady downhill progression ending with ZZ Top at which point I will turn into Mary Kay Letourneau.

Anyhoo, it was great to see both the CE and the CT again and also to deepen my relationship with the CT, partly by making loud, grating, obnoxious noises with him as we strolled through downtown Boston. Yeah, men love me.

Nifty Gifty

Got this cool gadget as a gift from California Eating, who was in town for New Year's. It's very simple -- and the coffee it makes (though it took me three tries to get the grind/water to coffee ratio right for my liking) is delicious. I'm drinking a cup right now.