This fruit is liable to snap.
I can't talk right now.
Last week I had some time off from work, so I went on vacation. No, wait. That's not right. That should have read: "...so I went to the dentist." Why opt to lie on a beach, fruity drink with an umbrella in hand, when you can get your teeth drilled and filed? Pain is the new pleasure.
As dentists go, mine is pretty good. He was recommended to me by a friend, who, it would appear, is responsible for all his business. The last time I paid him a visit, I was kept waiting while he attended to a patient who had, as the nurse sweetly informed me, a bit of "an emergency." (I didn't mind; nothing quite as calming as a dentist's waiting room, after all.) When said patient emerged, it turned out to be my friend's sister. This time around, I didn't have to wait as long, but again, the previous patient was related to my friend. Well, sort of: it was my friend's ex.
Both times, Friends of my Friend had heard, while they were in the dentist's chair, who the next patient would be (aka me). So when they came into the waiting room, they were both able to cheerfully -- or as cheerfully as someone who just had emergency dental work could be -- shout my name in greeting. I, on the other hand, had no such preparation.
This was especially disconcerting last week. I had found out, literally the day before, that my friend had broken up with this woman. So, yeah. Could have been worse; it could have been my ex. Still, I was very eager to respond when the nurse called my name. "Bye! Sorry we can't chat! That root canal ain't gonna wait!"
Once inside and in the dentist's chair, however, I wasn't spared from talking. My dentist has a good bedside manner, and knows that I hate his kind. So he keeps up a reassuring patter while he cleans my teeth, telling me what he is doing and lying about how much longer it would take. Which is all great. Except that he often would also ask me for assurance that he is not hurting me, that I'm remembering to breathe, that I have not passed out, and possibly, I don't know, for investment tips. All of which I find difficult to respond to, what with his tools being in my mouth and all. More monologue, less dialogue please, Dr. Dental.
The view from here.
At one point, he says: "The people in this room are quite beautiful." Genuinely puzzled, I look around at a restaurant full of post-workday suits and some school kids celebrating a birthay with balloons, but who themselves look helium-filled; even the waiters aren't especially dishy. "Really? Well, I guess you do have a different view of the room." Later I wonder if he was being sly, and if I insulted him.
The sensitivity seminar scheduled for Saturday, however, will go on.
An email at work:
"We have received notice that [Mr. XXX] has recently passed away (see email attachment). The department has decided not to go ahead with the plan. As such, the review process will be terminated henceforth."
My baby makes me wanna hurl.
Over the weekend I was lying in bed, drifting off to sleep with the bedroom TV on, when my subconscious caught an interview. Diane Sawyer, I think, was talking to the entire cast of Ocean's Twelve. (Diane: "What? It's still a hard news program, mmkay?")
At one point she asks each actor about his or her favorite movie love screen; I stayed awake long enough to hear Julia Roberts give an answer. Normally, the idea of Horseface being the last thing I experience for the day would be terrifying, but as it happens, she picked a good scene: in Charade, when Audrey Hepburn perversely strokes the cleft in Cary Grant's chin and murmurs, "How do you shave in there?" Well played, Horseface. Also, this does go a little way toward explaining Lyle Lovett. Craggy McCraggerston's visage must have kept Ms. Roberts busy for a while.
Since I am such a big fan of heterosexual lurvin', I too have a favorite cinematic love screen. In Sophie's Choice, poor Meryl Streep is staggering around in the library, trying her damnedest to make the cold and cruel librarian understand that she is trying to locate the poetry of Emily Dickinson. Except that she's all Polish and can only mumble "Emeel Dickeeens? Emeel Dickeeens?" and the librarian is, like, "You mean Charles Dickens? But he's English, not American, fool." And it's all too much for poor Meryl, because first the Holocaust, and now the Dewey Decimal System, you know? So she collapses, eyes all a-rolling back in her head, but Kevin Kline magically appears by her side. She greets her knight in shining armor by puking, but Kevin, oh Kevin catches her vomit with his bare hands (or possibly a handkerchief). Because he's good like that. And, really, what more can a girl ask for? I can feel my heart, or possibly my lunch, rising in my throat even as I reminisce.
Happy Valentine's Day, everyone.
Morale rooster.
The Year of the Cock has arrived. You might think that this will be my year, what with it being my year and all (hello, thirty-six!). However, according to a Chinese horoscope that my sister was so kind to hand to me, this will suck the big one.
After opening with some deadly accurate comments about my personality to win me over ("Usually quiet by nature, you divulge everything after external stimulation or drinking with friends. After that, you may even reveal confidential information"), the forecast for the coming year rapidly goes downhill. In a handbasket. Filled with fire ants.
People born in the year of the rooster will offend the Tai Sui (the God on duty for the year) for this year. Ominous stars gather in strength and there are too few lucky stars to resist.First of all: there is a duty roster for Gods? How does that get drawn up? By who picks the short straw? How would that work exactly, given that gods are omniscient? And stars are at war with each other? This is giving me a whole new perspective on the cosmos.
You will have 3 good opportunities in your life. Grasp them and you can obtain extra benefits. This applies especially to the good opportunity after middle-age. Only if you grab that opportunity will you enjoy happiness till old age.This is a lot of pressure, especially for a scenario that seems lifted from Let's Make A Deal!
But in the middle of the year, your luck starts to change as everything seems difficult and business slows down....Employees will experience unhappy incidents with colleagues and superiors will also make things difficult for you. As luck is not with you, be patient and hope to come out unscathed.Oh, good. I sense that at some point in the year I will bitch-slap someone at work. Again.
Monetary luck for the year is not ideal. Financially, you face cash-flow problems and so you have to tighten your belt. The moving trends of speculative ventures need to be monitored closely or else you will meet with immnense risks.Gawd. I'm not sure I would recognize a moving trend of speculative venture if it came up and bite me in the ass. As it looks like it will.
Married men will be prone to become involved in extra-martial relationships. Those in love will be hurt and distressed over matters of the heart....A big disturbance will appear in families therefore men should avoid sleazy nightspots. Couples in love will also have difference of opinions. Parties accuse each other, leading to a scenario of separation.Well, I seem safe from this little nuggest of bad news, what with me being unloved. Excellent news, then! Although I'm not sure what I would do if I had to avoid "sleazy nightspots." That's easily 85% of my social life. (The other 15%: crochet groups.)
It's all very uplifting. And a little disorienting: I thought usually horoscopes are all rah-rah and positive? I guess I should at least appreciate the honesty. But can I call cock and bullshit on this forecast? Or at least opt for a Western horoscope? (Unless, as a Taurean, that horoscope puts the "bull" in the cock-and-bullshit.)
Rubberband girl.
I'm a little perplexed about my uncanny ability to get my clothes ripped off of me, and I don't mean ripped off in a good way.
Today at work I was sitting in on something a colleague was doing; in fact, I was reviewing his work. He was -- let's just say making a presentation in front of his clients. At one point, a little bored restless, I get up to go to the bathroom. As unintrusively as possible, I tried to sneak out the back door of the conference room. You know how cats supposedly use their whiskers to gauge the size of tight spaces? Well, being clean-shaven I must have misjudged, passed too close to the door, and, somehow, some hook that was part of the door fixture caught the back of my shirt, neatly tearing a hole in it.
I wasn't really embarrassed, even though the ripping sound was pretty audible. Given how boring subtle the presentation was, the clients may even have been silently thanking me for the momentary distraction. But I was a little dismayed about destroying a nice shirt.
It's not even the first time this kind of thing has happened to me. RIP: long-sleeved shirt in a beautiful shade of sky-blue, 1999; kicky short-sleeved number in orange, 2002; etc.. Are all manner of inanimate objects determined to undress me, or am I just doing some wishful thinking? Door, get a room. I guess I should just be glad that I didn't, like, ricochet back into the room. Given the amount of spandex that men's shirtmakers are using nowadays to achieve that fitted look, it's just a matter of time, though.
