Wendy's

The Wendy’s near my apartment got knocked down over the last couple of weeks and that makes me a bit sad. That Wendy’s has been in that spot since I was at least in high school. That Wendy’s was there when I honestly believed the restaurant had been reported for using worms in their meat. That Wendy’s was there when one of my roommates in college pointed out how silly that sounded. That Wendy’s was there during my friend’s break-up with one of the burger flippers when we had to be ushered out by the manager because his new girlfriend, the fry shift lead, was having some sort of emotional spasm. Needless to say that Wendy’s has been a reliable landmark for me for decades and I hate to see it go. They also knocked down the adjacent apartment complex, but I have no special feelings for that place. No one ever stood on their balconies and offered up a #1 combo with cheese, no onions and a Dr. Pepper for the drink, so that place had it coming in my eyes.

The sign posted around the new construction depicts a dazzling new loft with some dazzling new loft name like “Refreshing Breeze Over the Lake of Hedonistic Delights Lofts” and tells you how you can find out more to reserve your spot NOW! Hooray, another loft for well-to-do sybarites. I wouldn’t be bothered except I read in the paper that the block catty-corner to this spot is also going to be developed into a loft, but this one promises fancy shops and restaurants on its lower level. They’re going to be uprooting a store that claims to have been in that same spot for 40 years. What I’m gradually seeing is the spots in my neighborhood are losing their comfortable, cool, “Keep Austin Weird” feel in favor of more upscale developments. I miss that feel more and more as people move into Austin for that same feel but end up turning it into the “Starbucks on Every Block” place they came from. It seems the mentality is “we love Austin for its atmosphere, now if you wouldn’t mind we’d like to make a few changes.”

All of that aside, when was it exactly that we went from thinking “condo” was less cool than saying “loft”? I’m sure there’s some technical difference like the floor plan is more open, but still aren’t they basically the same? and if they are, wouldn’t that really just make them “over-priced apartments that can be owned”? Well, I’m sure the REAL difference is how much you’ll be charged. By saying “loft” I’m sure you’re paying a bit more than if you were saying “condo”. However, I would be willing to bet that I could get more “apartment” than I could one of these chichi “lofts”. The downside is I would have to say “apartment” while drinking malt liquor out of a bag as opposed to saying “loft” while sipping a lovely Gamay Beaujolais while mixing at the Oasis.
All things considered though, I’d rather be saying “Wendy’s”.

You Look Just Like...

“You look just like…” unless that sentence ends with Angelina Jolie, George Clooney or better still, a well-liked relatives you’re treading on dangerous ground. I don’t look like anyone, I look a little like my Dad and a smidge like my Mom but no one is ever going to see me walking down the street and think, “I KNOW her! Wasn’t she in that movie…” The closest I’ll get is, “weren’t you on that PBS pledge drive answering phones?” and even then that would take a sharp eye and someone really dedicated to stalking phone volunteers.

Believe it or not, even though I don’t look like anyone there’s always someone trying to compare me to some star. In Junior High, my best-friend’s mom went running around looking for an album, because I looked like Carlie Simon. I’m sure my facial expression was priceless when she found the album cover and presented it to me. In high school a small portion of my family decided I reminded them of Molly Ringwald. My cousin finally said, “it’s not that you look like her, you have similar mannerisms.” My Mom has said, “you look like you could be the sister of Robert Sean Leonard.” (See http://www.imdb.com/ if you’re not familiar with that actor.) A co-worker wanted to see what I looked like in high school and he busted out with, “you look like Nancy McKeon!” She was Jo on Facts of Life. Of course, he also said of my Halloween picture, “you look like Bette Midler”.

Now I’m excited you feel like you’ve had some grand epiphany about my looks, but unless you’re 100% certain I feel the same way, I’d keep the little revelation to myself. Maybe I am Carla from Cheers’ twin, but unless I’ve announced that, it’s probably a good idea that you keep that little thought to yourself.

Mental Health Days: A Proposal

Let’s face it, we all take mental holidays or at least the majority of us do. If you don’t and you’re pathologically excited about going to work then carry on you crazed little workaholic weasel. The rest of us need that day off and your job is to cover for us since you’re having such a grand time.

For those of you who are still with me on the mental health holidays, I think we need changes to our work rules. I propose that we be given at least 4-6 mental health holidays a year – kind of like a floating holiday. The advantage is we wouldn’t have to call in at 3am pretending to be suffering from some debilitating 24 hour thing. Just an aside, I read a tip in a magazine that suggested calling early while laying on your back and hanging half of your upper body off the edge of the bed is supposed to do wonders for your voice. Think of the advantages of calling in and simply stating, “look, I’m totally fine, I don’t have much to do tomorrow and so I thought I’d watch the all day Sentinel marathon on Sci-Fi. I’ll catch you tomorrow.”

A former supervisor used to call this “calling in with a vision problem”. When I first heard that and had to ask what she meant she said, “Beth, I figured you just couldn’t see yourself here.” She was right, I do occasionally suffer from vision problems.

Plus, think of the potential embarrassment this will save. There’s nothing worse than coming in the next day after goofing off and either you’ve got a fresh tan, new hairstyle or you’re simply too healthy. People come and ask the obligatory, “how are you feeling?” You both know that being out in the sun after getting your hair styled was completely refreshing, but you have to go through the ritual and your job is to say something lame like, “much better, thanks”. The other advantage is that it would open up new areas where you can be while horsing around. No more will you have to tell your friends who work elsewhere “sure, we can meet but errr… how about in this small town 45 miles away where there won’t be any chance of anyone seeing me. I’ll be in the dark sunglasses and large hat.”

Why I’m not in charge of people just boggles me.

Not As Bad As You

I strive for mediocrity. Well, I don’t really it just sort of finds me while I’m lazing about. Striving would require too much effort on my part. At an early age I realized with the help of my relatives that I wasn’t the smartest in the family, I wasn’t the best athlete, I wasn’t the most liked and I wasn’t the cutest. I was just one of the family. Those accolades were bestowed on everyone else. Now before I go too far with this, let me throw in a disclaimer that in my father’s eyes I’m all that and more. However, I’m not asking you to see me through his eyes and I’m not even beating myself up. As Lori would say, I am cursed with self-awareness. So in actuality I’m just stating a few facts to drive this story along.

Now in all fairness, some have told me that I’m “the most determined person [they] know”, but I really feel that they were trying to say “the most stubborn” or “the most tenacious” and they said that because they hadn’t met some of my other friends. See, it’s just not in me to be “the most” anything. I’m content with “not the worst”.

I was reminded of my attitude as I dropped another small fortune on my hideous little eleven year old car. Paint is chipping off of it, the driver’s side door is battered in and the bumper is split. When I picked it up from the shop my first thought, well the one after I choked on the bill, was “it’s not the worst car around.” In fact, I got the guy at the shop to tell me stories about other cars that had been in such bad shape they were left behind. That made me feel better; my car wasn’t the worst. In fact, I started an inventory in my head of what wasn’t the worst in my life and what I wasn’t the worst at and I came up with a fairly decent sized list.

Then I thought about all the things I do competitively and my level of satisfaction and that reminded me of our friend Lee. A group of friend which included Lee and I went bowling. At one point Lee turned around to mock my low score. I smiled back at him cheerfully and said, “true, but I’m better than you and that’s all that matters.” I really feel like it was Lee who helped me have this epiphany that a driving theme in my life is “not as bad as you” which is a metaphor for “simply not the worst” at something. As long as I’m not as bad as you, then everything in my life is just fine.

Monkeys

I hate the zoo. I’m sorry, but I really do with few exceptions. Now I’m not one of those who is going to go chain themselves to the tiger’s cage and protest his captivity. We all know what we as a people do when we see that stuff going on – we cheer for the tiger. If I were chained to the cage, I’d cheer for the tiger, too until he started giving me the eye and winking.

I could go on at length about what I don’t like and how it all makes me sad inside, but this post isn’t about that. This post is a bit about hypocrisy but mostly it’s about monkeys.

I may make the sad face thinking about Digit being confined to a 10x10 cage, but you put a gorilla in a dress and bonnet, teach it to dance and I’m all over buying the tickets. Just pass me the show times and make way as I head to the front row.

What brought all this on was this weekend we chatted with our realtor and she told us about the local rodeo that had come and gone. Apparently, the rodeo features a monkey in full cowboy get up with a lasso that rides a dog and herds sheep. That’s just BRILLIANT! Forget all that forcing animals to do something unnatural to entertain the masses. It’s a MONKEY! A monkey dressed up like a COWBOY! As soon as I heard about it I called at least two other people to let them know what we’d be doing come the next rodeo. That’s right, front row for the monkey show.

Removing an animal from the wilderness and confining an animal to a small space is wrong, but if you give it a purpose – maybe a little bike or some cymbals and a little hat, then you’ve improved its life tenfold.

The Pace Truck

When you’re taking a long 250 mile trip through Texas you get a lot of “thinking” time. You start wondering what any one of those 38 historical landmark signs could be about. Just how much history happened on the particular stretch road you’re viewing at 70 MPH? Will the Caddoan History Museum that looks smaller than most highway rest areas really tell you much about the burial mounds you’ve seen year after year when you’ve made the exact same drive? Does “Watch for Ice on Bridge” mean I should pull over and get a good seat?

As the lanes narrow from four to two with no sign of a shoulder for miles it hits you. The truck that pulled out in front of you is not some annoying yokel unfamiliar with traditional city highway speeds. That truck is a rural pace car meandering down the road at 55 MPH to make sure you take in all the sites. At 70, you’d likely miss Miss Molly’s Antiques/Beauty Parlor/Full Service Auto Shop, but at 55 you have the time to consider getting your nails down while your car gets fully lubed. The rural pace truck not only lets you enjoy the sites, it also let’s you engage in fun activities. My favorite, especially on a low visibility day is the real life version of Frogger. This is where you rev up your mighty 4 cylinder engine and swerve back and forth across both lanes. You place mortal bets with yourself like, “I bet I can make it around the pace truck before that semi in the oncoming lane slams me into next week.” Win or lose, you won’t be bored. The game becomes more fun the longer the pace truck’s congo line is as other cars stack up behind you, each eager and willing to take the same chance.. If you’re at the back of 3-4 cars and you make it past the pace truck without spinning out in some spectacular wreck, you’re the new Back Road to Small Town god. If you don’t quite make it, well you’ve given the rest of the congo line something to do while toodling along at 55 MPH.

Needless to say, I don’t mind the drive, I love to visit my family, but I get antsy once I spot the pace truck lumbering onto the road.

My E-mail Story

E-mail is really a wonderful thing for me. Gone are the days when my teachers used to rub my fingers to get the swelling down. See, I'm one of those people who when they write, write like they're trying to assassinate the paper and the desk beneath it. I'm one of those people who've never had to worry about forms being in quadruplicate or quintuplicate or octuplicate (and I'm not worried if those are real words, either) because I will always press down hard enough for pages to spare. And choosing between black pen or blue pen is not an issue; it will always shows up exactly the same if I need to make a copy. I bet I could use light yellow pen and not have to worry.

E-mail means my friends get notes regularly and that I stay in touch. See, I secretly loathe the phone but that's another topic for another time.I also just love techonology in general. For the most part, I can e-mail whenever I want, text message from my phone and heck, even make calls while I'm in the bathroom at the mall if I prefer. (I don't actually prefer that and I'd prefer you not do it either if I'm in the public bathroom.)

Where I think it's gone a little crazy is, oh I dunno, where you ask someone what their salary requirements are using a distribution list and then reject someone the same way. It's not really the note you're hoping to see in your in-box. Mind you, this has nothing to do with the outcome of my interview at the theater... oh no... ok, it does. Sometimes I don't care how nice the note is; a call might be better choice in a professional environment. Call me old fashioned.

Meetings & Gatherings

There’s a time in every mandatory meeting or at any gathering where you’re pressed to attend that you simply need to reach out and touch someone. I have to admit that I myself am a kicker and note jotter. If I’m forced into a meeting, I like everyone within a foot’s vicinity to know exactly what I think about it. Typically, I don’t sit down and let my foot fly; I like to time it with the comments of the speaker. It’s how I insure that I’m awake and that all those around me are also paying close attention.

Some examples from my not so recent past are when I’ve been guilted into visiting with my old college chums. They’re a bit of a rowdy lot and some how feel like when we’re together we should all act like we were 19. Now 19 was a great age for me, but you just don’t get the same thrill when you lie about your age at the bar. When the bartender will only nod and say doubtfully, “mmm hmmm, you’re over 21. No, you can put your ID away. I really don’t need to see it.” I remember getting chided on one occasion about wanting to go to the movies first and then go drinking because getting smashed at 5pm seemed kind of lame to me. Everyone else wanted to go drinking first. In the midst of being chided by a former roommate and her poster boy for desperately needing anger management courses husband she went off on a tangent about MY-mosas. This is like “your”-mosa or “her”-mosa and bears some similarity to the orange juice and champagne drink you find at many a brunch. *KAPOW* I had to kick Kendra. I don’t like words like MY-mosa to go unnoticed. Within that same year we visited the group again. This time one of my friends brought the sweetest and dimmest girl who was made all the more dim via hefty amounts of alcohol. She was chatting up everyone being as charming as she could be when she slurred out quite loudly, “I like music!!! I don’t know why I like so many kinds of music!!!” Kendra burst out laughing and *KAPOW*, which was an acknowledgement that I too had also told some mean spirited joke in my head.

Now kicking should really be limited to one or two well-placed kicks. If the person doesn’t jump a little, then you did it wrong, but that person should also not jump too often. One too many foot shoves, a variation on the kick, and you’re playing footsy. If you’re playing footsy at the office place you could be sued. Don’t play footsy. If you must keep up a private dialog, I recommend bringing a note pad.

Truly, nothing says I’m paying attention to the speaker than your scribbling down copious amounts of notes. Usually no one is ever going to look at those notes except the people around you so have fun. The key is jotting it down while making eye contact with the speaker then carefully laying your pad down. A slight tap of your pen on the paper or a gently shift in its position on the table indicates to your neighbor that you’re beginning a conversation with them. Your conversation should be humorous so that you two can play the old meeting game of who can keep the straightest face. This game is usually coupled with another meeting game of how much can you get away with without getting into trouble.

Suffice it to say that I had a meeting today. Someone was playing footsy with me when one good sharp kick would have conveyed their meaning.

Brain Disconnects

There are days when my mouth becomes completely disconnected from my brain. I’m finding as I get older that these little disconnects happen much more frequently. Today was a perfect example. I had an appointment for lab work. As I’m getting settled into the chair a gentleman walks in, introduces himself and says “I’m a student” then points to his badge that does indeed say “student”. He continues by announcing, “I’m the oldest student ever.” Well, I had to disagree with him. I’ve seen plenty of people attending school at an older age – the “non-traditional” students. I try to express this and out from my mouth pops, “oh, I don’t think so…” (this is where my brain must have been on break) “…my step-mom just got her RN.”

My step-mom is an RN and while she was a “non-traditional” student she didn’t “just” graduate from nursing school. My brain caught up with my mouth and all sorts of alerts went off to try and shut down my vocal cords, but my vocal cords have a mean posse of thugs that prevented those signals from reaching them. The lab tech student starts asking questions and my brain tries to come up with clever ways to respond so that I’m not exactly lying anymore. All of this I blame on my brain for unexpectedly leaving me alone around people. I try not to use the word “was” or any other words that would indicate past tense when I respond “she’s in home health care and specializes in oncology.” I pat myself on the back for not saying “specialized”. Finally, I get tripped up when the actual lab tech ask “how long ago did she graduate?” My brain finally busts through and was able to wrangle some control back while I stammer out “well, it seems just like yesterday to me, but I’m guessing it was longer.” The vocal cords disconnect the brain a moment to get in some parting words “but still she was in her mid to late 40’s!”

The truth Mr. Lab Tech student wherever you are is that she was in her late 30’s when she started working towards her RN and that was some 20 years ago. There, I said it! The truth is out!

The Interview

I'm sad to say I don't really have anything to report from the interview. I managed to remain upright despite my shoes and I didn't say anything noticeably appalling. Well, at least there weren't any audible gasps while I was speaking. The interview was laid back and unstructured. No one said the infamous line you sometimes see in interview help books: "See this pen? Sell me this pen!" I wasn't asked about my strengths (punctual for lunch) or weaknesses (chocolate) just a few questions about my experience at PBS. This group seems to really just be starting to get serious about its fundraising, but I was a little surprised by what they haven't started - things I just considered a given. My worry on this point is that I may have come off a bit cocky. When I started off one sentence with "the theory behind this..." and the alarm bells were sounding off with a big "whoop! whoop! ICEBERG AHEAD! and I tried to change mid sentence "... well, I don't mean theory - more this is why this might be a good idea..."

Anyway, the details are going to be boring to most of you except Lori who would drop her jaw and mostly say "they don't do THAT either?" as I rattled off a laundry list.

When I offered up my references, they told me that they really didn't need those yet. I take that as a bit of a bad sign, but I'm not an optimist at heart. They then explained that they were going to finish up interviews this week then call in some finalists for more interviews with their head person next week.

I sent them a note this morning thanking them for their time. I had to find new ways to express the word "enjoy" since it appeared almost every other word in the note in some form "enjoyed" "enjoy" "greatly enjoy" - you get the idea. Yes, I did send it through e-mail because I'm a geek and because they did say I could send them e-mail to ask questions - I just figured it extended to thank yous, too. Plus, a note through USPS would run the risk of not making it before they decide on the finalists tomorrow.

One small bone I can toss. They were talking about the characters they have there and there's one gentleman whose been there 26 years who is the authority on all things related to the Civil War and the Confederacy. The people who interviewed me said that if I were to ask him about a pariticular thing like theater during the Civil War for example, he could go on at length about it. He supposedly wears a cap with the Confederate flag on it every day. I had a hard time not offering, "I will tell you all my stories about the characters at our local PBS station if you hire me."

The Application

On a whim I submitted my résumé to a non-profit organization this past Sunday. I'm not sure why I did it, but it seemed like the thing to do at the moment. There wasn't anything on TV and I didn't feel like reading my book so I guess I did it out of boredom. I really didn't put much into the cover letter because frankly I didn't care. The past two jobs I applied for I sat down with my little Cover Letters for Dummies guide and produced the "by the book" cover letter. My stellar efforts using the Bible of cover letters ended with me not getting the interviews - not even for the job I had held previously. This time I reasoned "why bother spending time on the cover letter? It's not like it's going to get results." If you read between the lines of the cover letter I submitted, it reads "Hey, I know you don't care and I personally don't care but here's my résumé for giggles. Please feel free to kick me in the teeth. Kisses & Hugs, Beth - PS Have nothing better to do. TV is bad on Sundays". To tell you the truth, I honestly had no idea what place I was applying to since the listing just read "local theater - non-profit". I figured it was probably one of the local small neighborhood theaters which further fed my wonderful "I don't care" attitude. Monday I get out of work after throwing a huge pity party for one. See, one of my co-workers carelessly said "I need to learn to do your job Beth because one day you won't be with us; you'll get one of those jobs you apply for." I went salty and started loudly grumbling (and this is almost verbatim), "I'm not going anywhere. I'm going to be stuck here until you retire and then I'll be stuck here some more. I'll never even advance and I betcha' I never see a merit raise. It's just me in this job day after day..." My co-worker grew quiet and I'm sure was marking this down as "one of Beth's moods maybe if I'm quiet she'll forget I'm here". Anyway, I get home and see there's a message on my phone. Caller ID identifies it as "Theater" and my first thought is, "well, good to see that neighborhood theater at least has a phone. They're probably calling to tell me I got my stuff in late and express how they're just ever so sad." To my big suprise it's one of the bigger non-profit theaters - a theater people actually buy tickets from ticket outlets to see the shows - a theater whose attendees don't only just consist of the family members of the cast and crew. The woman on the message said they wanted to talk to me and asked me to call her back. I did. Tomorrow is the big interview day. Of course, in honor of the great pity party I was throwing for myself on Monday, I already wore my outfit that is designated as "the interview outfit". It's one of those whose label has a designer name that doesn't read something like "Gap" or "Big Girl Barn" and I have gotten comments like "oh, is that so and so you're wearing? I like that!" I even have the evil overly pointed shoes that go with it and a matching purse. This would be the outfit I bought because several months ago when I applied for a particular job I just knew in my heart I would land an interview. It never entered my mind once that I wouldn't be interviewed. I learned from that experience that sometimes you need to have a more open mind. Having already worn the outfit, that left me with only a couple of other outfit choices which are not bad, but one doesn't fit quite right (the back up outfit) and the other... it's ok - it better be since it's what I have left. I did make an effort to try and get a new outfit this evening. That ended with me standing in a dressing room staring at myself while saying "sheesh, you look like a big dork" and declaring after a whole 15 minutes of looking. "I'm done! I'm not spending money for another stupid outfit for another stupid job I won't get. Let's go!" Tomorrow I'll talk about how to blow an interview in record time, how to make people feel uncomfortable and how to pay a lot of money to park in a downtown parking space. Needless to say, I'm entering this with a super positive attitude.

Texas Independence Day

March 2, 1836

Today marks the day when Texas declared its independence from Mexico. Now several of my friends had this idea that today is also San Jacinto Day, which I’m sad to say is not for another month.(April 21, 1836). In fact, when Texas drew up the papers for its independence on this day 170 years ago, the battle at the Alamo was raging away.

Why is this day important? Well for starters it has the word “Texas” in it and Texans can always rally around anything that says “Texas”. It’s the day that separates our state from yours. Who ever heard of Rhode Island Independence Day? It’s the day when we became our own little republic and your state tugged at the skirt of some colonies who were calling themselves united. It’s a day when we stood up and refused to be oppressed by Mexico and their silly little moratorium on anglo immigrants. It’s a bit ironic that there was an anglo immigration problem that needed to be curtailed. Anyway, it’s when we said “gee, these Colonias are really swell, but we’re looking for something a bit larger. What do you have in the 262,000 miles plus range? Something the wife and kids can grow into.”

Why this day is important to me? I’m a Crockett. Granted, I’m not in a direct line from ol’ Davy (unless you look at some of the skewed family trees my relatives drew up), but we share a common great-great grand something which makes him a cousin and you’ve gotta support your family (generally speaking, of course).

Next month on April 21, we’ll talk about how naps can kill you and why, if your leader is in disguise, it’s a bad idea to salute or shout “hey, the president!” while being under guard.

The Dentist

In the last few months I've decided that good dental care should be a priority in my life since over the years I've mostly neglectful of my teeth. I'd been avoiding the dentist over the past few years because I had found a great one. I had found one that actually didn't make me hyperventilate or hide in the corner and pretend not to understand when the nurse came to the lobby and said "Beth?" to try and coax me back to "the chair". This doctor had a wonderful sense of humor and the best thing ever - rooms with themes. I personally was a fan of the Elvis room, but I didn't mind the Safari room either. Giraffe masks swaying in the breeze of the vents plus nitrous oxide equals Beth having a grand time at the dentist's office.

Now why did I stop going if I thought this doctor hung the moon? Well, I recommended her to a lot of my friends in need of dental care. All of them agreed that she had a great mouth-side manner, but we started comparing notes and coming up with some big dental bills. In my case, I can honestly say my teeth were really just that bad, but my friends who were actually diligent about their dental care weren't so sure about what she was recommending for their teeth. In one case, a friend had been to her family dentist in the last 6 months and was only looking for a new dentist because she'd just moved to town; her diagnosis involved all sorts of procedures and oral surgeons. She's the one who sent up the red flag with this dentist. Sadly, I had to admit that some of it sounded fishy and I simply stopped going.

Fast forward to November when I bit down on something and had one of those jolts of pain go through my jaw. It was time again to find a new dentist. I went with another friend's recommendation and found myself in the land of no Elvis room, no Safari room, not even an overly large toothbrush. This was truly a sad day for my dental care. The new dentist didn't even display one motivational poster on the ceiling that I could contemplate. Oh, and they are not liberal with the nitrous there either - all major strikes against them. They offer headphones and a radio that they'll tune to your favorite channel as a condolence prize. The radio is nice and I can almost reach that Zen like place I do with nitrous, but I'm pretty sure if they hacked off my feet that I would definitely care. With my friend nitrous oxide, I'm pretty sure you can hobble me up to the knees before I might raise a brow.

I meet the new dentist and he's pretty funny. He's not as funny as the old dentist, but he's a good guy and he remembers everything about you, which is certainly nice. At our first meeting where he gave my teeth a thorough going over I told him all about my dental problems. I was an expert on them because the previous dentist explained all the things happening with my teeth. I felt knowledgeable as I carried on about my advanced gingivitis, receding gum lines and my genetic disposition for cavities. He politely listened and kind of made grunts that sounded like "mmm" followed by nods - the kind of nod you use when you understand someone, not the kind you use when you believe him. Then, as I was making my way down the list of dental problems and about to whip out a Power Point presentation and hand out information packets he stopped me and said "Beth, you don't have any of that." OH! In fact I later go to his hygienist who tells me about how great my gums are and how some people are just lucky. Again, I make a groan in the direction of the old dentist.

Now, this was really a long winded way to get to my point. Since lately we have had to do a lot to get my teeth in tip top shape (I may not have gingivitis but there have been a couple of issues) I’ve had a lot of interaction with the dentist. Since I never get nitrous oxide and instead get only the radio, I'm also unfortunately very lucid when we interact which brings us to yesterday.

Yesterday, I'm being numbed up which I can't stand. I hate the swab that almost tastes sweet, I hate the way they shake your cheek and I really hate super long metal needles that look like they first rolled out at the turn of the century. I also hate it that they don't provide you with blinders. One of the final shots I receive hits close to my lingual nerve. I almost shoot out of the chair as what feels like an electric shock courses down my tongue. The dentist hit the same spot a second time and I'm about to die. Mind you, while he's still got a good hold of my face and I can still see half of the 3' long needle hanging out of my mouth the dentist inquires "did you feel that down your tongue?" I dare you to try and answer that question under the same conditions. Then we move onto the actual procedure which involves a dremmel and smoke billowing out of my mouth the dentist asks, "How are you doing? Is everything ok?" My responses all sound like I auditioned for the role of the monster in Young Frankenstein. I politely say "eehhhhh" every time and the dentist responds like we're actually chatting "oh good!" Lord knows I'm not going to attempt to actually flap my gums at him. There would be some hideous dremmel meets mouth accident and there I'd be on the front page of the paper.

What is it about doctors in general that make them do that? You're there at your most vulnerable and they want to talk. There are just certain times at any doctor's office that I'm not up to chatting. In fact, on some of those occasions I want us to give each other a knowing nod and walk off and pretend the whole thing never happened.

Despite the dentist’s chatting quirk that seems to be shared by all of those sadists in the medical profession, I do like this guy. I find I can actually go in and not hyperventilate, which isn’t an exaggeration for the story. Now if I can just get him to gas me up, we’ll become excellent friends.