Once More with Feeling.

"Call 1-800-Dentist. Here, let me get the number for you."

My friend Mary and I had this thing about the old 1-800-Dentist commercial, in that it would INCENSE my friend Mare because the lady recommending 1-800-dentist  would pause to say, "here, let me get the number for you," as she flipped through her roledex.  Oh, how this would burn my friend Mary UP.  "THE NUMBER IS 1-800-DENTIST. WHAT IS THERE TO LOOK UP??" and it never got old for me seeing her lose her shit over it. I knew from then we were kindred spirits, even if she was old enough to be my Ma.

Anyway, all this to say I am off to the dentist this very minute having not been seen in 2.5 years.  People, I made the appointment because, aside from the obvious "girl you need to" I am in pain, which reveals to me that shit aint right.  It is no secret I have crap for teeth, and this, I feel, is the beginning of a very expensive and very painful series of appointments.

If I am not back to the space, please know if was nice knowing you, and that the dentist killed me dead with the drill. Or his bill.

Over/under on # of cavities or if I need a root canal/crown(s).  Seriously, I think the situation is so bad no guess would be too extreme at this point.

Fondly,

Jen

 

If you want to get all sorts of bent...

I swear, Contrary is trying to put me over the edge linking this stuff.

You can buy child brides on the Internet. Literally, 14 -15 years old.

Contrary does a better job linking the "testimonials" (Oh, Dear Lord, they make me weep, seriously) but I love how each girl has a asking price and yet #1 in the Dos section they say:

“Be romantic! This is a marriage proposal, not a business transaction.”

Please someone dig and tell me this is fake.  Please. I already had to see the Sox lose to 26 1/2 games back TAMPA BAY last night and then came home to see this.

How much more I can take, I can't say.

Thank you.

Updated: So, upon some Google research of my own, it appears the site it was a hoax or satire or some such.  I should not be allowed to drink and blog. Or be so gullible.

Rock the Cashbox, Rock the Cashbox

It is now t-minus 2 hours before I give away all my money so that I can get me some of this:

And also:

Oh, and the house that sits in front of it. Last night's dream? Painting.  All the painting we're going to have to do in the next few months.  My arms area already getting the pains.

Black Monday

Anyone in who has worked in a financial or insurance industry knows exactly why when I say today is going to suck hard an tomorrow is not going to be much better.

Today is the last day before our annual audit.

Today is the day you go through all your files.  Today, these last 24 hours before the auditors come in, is the day you are essentially throwing the Hail Mary pass at these files, making the sign of the cross, and then praying you still get to keep your job by the time Thursday, when the grades are handed out, rolls around.

Not that anyone likes being audited, but man, I really hate this part of the job.  I really, really do.

Oh yeah, wanna know what else?  Today I found out that I am out of underwear.  I mean, other than the 2 which are never worn because they are more, um..., well, more fashion than function.  Man, these are not very practical (seriously, what the hell was I even thinking)?  And really, it's either this or a bathing suit bottom...soooo, okay then.

Annnnyway,...

In an effort to turn this frown upside down, I am posting a few things that actually make me laugh:

1. Owen.

The thing about Owen is that he adores his big sister. He wants, very much, to do all the things she does.  Sarah wears princess dresses. Guess who else does, too?  Anyway, as a few months ago, Sarah got prescription glasses (right, her "contact lenses").  Now guess who wears her pink, Elton John-inspired sunglasses as his regular glasses?

Seen here at breakfast:

Hold me closer, tiny dancer.

2.  Jim Gaffigan

I first saw Jim in NYC in the mid-90s and remember dying laughing when I saw him.  This past July, I saw that he was performing near Boston and took Mike to see him because I knew it'd be up his alley.  He ended up liking his act better than Kathy Griffin (which was his birthday gift). If you don't get a chance to see him perform, I highly recommend his latest CD, Beyond the Pale.

Here we are doing the prom pose (his idea, which did he have some psychic powers that prom pose is one of my favorite poses ever?) I, of course, am to giddy to get it together to really work prom pose (thus this big, stupid grin) because I love him.

I mean, anyone who can dedicate 15 minutes of his act to bacon gets my undying affection. To wit (and loosely quoted from my memory):

Bacon: so awesome it sounds like applause when it's cooking.

You know, without bacon, we'd never know about certain other foods.  "wanna water chestnut?" Nah.
"How about if I wrap it in some bacon?" Oh, well, I wouldn't want to be rude.

I think some foods owe bacon a thank you putting them on the map.

"Dear Bacon, Thank you for being so awesome.  Sincerely, Water Chestnut III"

Though not relating to bacon, this was also good:

"I love the inpatience of New York... You ever had somebody not-ask you for directions, but demand them? You're just innocently walking down the street, you hear a horn, all of a sudden some guy's like, 'HOLLAND TUNNEL!!!' ...You know like you were supposed to fax this guy directions. Suddenly, you're wasting HIS time. 'Let's go buddy! Holland tunnel!' '...Uh..I-I was just going to the store... I didn't realize it was my shift. Well, let's see... the Holland Tunnel is in my ass... alright?"”

3. BOOYAH.

As of this weekend, I have offically equipped all 3 of my nieces and nephew with the phrase "BOO-YAH". Libs being the last of the 3 munchkins and, according to Lib's mom, she won't STOP saying it.  Perfection.

And as you can see, she is tickled too.

Death Therapy, Bob. It's a guaranteed cure.

Well, they ACCEPTED THE OFFER. (hahaaaaaasuckaaaaas...)

(I mean us.)

(why are their spots in front of my eyes? should my left arm suddenly be experiencing a numbing sensation like this?)

So, this is good and onto the whole fun process of home inspections and mortgage paperwork and attorneys, practicing my signature (how to wittle the timing of writing an 18 lettered named in < 5 seconds as I will be writing it about 50 times in one day, so I'm told) and POURING OVER ALL MY DESIGN MAGAZINES WITH A RAZOR-LIKE PRECISION FOR THE ELEMENTS TO MY ARCHITECTURAL DIGEST WORTHY DREAM HOUSE VISION, er, I mean, humble Colonial abode-to-be.

Seriously, I wasn't kidding about the hot tub.

It makes my lips numb just thinking about it.

Just. Made. Offer. On. 1st. House. In. Mah. Life.

(breathes into brown paper bag)

You do know this is gonna run me more than a hundred bucks, right?

( I feel good, I feel great, I feel wonderful.  I feel good, I feel great, I feel wonderful.)

Like even more than a thousand bucks. Or ten.

Maybe even more than that. And then carry the one.

Were you aware of this fact? 

That's U.S., by the way, not  like, Schrute bucks or anything.  which yeah, sure,  I'd definitely be on the winning end of that transaction if it were, what with the  favorble conversion rate. (and no, I don't know how many Stanley nickels that works out to be.)

(Hi, I'm Bob.  Will you knock me out?  Just punch me in the face.)

But I think it wil be worth it.  There are closets at this house.  REAL ones. Not the fake-ass shit for brains ones I've been dealing with for the past SIX. YEARS.

Also handy is the nice yard. And other cool stuff that comes with houses.

Like not my bitchy, flakey puff landlady, just as example, you know, off the top of my head.

(This is scrumptious, Fay.  Is this hand shucked?)

I hope I am not jinxing anything my writing this.

Also, hope I am not jinxing anything by um, pricing out hot tubs. (oh no, I've said too much.)

Odds of me going to sleep tonight? Takers?

(Isn't this a break through? I'm a sailor now, I sail.  Out on the lake way far away from shore.)

And now I see that my coping mechanism for stressful, big ticket purchases is quoting What About Bob? ad nauseum.  ....Huh.

Please, fingers crossed.

there's a little black spot on the sun today

writing this with left hand only, so this will be brief (for me).

in my indoor soccer game last night, while getting checked into the boards, I received my 1st broken bone (my right wrist). a pretty impressive run considering all the sports I play, how old I am and how clumsy I can be (just like lindsay lohan, didn't she have 3 wrist splints in 1 year?  "uh, I tripped over Paris's dog...yeah,  that's  it.").

I didn't know that I had broken it, I knew it hurt like a bitch, but after taking a sub I went back on the field....and played some more. thought it was a little weird that I kept my hand balled  up in a weak looking fist though.

the nurse on my team thought I could ice/advil it out to the a.m. "they're gonna have to wait for the swelling to go down if they're gonna cast it anyway." But after talking to my sister (also a nurse), she said i could have done some ligament damage and sleeping on it unsplinted could do more damage and for peace of mind go to the ER right away.

 

After waiting for awhile, and witnessing some interesting characters, one in particular being a homeless man and the Nurse Practitioner asking him, 'how much you drink a day, sir?", "a pint." "And pint of what?" "wild turkey."  (nice), I was diagnosed with a non-displaced distal radial fracture.  This is the good kind to get, because it means they DON'T HAVE TO RESET IT. I know I would have been a big baby had that had to happen.

 

Yeah, I got bored waiting, so I snapped some photos. 

Here, you see the swelling has gone down a bit since the first photo:

 

So after they diagnosed me, they gave me the Michael Jackson splint and La Lohan Oxycodone script (which I really don't think I'll need/use) and now I have to see a Orthopedic surgeon.

"the claw":

 

So basically what this all comes down to is this:

MY HAIR IS GONNA LOOK LIKE CRAP FOR THE NEXT FEW WEEKS.

Threat Level: Midnight (PartY'Oooow Kelly Clarkson!)

Forewarning for the mens:  This is a somewhat detailed account of my waxing "down there". Not explicit, but enough where you might just want to skip over this. If you're curious as to the goings ons, might I request you cram your no doubt quality remarks* about my lady bidness, particularly if I have to look you in the eye sometime in the future. Thanks a bunch.

(*unless you intend to pay me a compliment for bravery, then yeah - by all means, comment away.)

As I mentioned yesterday, I was off to get my first ever bikini wax. Being somewhat of a drama jerk, I may have gone on a bit about my nervousness.  Though c'mon, let's consider the key players here:

A stranger.

Hot wax.

Your private haired bits.

Hot wax being ripped off your private haired bits.

Oh, and you're paying for this.

I ask you - whose brilliant plan was this?

Anyway, as you can see, I have I made it out alive.  As I told my friend Suz, quoting the formidable Destiny's Child, "I'm a sur-VI-vah." Not only did I survive and make this, but you can barely tell that I'm walking funny (or to rip from Cheers, "or should I say, 'funnier'?"-Diane)

To start with, I guess I should mention that barring formal medical training (complete with degree(s)), I am not really comfortable with those persons sans medical training seeing my naked anatomy South of the Equator. That said, you can imagine how thrilled I was when I heard the words every uptight girl wants to hear, "And you can keep your underwear on." 

Oh bless your heart, miss.

Since I was a first timer, and I really didn't know what to expect as far as pain, so I popped a few Advil beforehand, luckily was wearing a very comfy pair of cotton underwear and constructed an approach as respects to the... the, ... uuh... "design" to be as pragmatic and "least invasive" in tone.  Or what I affectionately refer to as, "The Chicken Shit Special." (TM).

The C.S.S. (as I call it) simply put is this: Put on a bikini bottom, any hair outside of the bikini bottom gets their walking papers, everything else inside the bikini bottom gets to live to see another day.  Like God intended.

So there I was, my bottom half wrapped in a towel, and in my underwear. The girl who had the distinct honor of being "my first time" asked me to yank my underwear upwards to the sides as to where I thought would be reasonable for what I was looking to achieve.  And then she offered, "Yeah, you might want to go higher than that."

It's not called the Chicken Shit Special for nothing.

First, they waxed along the sides of my underwear. No big whoop. Next, the ripping of the wax off the side.  And truly, this? Also no big whoop. I honestly thought to myself, "Really, that's it? That's all ya got?"  Don't get me wrong, it's nothing to be looking forward to or anything, but it didn't hurt.   More of a mild annoyance. But when she said, "okay, there's a little bleeding but that's normal" my eyes did bug some.  I didn't look right away, but when I finally did, damn if I could find any blood.

Of course, there's the hair that is outside the bikini bottom line that is in closer proximity to the, uh, you know, "Promised Land".  She was going to just leave it with just the sides being done until I meekly mentioned about that other part of the bikini body. "Um, sooooo....can you do...I mean, I guess I can pass being shy about this and ask you, I mean, seeing as you've just seen my crotch and all." 

She was amenable to this. Thankfully, this didn't involve any weird posing other than shifting my knee out to make a #4 with my legs (and trust me, after the research I have done on this topic (seriously, I invite you to read the comments of that entry), depending on the extent of the hair removal, there are positions that would rival the Downward Dog.  And it was the possibility of these weird positions that caused me to worry, "Oh God, what if I fart? What if I HAVE to fart? I would die. Oh my God, I would absolutely die.")

This waxing, while a little more sensitive due to locale, also didn't hurt.

It (surprisingly) also didn't even hurt when she said she was going to get the tweezers to grab a few stubborn ones. ("uh, did you just say 'tweezers'??")

What was not pleasant was a result of her asking, "So, do you want a little off the top? Heh, that sounded kinda weird."  I had asked do most people do that. Oh, they do? Alright, sign me up.

Okay, THAT was the part that kind of hurt like a bitch. That part I could have done without.

A few other positive highlights of this whole event (that took less than 10 minutes by the way):

Not hearing, "Hey Bev, clear all my appointments for the rest of the night."

Not hearing, "Yeah, we're going to need a lot more wax."

Not hearing, "Oh....well that's...interesting."

Not hearing, "Seriously, a new pair of underpants might run ya, what,...6 bucks?"

Not hearing, "Did you just fart?"  Because I didn't. Not even once.

Overall, I would say the event a success. I might go so far to say I was worked up over nothing.  Don't get me wrong, I'm sure if I gone in for the, um,... "Telly Savalas" as many women do, I might be singing a different tune.  But I didn't and the C.S.S. worked for me and it can work for you, too.

And maybe, just maybe, I do have some superior High Threshold to Pain genetics working for me.  And maybe next time, I can afford to be a little more brave.

Threat Level: Midnight (Part 1)

Alright!

I have done it!

I have made an appointment, for 6:00 this very evening, for a waxing.

Down there.

(oh yes, down *there*)

Being that I am a first timer I am pretty anxious and it's my selfish hope that of the few non-recessive genes that I have in my aresenal, "high threshold to pain" is one of them.  Still, even with the hope of manageable pain, I am terrified.   Let's be honest here though, given what I am about to submit my delicate bits to, I would say my terror is **completely justifiable**. (Teebs, please, this is NOT the time to play your your "oh, I'll give you pain, Miss I- never just went thru 48.5 hours of labor, you sorry, whiny little scud. Go thru that - THEN we'll talk." card.  Yeah, not always about you.)

If for some reason, I do not come out on the other end ...er, side...er Christ, I mean, IF I DON'T MAKE IT, it was lovely knowing all of you.

However, if I do in fact make it out alive (with a bag a frozen peas? whu? too soon?) I will be sure to post my tale of woe. 

(Yeah, I know, I know. Aint you a lucky bunch.)

...Okay, now where did I put that bottle of Advil?...

To sleep, perchance to dream-- ay, there's the rub

Hoping to take SOME of the sting out of the previous post re: "the dream", I had some more info come to me on the bus ride into work.

You know how when you see something or someone and you wonder, "why does that/he/she seem familiar?" Sometimes is deja vu, sometimes, it could be something else, like say, a dream.

For me, when my eyes accidentally landed and fixed on someone's Metro paper and I saw the review for All the King's Men which included a movie still of Sean Penn & Mark Ruffalo, that was that moment for me.

Now whether or not I'm about to admit to a FOURsome by copping to the following is really besides the point (or at least give me a pass on it, because really, people, have I not already admitted the worst to you?) but for some reason, Mr. Mark Ruffalo seems reaaaaaally, uh, "familiar" from yesterday morning.

And this.....THIS...actually makes sense to me as I HAVE in fact gotten swoony on him.

See?

Cute, down to earth, charming, and most key here kids: definitely, definitely doable.

How DV (won't even spell out his name now) got there, or how my sweet baby Mark morphed into DV (thus leaving me scarred for life), I'll never know.  I'm sure it's all a sign that I'm severely messed in the head (or maybe that my taste in men "has range" which apparently is not limited to quirky, height challenged ones) but someone the fact that Mark was there makes me feel a LITTLE better.