Random Notes from the Dentist's Chair

The hygienist pulled a file from a tray that gleamed the silver shine of something sterile and applied it--with quick, cursory strokes--to the tip of the dental pick. When she took the instrument to my teeth, sweeping the metal just under my gums, my eyes shut into a grimace that pulled my cheeks with it. I widened my jaw to counteract the scrunch.

As she worked on my teeth and more than likely rehearsed the ol' "perhaps it's time you acknowledged the existence of dental floss" lecture in her head, I was left to my own mental devices. This is what I thought as I lay there with a bloddy, gaping maw: I would rather get weekly pap smears than go through this crap twice a year.

If flossing is the answer, it's not an easy one. I mean, do I even know anyone who flosses? The Partner doesn't. My parents don't. I saw a lot of things amidst the communal indiscretion of dorm living during my college days, but flossing wasn't among them. I can only come up with one friend that I know for sure used to floss on a daily basis (while watching television, no less)--but she is now the mother of infant triplets and I have to wonder how she could possibly find a spare minute, let alone the requisite amount of energy, to suck on tooth string once every 24 hours. If I'm wrong, I hope she'll comment below. I may very well be wrong. The girl is shockingly disciplined.

When the dentist came in to poke around the hygienist's handiwork in an effort to at least make it look like he was doing something to earn the $300/hour being billed to my insurance company, he told me I really work my jaw like a pro. Okay, he didn't use those exact words, but I'm sure I'm not flattering myself too much. What he said was, "you're the ideal patient, the way you hold your mouth open so wide."

That's not what he tells all the girls, is it?

Why I Vote For Sanjaya

If I may: American Idol is no sacred cow. It may moo like one, but it is not. It drinks from the trough in the barnyard of pop-culture entertainment and waits for the farmers to come milk it for all it's worth.

I don't for one minute believe the show is a "singing contest." It never was. Any show that relies wholly on unrestricted calls from the viewing public is not going to be an honest evaluation of voice, pitch, phrasing, resonance, or any of the other musical terms me and the most of the United States know nothing about.

What we all know is personality. Shock value. Fun. Diversion. Rumor. Intriuge. Good hair. Boobies.

Even before campaigns such as Vote For the Worst, which gained popularity when Howard Stern got behind the old farm tractor of subversion, it was a popularity contest. By definition. Votes got tallied and the most popular won. Not the best singer. Not the most gifted showperson. Just the guy or girl with the most supporters in his or her stable.

This season, I called in my votes to American Idol for the first time ever. I did it because I was finally excited about the outcome. I wanted to participate in the mass market sociology experiment designed to test the meaning of "reality" entertainment. How far would it go? How close to the "best" would the "worst" take it? At what point do those concepts flip? Is there a place where they merge? And, most importantly: what the hell is reality, anyway?

No matter how you look at it, the controversy is good for ratings.

And that's entertainment.

Did You Know. . .

. . .that I'm part Irish and part Polish?

Yeah. I get drunk and act stupid.


Ba-dum-bum.


It's funny 'cause it's true.

American Idol, Pre-School Song Writing Edition

My friend's daughter is a pre-schooler who likes to write songs. I think she's got what it takes to go far.

Don't believe me?

You be the judge.

"I ask my mom for a chore,
She says sure, how ‘bout four.
So I do the dishes
And she acts suspicious."

~ Bella, age 4

It's a bit unnerving to feel as if I have to move over for the next generation before I've even taken a seat.

VisualDNA As I See It

Read my VisualDNA™ Get your own VisualDNA™

I discovered this VisualDNA thing over at Whirlwind's blog today. I clicked on a picture that most represented me in a bunch of different categories and, voila, there was my personality, deconstructed. According to my VisualDNA, I:

~ Like to think differently, always from another perspective.
~ Have a high sex drive and appetite for "lurve."
~ Love to be in charge of where I'm going--the freedom of choosing my own direction.
~ Like to unwind after a long day--nothing beats relaxing the shoulders, loosening the tongue and letting the day go by.
~ Think of technology when I think of freedom.

Ah, technology. The freedom to bore untold numbers of people with my personality.

You know you want to do it, too.

The Boss Fills In

I'm swamped. Who isn't, right? Since I don't have time to pull together four coherent sentences, I thought I'd bring in The Boss to do a guest post. Not that's she's coherent, either. But she's really cute.

With this quick transcription, I will be on my way. Here goes:

Hi! Look. Bear. Look. Hat. Dog! Dog! Look. Ball. Thank you.

~ The Boss, age 16 months

Photo by Lauren

The Tail End of Autumn in New England

The fall of the frostbitten scarecrow.

May your November nights be warm and comfortable, and your December days not too much of a pain in the. . .well, you know.

Completely Useless Information That I Would Never Share If I Had Anything Better To Write About, Brought to You By NaBloPoMo

The states in red? I've visited 'em. The rest is a gray void that I won't be happy 'til I've filled.

I want to travel cross-country on a southern bent in a rented Winnebago for the better part of the month of May.


Create your own personalized map of the USA