I originally thought about sharing this video on my personal Facebook page but changed my mind. Not because I thought it would be too controversial, or I worried what others might think. I didn’t post it there because I felt that it would get lost in a sea of day-to-day crap and all the other pointless shit I post. And this is something that’s meant to be seen and not just glanced over.
About three-ish years ago, I trekked on down to see BFFF for her bitchin’ Bachelorette Shindig.* At some point, I dropped by her Husbando’s office – I can only assume it was to give BFFF a break and to bother him for awhile. Anyways, here’s your picture of the day:
I don’t know his(?) name, but he seemed to be some sort of Important Figure in the office. Hell, he even got his own industrial-furniture Throne! I, however, probably had to sit on the floor in a pile of paperwork and mislabeled keys while I watched my friend download iTunes do important work at his computer.
Just another day at the office.
*Dear BFFF, I have video of you dancing in a cage before the drag show. Just FYI. Love, BFFF.
Probably the best picture of my Dad and Brother EVER.
Happy Father’s Day, Pa!
What the hell, Julie? What’s with all the dentist stories?
I don’t know! I can’t stop myself.
The office was incredibly small. When I walked in, I briefly panicked – Oh my God did I just walk into someone’s house? I swear I saw the sign on the door. There was a sign right? Oh my God – until I saw the front desk area.
To this point, I’d only visited one dentist. He had a very small practice; I never ever remember there being any kind of assistants or hygienists working with him. He did everything, and I just assumed that’s how everyone did it. A dental n00b, I was.
So when the hygienist came in to clean my teeth, I thought she was the dentist. But – as far as I knew – my dentist was a Vietnamese woman, and this lady in front of me looked… what’s the opposite of Vietnamese?
She was blonde, and smiley, and probably about my age. She was also quite friendly in a superficial, plasticky kind of way (let’s call her Skipper, shall we?) and wasted no time asking about my life. Where did I work? Where did I live?
Then she asked about my husband.
Uh, what?
She asked it so matter-of-factly that I was completely and totally taken off guard. “Uh, I’m not married,” I stammered.
“Oh,” she said. “A fiance, then? Boyfriend?”
Internally, I was rankled. She seemed to have some 1950s-era idea about girls of my age. I desperately wanted to lie and tell her that I was in a committed relationship with a Black woman and we were raising 4 Hispanic babies together, but she had her hands in my mouth. The possibility for accidental injury was high.
So I acquiesced – If I told the truth, she seemed the type to grill me about why I was single. So I figured I might as well have a little fun.
I quickly invented a boyfriend – a fiance backstory seemed too difficult to cook up on the spot – and she seemed eager to hear all the details.
“What does he do?” she asked.
“Oh, haha, I actually don’t know. He works in science. He’s a scientist. Doing lab things.” Apparently part of my imaginary life involved me being a blithering idiot.
Skipper was ALL IN at this point. “Oooh, does he work at [name of mega-pharmaceutical company that ruled the city]?”
“Oh, yes. Definitely.”
“Where did you meet?”
Well, there’s this club I work at where the men like to be spanked…
“Um, through friends.”
“Oh, that’s great! Is he from here?”
Lady, why are you so damn nosy?
“Actually, he’s from…” I briefly paused. I was about to leave this city, would never see this woman again, might as well go balls-to-the-wall, eh?
“…England. He’s English. British, I mean.”
Skipper about peed herself.
“Oh my gosh, wow! What’s his name?”
“Uh… Liam.”
He has this brother, Noel. They fight a lot, though.
“So what is he like? Is he very polite? Does he want to take you to England? Does he have an accent?”
Yup, and he wears a bowler hat and smokes a pipe! Like, all the time. It’s kind of annoying, really. It gets in the way of our stiff and proper lovemaking.
I honestly don’t know what else I told her about my British Scientist Boyfriend. I sort of regretted the decision as soon as I made it, because Skipper would not shut up about him. Eventually I said something about never being able to see him because he was always working, and she went into Full-On Dear Abby Mode.
“Oh, that’s rough. You just need to make sure it’s extra-special when you do see him, though. Cook him a nice dinner and get all dressed up and make him feel special.”
Are you freaking kidding me, lady?
When the dentist came in and Skipper finally exited, I breathed a sigh of relief. The dentist seemed more concerned about my teeth than my personal life, and quickly determined that I had a cavity that needed tending.
Which, of course, meant I’d be back in again.
I really hoped Skipper wasn’t working.
This is a swatch of fabric from which my Doctor Friend made me a toss pillow. Isn’t it awesome?!
Juanita has only seen two dentists in her entire life. Meaning: she went to a dentist as a kid, then when she became an adult she got a new dentist. And she still goes to that office.
Well, okay, so Dentist 2 has since retired. But his younger female companion with whom he has an indeterminate relationship took over his practice so basically it’s been the same person.
In contrast, I’ve seen about 739 dentists – a victim of moving to multiple states and having multiple insurances (and, when I wasn’t insured, multiple Groupons).
Long story short, I booked an appointment with a new dentist today, and the experience has left me a little hesitant.
It started off great. Barb (not her real name) was initially super friendly on the phone. We got past the “yes I can schedule an appointment for you” and “what is your first and last name?” phase quickly but immediately hit a roadblock.
Barb: Is your phone number xxxxxx?
Julie: Oh, um, no.
B: Oh.
Long pause
B: Just a second
<muffled talking in the background>
<more muffled talking>
B: Huh. That’s weird.
<more muffled talking>
Woman in background: verify the date of birth!
What the hell is going on?
B: Your date of birth?
J: xxxxxxx
B: And your name was… xxxxx?
J: Um, yes…
<more muffled talking>
B: Can I put you on hold?
J: Uh, sure.
<complete silence for about a minute>
Am I on some sort of Dental Watch List? What is going on?
B: Can I get your address?
J: xxxxx, xxxxx, Missouri, 55555
B: What’s the ZIP code?
It’s what I just said
J: 55555
B: Uh, when can you come in?
J: I’m flexible. Any day, preferably before noon. Earlier the better.
B: Oh, she can come in any day.
Who are you talking to?
B: How about July xxx?
J: Sure.
B: I have a 5:00? Is that too early?
J: Oh, I’m sorry. I can’t that late. I work in the evenings. Preferably before noon, if possible.
Didn’t I just say that?
B: Oh, ok.
B: She can’t do evenings!
WHO ARE YOU TALKING TO?
B: She says before noon.
J: Yes, please.
You weren’t talking to me, were you?
B: Can I put you on hold?
J: Uh, sure.
<complete silence for another minute or so>
B: How about 1:00? I have a 1:00 on xx. Does that work?
J: Um, okay, sure. That’ll work.
JUST GET ME OFF THE PHONE. IT HAS BEEN TEN MINUTES.
B: Okay, great! We’ll see you then!
In all fairness, “Barb” was not listed on the office’s website as an employee, so maybe she’s new at working in a dental office.
And possibly at operating a telephone.
So I’m sitting here, pondering my last post and contemplating my next one, when I hear a ruckus outside my window.
Maybe it’s because I once lived in an apartment that was almost entirely furnished from (magnificently-decent!) discarded treasures, or I’m just incredibly nosy by nature, but my freaky-keen Dumpster radar perked up at the noise. Sure ‘nough, New Maintenance Guy* and some other work-booted rando are dragging giant wooden things across the parking lot to the Dumpster.
Um, not just any wooden things.
Pallets, y’all.
PALLETS.
For anyone who has spent more than .2 miliseconds on Pinterest, you know that a good 83% of all home-decor/ craft projects involve repurposing a wooden pallet. Personally, I think most of these ideas are cool as hell, but there was always a problem: Where the fuck do I find a wooden pallet? Seriously. The sheer volume of Pallet Crafts on Pinterest would lead one to assume there were some sort of Wooden Pallet Depository in every town in the USA.
I checked the Yellow Pages. No dice.
And yet, here I am: gazing out my bedroom window, the blank canvas of all my crafty fantasies RIGHT FREAKING THERE. Just taunting me.
Herein lies many, many, many problems:
1. NMG and Rando put the pallet IN the Dumpster. The two of them. I would certainly need help removing it.
1a. Also, it was in the Dumpster. Ew. Icky.
2. It’s huge. Where do these Pinterest People store these things? It takes up the entire Dumpster.
2a. Also, my living room is approximately the size of a Dumpster.
3. Off the top of my head, I cannot remember ANY of the cool Pallet Uses I’ve seen and wanted to try.
3a. Also, I’ve not pinned any of them, because, seriously: WHERE THE HELL WOULD I FIND A WOODEN PALLET?
Except, you know, in my own backyard.
So close, and yet so unattainable.
EDIT: No more than five seconds after I snapped this picture did I hear a trash truck pull up. I guess it was just not meant to be, dear Pallet.
*Maintenance Guy Who Never Wears Pants no longer works here. When I heard he was leaving I was genuinely disappointed. Sure, I’ll miss the sight of his man-legs peeking out from between work boots and jorts, but really: he was awesome at his job. Like, everything was fixed immediately. I don’t know how he was able to do it all. Amphetamines, maybe.
I dally in a wide variety of inside-joke circles, with enough peripheral understanding to appreciate (and occasionally make) a good funny. Maybe not everyone will understand the significance of this one, but that’s okay.
Watching the replay of Monday’s 7-1 victory against the D-Backs, I caught a glimpse of something magical in the dugout. After Beltran’s 2-run dinger in the sixth, the camera followed him as his teammates offered congratulations:
Wait — that’s can’t be. Is it? Is David Freese…
…smiling?
Not only THAT, but he turned around and did it again!
Incredible.
Hey, America!
Remember when Bob Dole was all over our televisions talking about how he couldn’t get it up? Remember how we all really needed to know about that?
No?
Yeah, me neither.
Though celebrity endorsements certainly pre-date tacky Viagra ads, Mr. Dole’s campaign cast an unflattering light on this weird little trend.
Some of these TV spots are, admittedly, worse than others. Sure, we all know that Wilfred Brimley’s got the diabeetus. But watching him ride a horse while waxing poetic about Liberty Medical Home Testing Supplies just isn’t as off-putting as, say, Joe Theismann implying he’s got a prostate the size of a grapefruit and that he needs to take a leak every ten minutes.
I don’t fault the celebrities for wanting / needing to make these ads. I fault the ad-makers themselves for thinking that a Famous Person is needed to help sell their product.
Say I am a woman who experiences occasional urinary incontinence. Like, to the point where it’s a thing. I am going to be VERY AWARE that this is a Problem, and I will VERY INTENTIONALLY seek out some sort of Product to help me with this Problem. Oh, I see there is a television commercial for a Product for people like me! Great. Fine. Just let me get myself to the Walgreens right quick and nip this in the bud.
See? I didn’t need to know that Whoopi Goldberg pees herself a little, too. I don’t need Kirstie Alley to make me feel like this is an A-OK situation. In fact, I could have gone my entire life not knowing that Whoopi needs to pack a box of Special Pads in her carry-on. Um, ew. Just show a Normal Person (er, “television-normal” person). It’s all I need. I wasn’t, like, on the fence before: Should I just piss my drawers and deal with it? What would Rebecca Howe do?
I’d like to think that I have average-human levels of self-confidence and thus, don’t need this sort of reassurance. I’d also like to think that humanity (American humanity, that is) hasn’t gotten itself so beaten-down into celebrity-worship submission that we NEED Jamie Lee Curtis to appear on our TVs rubbing her tummy and talking about bowel-regulating yogurt. Hey advertising person who came up with that one: I don’t care how often that woman takes a shit, and I never will. If I feel like my colon’s in disarray, and I really like eating yogurt, then I will buy your product. End of story.
This extends into things that aren’t even consumer goods, a la Mr. Dole’s little blue pills. Are patients actually going to their doctors, asking for “those eye drops that Maggie from Northern Exposure sells?”* I also don’t care that Sally Field and Blythe Danner have old-lady bones. In fact, I already knew that they have old-lady bones, seeing as they are old ladies. With bones. If my doctor thinks I need that medicine, she’ll prescribe it for me.
Because, after all, she’s seen the commercial too.
*Sorry, Janine Turner. That is all you are to me.
the sloppy copy 