the sloppy copy

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.

So here’s an extremely-hypothetical situation for you, about which I personally am would be extremely-hypothetically excited beyond extremely-hypothetical belief:

Say there is a laptop. It was an old Dell laptop, bought in the fall of 2004. Back in those days, some nefarious individuals would partake in a highly illegal practice of downloading music from a magical place called The Internet and – get this! – they would not pay for it.

“But that’s stealing!” you say, to which I heartily agree. But some people – some poor, despicable souls – simply have no conscience. They treat the rules as their personal playthings, bending and breaking them at will. These souls, dear Reader(s), are the ones who’ve punched a one-way ticket to Hell.

Napster, Limewire, Ruckus – I do not know what these things are but I know they were the Devil’s Tools, taunting cheap young people to help themselves to their tantalizing bounty of music and media. Criminals would spend obscene amounts of time just taking this music that wasn’t theirs – even going so far as to download stuff just because it was there to download. Imagine!

Now also imagine that, for reasons long-ago forgotten, the majority of this highly-illegally procured music just didn’t make the transfer from this old laptop to a new one purchased years later. And this old laptop sat collecting dust in a corner until a few days ago, when its owner very suddenly remembered the treasure trove awaiting her (or him – it could be a him, of course) on its dust-covered hard drive.

So the old laptop is fired up, and – well, it would probably go something like this:

What?!
*gasps* NO WAY!
Oh, fuck!
Oh my God!
Where did this come from?
NO WAY NO WAY NO WAY!
I don’t even know who this is…
Aieeeeeeeeeeee!
SWEEEEEEET!
WHY DIDN’T I DO THIS SOONER?!

on an unrelated note, if anyone hypothetically knows how to convert music files to something that will play on a Mac, I would hypothetically appreciate your input

Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!

I don’t know how to bridge the gap between a heartfelt post and a silly, superficial, meaningless one. This happens a lot on a message board that I use with a group of friends. A friend might post about a family member or friend who needs prayers, and that post will get a few “on it!” “in my prayers!” kind of responses… and then the thread dies for a few days. Something truly hilarious might have happened to to me in the meantime, or I might remember something I wanted to share with the group, but posting “OMG YOU GUYS I SAW A GUY RIDING A MOPED WITH A LEGIT HOBO BINDLE ON HIS BACK” seems a little callous after “Yes, I will pray for your great-uncle’s cat who is dying of toenail cancer.”*

But life goes on, and not always in a nice, orderly fashion. So instead of abandoning this blog for a week I decided to post a pic of said guy on moped.

On closer inspection, I guess it’s not an actual hobo bindle, but you tell me you don’t think there’s at least one can of beans in that backpack.

*I don’t even want to make a realistic hypothetical scenario. 

My heart is breaking for someone I’ve never met. I want to do something, anything, to stop something awful from happening but I cannot. And it makes me angry, and it makes me sad, and it makes me feel hopeless and useless.

I rack my brain for things I can do. What can I do for this person to bring him happiness and comfort? I am just a nobody who reads the internet, an anonymous link-clicker who inexplicably feels so deeply for a stranger that I can’t help but cry when I think of his struggle and its impending end. I think, and cry, and think some more, but I just. don’t. know. How can I help him – him, specifically? I don’t think that I can.

Is there a way to keep this from happening to others like him? It seems more realistic, but none of my ideas go anywhere. I could donate money, I guess, but I want to give and give and give and give some more. I want to pour all my money into stopping this completely, until I’m not sad anymore. But I don’t think that will happen. Money might help, but it won’t feel like helping.

Do I have a talent I could use? I think of my skills, and I think of baking. A bake sale? Where? When? For whom? And I realize: this is just a diversion, not a direct action. I feel overwhelmed thinking about what I want to do and what I can do.

And I feel guilty about feeling overwhelmed. Because I am just an outsider. How do I have the right to feel so deeply? I have the luxury of putting this person from my mind. I can choose to forget about him. He has never been part of my life. He is not my brother, son, my grandson, my nephew or even my friend. I have never met him, and I never will. My sadness is incredibly self-centered: look at me! Look how compassionate I am! Oh, I care too much! Look how I struggle with caring so much! 

Eventually, I’ll feel it less and less and my life will glide right along.

This is really all I can figure out how to say right now.