the sloppy copy

Today I tried hard to think of a friend who has a job that is not inherently interesting and guess what? I can’t.

This is not to say that everyone I know has thrill-a-minute, 110% excitement all day long at work. It’s just that everyone I know, whether they’re working a cash register at Burger King or staring at lines of computer code for hours upon hours, ends up with a cache of Good Work Stories to tell.

And it’s for this reason that I will never be a dentist.

There really wasn’t any possibility of this actually happening before, for the record. In fact, before my Dentist Friend began regaling us with tales of mouths gone horribly wrong I found the idea of that line of work …well, let’s just say it takes a special person to do it, and I am not special.

Dentists really have it rough. I mean, regardless of how fabulously you keep up your oral hygiene they still have to peer inside and poke around to check things out. And, if I understand it correctly, not everyone maintains such fabulous oral health. So for every minty-fresh, picture-perfect, toothpaste-commercial smile they see, I’m certain there’s a waiting room full of truly terrible dental trainwrecks awaiting them.

And then there’s the fear bit. Are you looking for an occupation that causes young children to scream at the sight (or mere thought!) of you? Or do you want to work with adults who need to be heavily sedated before they can interact with you?** Then maybe Dental School is the right choice!

So throw in the people who genuinely fear the dentist, along with those who cannot afford it or simply feel it’s not necessary, and I imagine you get a lot of people who just sort of… don’t go.

Like, ever.*

Until, of course, something’s gone Very Very Bad.

Like, “my teeth are falling out of mouth and the pain is so bad I can’t breathe” bad.

Imagine the absolute treat that’s in store for their poor dentists once their frightened little gobs are coaxed ajar.

Yikes.

Also, this ad came in the mail a few weeks ago: an almost full-page, full-color piece of cardstock.
This is the first image that caught my eye:

What accepts most insurances (which, incidentally, doesn’t sound like a real word)?
What the hell are they advertising?

Oh. Of course.

*Ew.
**actually, that’s almost a selling point

I woke up today in a crap mood. It happens to all of us sometimes, but it passes and life goes on. Unfortunately, it’s the in-between time of waiting for it to pass that can be excruciating.

Sometimes it’s kinda fun to be in a bad mood. To shoot down everything that every person says to you with a nasty, snide remark is a victory in smug self-righteousness. Unless, of course, the person to whom you’re speaking is a dear loved one.

Then you’re just being a bitch.

For quite awhile, I would just force myself to snap out of a bad mood for the sake of others. No one wants to be brushed off, however unintentional it might be, so I figured if I faked it til I regained my composure I’d be doing everyone a favor.

But faking it does no favors. You just end up feeling worse and as it turns out? The people around you are not imbeciles and pick up on your fake-ness, which makes for more unnecessary dramatics. The other person no doubt wonders why you have to try so damn hard. Do you no longer enjoy his or her company? Is there some sort of thing you are hiding from him or her? And because you are behaving so standoffishly, he or she might not be so inclined to confront you about it anyway. So they wonder, and begin to stew themselves into their own crap mood, until you’ve effectively created a disgusting, disastrous recipe. Or at least, that’s been my unpleasant, admittedly dysfunctional, experience.

It took me shamefully long to realize that just owning up to the fact that – for whatever reason – you are just in an impatient / angry / otherwise crappy mood alleviates so much more  tension. For some reason, telling someone “I’m so sorry, but I’m in a bad mood and I know I will not be good company today so can we reschedule for another day?” seemed like some GREAT BIG DEAL OMG OMG OMG

Don’t get me wrong, I still sometimes find myself in the midst of faking super-happy-awesome-fun-times-yeah! and then apologizing, after the fact, for actually being such poor, snarky company.

Because as it turns out? I’m human. It’s what we do.

An abridged text exchange with the BFFF on my birthday:

I am sorry you are having to work. Can I call in and ask for a specific operator? I totally should.

Yes, I am looking for operator 2684 bc she gets my pimp to calm down the best.

OPERATOR 527! I think the balloon of coke in my ass busted.

Yes, operator 367 bc she remembers where my crack pipe is hidden.

Operator 684? I forgot my safe word.

OPERATOR 2935 NOW!! I AM STRANDED IN SHADYVILLE AND DON’T HAVE MAH BLADE

37878, do you remember when I called in about 9 months ago? Where was I and do you remember his name?

346 please. Why? Well I am out of fuckin NUTELLA

Also if I could all in a Nutella crisis I would. I am fucking OUT.

That’s no joke. Call 911.

om nom nom nom

What a beautiful day! The sun is shining, birds are a chirp-chirp-chirpin’ in the trees, and one of my neighbors has become violently ill and seems to be running the sink in a weak attempt to mask the noise of some truly horrific vomiting.

While I toy with the idea of finding a more permanent housing situation (I have to phrase it that way because the words “Julie” and “buying a house” still don’t sound like they belong in the same sentence), there are currently ba-jillions of variables floating around in the air; I cannot realistically contemplate how that would even go.

So in the meantime I will content myself with my cozy little apartamento, with the sounds of raucous vomiting, enthusiastic lovemaking, heartfelt singing and screams in various foreign languages to surround me all my days. Because despite the children playing in the Dumpster and the car alarms going off at odd hours – this is probably the best place I’ve lived. Like, for real.

Now if only I could convince all of my friends to move to this city, I’d be set.

This is not an album review, but maybe it kind of is.

Okay so there was this band. I knew a couple of their songs and I liked those songs. Those songs were catchy. A few people I knew were going to see them play and I was all like ‘Oh, sure, I’ll go too!’ You’ve done this before, right? The tickets are super cheap and the people are fun and it’s at a near-legendary venue in town and you know two songs and those two songs are good and besides, you have plenty of time to listen to more so what the hell, right?

So one of the fun people you’re going to the show with with with whom you’re going to the show burns you legally purchases a copy of the band’s one album for you to listen to and enjoy before the show.

So you give it a listen. And another. And another. And eventually you’re like “What the hell? How is it possible that I like all the songs on this?” It’s been a very long time since you’ve experienced this – liking (and not just tolerating, or excusing, or merely acknowledging the presence of) every track. So you start to get amped for this show, right?

And then you find out the show’s cancelled.

Balls.

Fast forward a few years – all the while listening to and enjoying this album. You’re aware they’ve made more music since then, but for any number of reasons haven’t really given much thought to checking out their next one.

It’s partly because you remember that time you got all excited that So-and-So had another album out and you broke your neck rushing out to get your hands on a copy. Debut Album was fantastic. You listened to it over and over. Surely Sophomore Album would be just as marvelous – maybe even more so!

But it wasn’t. It just wasn’t. And as you listened to Debut Album again, you realized it was because when you were hearing it for the first time, you were  living in another state and hanging out with other people. Turns out, all the warm-and-fuzzy-feel-good sensation you got from listening to Debut Album had very little to do with the artist himself.

Anyway – that’s all behind you now. You’ve matured since then, right? Surely you’re able to handle musical heartbreak without feeling wronged, damnit! So you tentatively check out Catchy Band’s second album.

You preview a few tracks on iTunes are are like – wait, what? I know this one!

And this one, too!

And oh my gosh I love this one!

Adrenaline or serotonin or endorphins or whatever-it-is-that-makes-you-feel-good starts surging through your brain and you’re all like I AM BUYING THIS ALBUM RIGHT DAMN NOW.

And you do.

And – holy shit – you are pleased as fuck. Sophomore Album is as catchy, well-put-together, enjoyable, and all-around awesome as Debut Album.

But you’re not going to tempt fate by checking out Album Three just yet.

P.S. I didn’t think it was entirely relevant to discuss specifics – what the hell band are you talking about, Julie? But if you really care, you may read more about them here.

First, this is a thing.

Anyway, yes. Kansas City is getting an IKEA store. St. Louis is not. We (whoever that is) feels slighted. We have been wronged, y’all. This is INJUSTICE.

Because as everyone knows, you’re not anything until you’ve got an IKEA.

Chicago, Dallas, Cincinnati, Minneapolis- why does everyone else get easy access to modular plywood furniture and fast-food Swedish meatballs?

Apparently, life is unfair.

This makes me irate; not because I particularly give a shit about Ikea, but because there are actually people around here who actually feel this way. As if St. Louis is entitled to a branch of this fucking store.

Just thinking about it makes my head hurt.

Did bobblehead dolls just explode on the memorabilia scene within the past 8 years or so, or is it just me? EVERYONE has a damn bobblehead now, and Juanita is obsessed with them.

Her collection is thus far small; it consists of a pair of Shawn and Gus bobbleheads from television’s Psych (they also say catchphrases from the show, except I’m pretty sure these aren’t legit licensed memorabilia because the voices don’t even remotely sound like James Roday or Dule Hill), and two Cardinals giveaways who seemed to be deep in conversation the last time I visited my parents:

It appears Jim Edmonds is not impressed by David Freese’s junk.

Or David is about to pee all over Jim’s cleats.

It is also not clear if the plastic trumpet and can of air freshener are part of the display.

I did NOT stage this photo, by the way.

I was seeing all these Star Wars references about today’s date on my Facebook wall this morning, and my gentleman friend even texted me a jpeg of the same thing (itty bitty on my shitphone’s screen – I had to borrow a jeweler’s loupe to read it).*

With my limited knowledge of the films, I was trying to figure out what was so special about today. I get the “force be with you” thing. But why this month? I wondered. Doesn’t every month have a fourth? What’s so significant about May the fourth?

May the fourth.

May the fourth.

OH!

May the fourth.

“OH! I get it! Clever.” I texted back.

I think I could hear his hand smacking his forehead from 10 miles away.

*No, I didn’t, but what a great visual! Excuse me, friend, but might I borrow yon Loupe?
Also, I’m Amish? Apparently?