The Dentist

The dentist's office is the only place that I know of in which you allow a person you don't know to put their hands in your mouth, and you pretend they don't exist. 

Surely if someone on the street were to put a hand - gloved or not - into your mouth, you'd have some choice words for them. But here in the office that smells of fluoride and latex, you stare beyond them into the brightest light known to man, pretending the masked person hovering a few inches from your face isn't there at all. 

You know as well as I do that looking into the dentist's eyes would be astonishingly uncomfortable.  Think about it. No one wants to be seen like this. 

And you probably don't want to psych out the person wielding the space weapons. 

This will never be a reality: 

Neither will this. I pray your tongue cannot see. 

Even if you think keeping your eyes closed will ease the tension, there will always be small talk. Chit-chatting about your time off and your major are fine anywhere else, but here, where people encourage you to spit in front of them, it's worse. The dentist could be the nicest person you've ever met, but you simply can't hold a conversation when your mouth only allows you to make vowel sounds. 

Blaaeuoaruaooaaruuaeugh. 

Shield Your Eyes!

It's that time again, folks. Soon enough, the scent of chocolate will permeate everything. People will feel a mixture of happiness and nausea.  Some will succumb to the gaiety and latch on to their loved ones, while others will watch The Notebook with that Haagen Dazs boy I've heard so much about.

Valentine's Day. Because nothing says love like arrows puncturing vital organs.

Now, I have no problem with the chocolate or the flowers or the hand-holding. It's the kissing. Nearly everywhere you turn, people will be locking lips.

I know. It's awful.

What are you supposed to do? Here's the plan.
1) Run.
2) Hide in a crevice of some sort until you stop crying.
3) Re-enter the room.
4) Maintain this facial expression:

Problem solved. 

Fly Me to the Moon

Republican candidate and former beet farmer Newt Gingrich has his eye on the prize. First, the presidency. Immediately afterward, THE MOON.  Well, within eight years, the moon. But Newt's going places.

Slowly but surely. 

"When we have 13,000 Americans living on the moon, they can petition to become a state," Speaker Gingrich said boldly.  The 600,000 Americans in DC can wait. 

The instinctively grandiose Newt promised a "365 day a year relentless pressure" to embody the lyrics of Daft Punk. I believe the music video also illustrates Newt's plans for any illegal aliens on the moon. 

All we hear about from the Gingrich camp is the Rocket Man. What about Callista? From what I've seen, you mustn't speak to the future first lady, as human contact alarms her. 

         

It turns out Mrs. Gingrich III published a children's book called Sweet Land of Liberty about an elephant who sets off on a quest to discover what made America the home of the free. 

As a former American child myself, I can tell this will be a best-seller--if it isn't already--especially if she took notes from the great Maurice Sendak. 

Overall, things are looking up for the Gingriches. Let's hope Florida pulls through. 

...My Mistake

When you engage in conversation with someone you don't know, seemingly normal comments can go awry when you least expect it.  

For instance, the question "when are you due" can be a dangerous one. If you receive this look, you'll know the answer. That person isn't pregnant. She's just fat. 

Or perhaps she's a man. Sometimes it's not clear.

When I cut my hair in fourth grade, my dad took me to work and one of his students said "Is this your son?" and her friend said, "that's a girl," which didn't stop her from saying, "HE'S SO CUTE!" 

While I appreciated that she found me adorable, I still wept quietly into my Spongebob t-shirt and asked Dad if we could go home. For some father-son bonding time. 

"Is this your [significant other]" can be a toughie too. Last night a comedian asked two people if they were married or dating. They were cousins, which is wrong in the eyes of Mark Zuckerberg. 

Moral of the story: stop speaking to people.  It's just too painful.

You're In My Seat

Humans are creatures of habit. Most people have routines they follow or schedules they adhere to.  When something goes awry in that pattern, a small piece of us panics.

For instance, you go to class, and you sit in the same seat every day. Then one day, something's different. There is something foreign in your territory. Someone is sitting in your seat. Oh, no. You will not have this. 

But really, there is nothing you can do. Your spot is no longer yours. The early bird caught your worm, so to speak. There is an imbalance in your universe, and you're forced to accept it. 

You don't want to be the person who says "Uh, excuse me, *garble garble*, you're in my seat." You can just imagine the face you'd be given. The battle was over before it begun. 

UNTIL, the invader leaves! He is gone! It turns out he was only printing something before class. I got my seat back. 

Success!

Ha ha...

Everyone knows that person who is just bad at making jokes. If you can't think of one, I'm sorry. It's you.

This person makes their remark and then waits. They look around with a smirk, eyebrows either raised or at half mast. 

You have mere seconds to react. What do you do? Option 1: Indulge them. Squeeze out a laugh like it's you're duty.  People do this with children who have yet to grasp humor. And they chuckle like they didn't just hear the kid tell the same knock-knock joke four times.

But I warn you: if you open door number 1, it will never be closed. You are now the target audience, to be held captive if necessary. You may also be subject to elbowing or winking from that point on. 

Your laughter is a stamp of approval.  Use it wisely.

Depending on your mood that day, or your relationship with the joker, you might not be too eager to encourage their behavior. I know I've felt like giving the Squidward look to someone before.

Be careful not to crush their spirits. You never know, they might make you laugh for real one day.

Not bad.

Fatigue

Being tired is the worst. I realize that there are far more awful things than lack of sleep, but go with it, for the sake of this post.

I think we've all felt that horror in class when you realize you have no idea how long your eyes have been closed and you jerk back into consciousness.

The struggle to keep your head up and your eyes open is difficult enough.  

Eventually, some of us succumb to the weight of our eyelids. The room is warm. Your professor's voice is deep and soporific. And then I don't know what happens, really. I've never fallen asleep in class. But then you're the guy I'm not sure whether to poke or not. 

You might try napping before that class (philosophy) you can't stay awake in. But the nap will only make you more tired. Thanks a lot, brain. That was helpful. 

When you get out of class, you take a longer nap, and it feels wonderful. A success. Until later that night when you realize it's the reason you can't fall asleep. 

And you wake up beautiful. 

Buttfaced Miscreant

Reaction time: it's no one's strength. Unless you're a debater. Or a comedian. Or if you thought of your comeback a few days beforehand and practiced what the entire conversation would sound like in your head. But for most of us, the really good stuff, the wittiest or most profound comment you could have made comes to you hours, or worse, minutes later than you needed it. And then it's useless. There's no way to go back.  

Today I found this Shakespeare Insult Kit on the interweb and decided that I'm going to make every combination of those words and keep them in my pockets.  And in times of desperation, I could pull out a phrase like Colin and Ryan did on Whose Line Is It Anyway. The result would be scathing. For instance, who could possibly come back from something like "Thou smell of mountain goat, thou frothy fat-kidneyed foot licker!" Not many. I, for one, am very sensitive about my kidneys.

This all reminded me of one of my favorite moments from Gilmore Girls. Logan Huntzberger had thoroughly embarrassed Rory during one of her classes, and when she saw him next, she really let him have it. The best part, of course, was that her string of insults ended with "buttfaced miscreant."

I loved those words so much, I wrote a song about them. I kid you not. But I refuse to show any evidence, thou spleeny lily-livered bladder!!

Let me know when you think of your comeback.

Don't Forget the Tissues

Alright. I have a confession to make. I'm a crier. It's not really a secret, I suppose, because if you've ever watched anything with me, you'd know.

The other day, I tortured myself by watching the 3rd season finale of LOST with friends.  It's heart-wrenching. One of my favorite characters (I WON'T TELL YOU WHO) dies a heroic death, but first he writes a list of his favorite memories. I would gush about it more, but that would totally give it away (if the picture below doesn't).

I loved this character. I was invested. And I started weeping three episodes before his demise. My friend next to me wasn't quite sure how to react. My short "don't look at me!" probably didn't help. 

Sorry about that. 

While Charlie dying--CRAP I said it--was hard, the film 50/50 was agony. The movie itself was phenomenal, but I was shaking with tears. I knew it would happen, too. Did I bring tissues? NO. And it was the face-distorting, lip-quivering kind of cry that you can't suppress; the kind where noise seeps out of you when you exhale and you have absolutely no control. Then my boyfriend held my hand to console me. Valiant effort, but sweet gestures only worsen the condition.  I'm sure I looked lovely when we left the theater. 

Luckily, I watched UP in the privacy of my own home. Goodness, Carl, you broke my heart. 

Oops.

When I forget a word, I'm usually able to say "it starts with a [letter]" and be somewhat accurate (the letter is at least in the word). There are other times I forget completely, and try to back-track to figure out what my thought was, but by then it's lost and gone forever. These moments are frustrating, but I don't hold a grudge against my brain or anything. It tries its best.

During Wednesday's presidential debate, Texas Governor Rick Perry's brain just gave up. While attempting to list government agencies he'd get rid of if he became president, Perry couldn't remember the third. One of the moderators tried to move on, but John Harwood wasn't going to let this one slide. Take a peek if you can stomach the discomfort and sweaty palms.

Alright, shake it off. I know that was hard to watch. I've watched it so many times.  Now, I'm not a fan of Perry, but the human part of me was hoping a cane would come from off screen and pull him off stage by the neck.

It would have been a relief. It's bad enough when you just can't remember. But forgetting when the world is watching is just awful. Is there anyone out there who didn't cringe?

Jon Stewart really went at it on the Daily Show this week. It's really something you have to watch for yourself. Stewart won't let him forget it.

"This debate will be forever remembered for one thing and one thing only, and Rick Perry can't remember what it is," Stephen Colbert said on his show that same night.  "I was worried there until he stuck the landing with 'sorry, oops.'"

There is another debate tonight (Nov. 12). Let's hope someone has that cane ready.