I love the dentist. I know you're supposed to hate the dentist, but I can't help it. A dental cleaning is like a spa day in your mouth. (Okay, so I guess I love the dental hygienist, but I feel like that comes under the category of "the dentist".) As a kid, I would slowly contemplate each flavor of polish as if choosing ice cream. Now they don't even ask, but I have moved on to more mature luxuries. Now my favorite part is answering smartass responses in my head while my mouth is wide open... "How is my summer going? Well, it was going great until the moment of now, when you just stabbed me in the lip."
In my earliest memory of going to the dentist, he gave me a ring, any ring I wanted. They were all cheap metal adorned with precious fruit, and I chose pineapple. It became my prized piece of jewelry. I was four; perhaps I misunderstood the reward and thought he was proposing to me. Children get confused easily. And why shouldn't they? Life is confusing. You begin by floating around inside someone's belly and from there it only gets weirder. Meanings, of symbols or words, are especially difficult to decipher. I know a toddler who thinks her daddy is a nice lady, and another whose favorite color is diet pink. How was I to know that a ring wasn't a proposal every time it was offered? About a year after the pineapple incident, I had another misunderstanding. I liked the curly-haired boy who sat next to me in our first-grade class. Inspired by puppy love, I wrote a poem of sorts, a work of art in crayon on construction paper: "To: Jacie / Nolan is my boyfriend / Don't tell anyone / From: Abra." Of course, Jacie immediately told everyone. Eventually I learned the actual definition of the word "boyfriend". Before that, though, Nolan stole my brand-new eraser and poked holes in it, so I broke up with him (unbeknownst to him). Art supply abuse is a deal-breaker.
The dentist didn't mistreat erasers, as far as I knew, but our engagement was effectively broken when he moved his practice across town. The new dentist gave out toys! As I got older and began a new relationship -- with the orthodontist -- it occurred to me that maybe I shouldn't have loved the dentist so much. It came to my knowledge that the two were good friends. The orthodontist's last name sounded something like "Psycho," and I could imagine them having lunch together, conspiring ever crueler forms of punishment...
Dentist: Abra has been slacking on flossing. I'm so pissed. You got any ideas?
Psycho: I can always tighten the braces up a notch.
Dentist: I'm envisioning something more... painful.
Psycho: Well, how about affixing a metal bar to opposing teeth that will slowly pull them together?
Dentist, raising his glass: Brilliant! Cheers.
But that was only a bitter daymare of someone going through that teenage I-hate-the-world-and-the-world-hates-me phase. Now that I've grown out of that, I love the dentist once again.
Indeed, I love the dentist, but I hate the hairstylist. I have to confess, I have never been to the same one more than twice. It's pretty much always the same routine to thwart me:
1. Picture. I always use a picture, so as to minimize misunderstandings. The stylist immediately tells me why my hair will never, ever look like this. Which brings me to what I was trying to avoid...
2. Explaining. I attempt to use verbiage and gestures to convey my vision. The stylist ostensibly restates my request "in her own words".
3. Acceptance. Lacking proficiency in hairspeak, I can only repeat Step 2 before inevitably nodding and agreeing reluctantly. The stylist then does the opposite of what I wanted, and I leave looking worse than I came in.
Most of my salon experiences in Korea were literally a cut above anything I'd had before, but I finally fell head over heels for a stylist, happening upon this salon the day before I flew back to the States. Everyone in Korea has amazingly cute hair like anime characters, but based on the misinformation (lies and deceit!!) of American stylists, I wasn't sure it would work on me. "Your head not wrong shape," I was assured. "Your hair not too thick." And so I got the BEST HAIRCUT of my life with DOUBLE the communication barrier for less than TEN DOLLARS, calculating how much that would increase if I flew to Korea and back every six to eight weeks.
Inversely, my one experience with Korean dentistry was disappointing. After examining my mouth, the dentist concluded, "It's not too bad... but it's not too good either. The bad news is you have..." Drumroll, please. "...some fillings." Huh? Don't I know that? I figured she got her English mixed up; she meant to say "cavities." Then she continued, "The good news is you don't have any cavities." Oh, thank God, because for the last decade I had been wondering what those metallic spots were.
Back at home, I gave up on plotting ways to bribe my one true stylist to move to America, and set out to find a replacement. I superstitiously (or racistly) thought a Korean stylist would be a sure bet, so I found one nearby and gave her a chance. What she gave me in return could only be described as Early 90s Newscaster Barbie. Now I really need a spa day. Has it been six months yet?
20120521
20120221
Lost
Of all that I lack, a sense of direction is perhaps the most sorely missed. Mine is so bad, I've gotten disoriented in my own two-bedroom apartment. I've even lost my car.
Visiting a synagogue one day, I left the service to use the restroom, which was like the prize at the end of a maze. The most amaze-ing part was that I didn't get lost in the basement somewhere. But when I reentered the sanctuary, everyone was facing me! I froze. How did I end up at the front? I backed through the door, bewildered. I sat down on some steps to take some deep breaths and find some logic in this madness, and I came up with three possibilities:
1. I went the wrong way.
2. The entire congregation turned around.
3. I just opened the door to a parallel universe.
I'm used to getting lost, so I deduced that the most likely explanation was that I went the wrong way and came through a different door somehow. But carefully retracing my steps brought me to the same door. I couldn't think of a single reason the entire congregation would turn around and face the back, so obviously I had entered into a magical land where everything is backwards. I opened the door to see what adventures awaited me in this other dimension, but this time everything was normal again! New probability:
4. My exorbitant nutmeg consumption has finally caused me to hallucinate. I knew this day would come.
When the service ended, my friend Mandy teased, "I saw you look confused when everyone turned around." Apparently it is a regular part of the service to face the various banners on the walls while reciting creeds or something like that. I think I'll lay off the nutmeg for awhile, anyway.
Visiting a synagogue one day, I left the service to use the restroom, which was like the prize at the end of a maze. The most amaze-ing part was that I didn't get lost in the basement somewhere. But when I reentered the sanctuary, everyone was facing me! I froze. How did I end up at the front? I backed through the door, bewildered. I sat down on some steps to take some deep breaths and find some logic in this madness, and I came up with three possibilities:
1. I went the wrong way.
2. The entire congregation turned around.
3. I just opened the door to a parallel universe.
I'm used to getting lost, so I deduced that the most likely explanation was that I went the wrong way and came through a different door somehow. But carefully retracing my steps brought me to the same door. I couldn't think of a single reason the entire congregation would turn around and face the back, so obviously I had entered into a magical land where everything is backwards. I opened the door to see what adventures awaited me in this other dimension, but this time everything was normal again! New probability:
4. My exorbitant nutmeg consumption has finally caused me to hallucinate. I knew this day would come.
When the service ended, my friend Mandy teased, "I saw you look confused when everyone turned around." Apparently it is a regular part of the service to face the various banners on the walls while reciting creeds or something like that. I think I'll lay off the nutmeg for awhile, anyway.
20120121
Club Contra
I am convinced that at any given moment, something incredible is happening in the world -- you just have to find it.
The first time I went contra dancing, I determined that it was the nerdiest thing I had ever done, which is saying a lot. Until the second time I went contra dancing. This night was advertised as "Club Contra". I didn't believe it until I saw the lights from the disco ball racing along the walls and heard the thumping beat. We're going to do-si-do to this? We all donned glow sticks and someone went around painting one-of-a-kind tribal designs on our faces with glow-in-the-dark paint. Keep in mind that the contra crowd is largely over fifty. If someone had accidentally wandered in off the street, they would have been shocked and appalled: This is what goes on at the neighborhood recreation center at 8:00 p.m. on Saturday? How long has this been happening?!
As my partner is swinging me round and round in the neon-splashed darkness, I wonder how it is that I became part of this insanity and whether the teenaged DJ is experiencing the same existential crisis. How does a DJ even get a gig at a contra dance? (The only reason I even know about contra dance is because of ballroom dance... it's a slippery slope.) Bringing hip-hop to contra is like bringing a vegan dish to a Southern cookout - just going to be smothered with cheese.
The culture of contra dance is confused enough without bringing hip-hop into the mix, anyway. Perhaps due to the archaistic nature of the activity, people seem to have no idea what era to dress from. Anything goes, from shorts with bowling shoes to bright orange hippie dresses with lace-up suede moccasins.
Dance fashion is a problem in general -- just look at prom. Girls wear fancy ballgowns straight from Cinderella so they can jump around to hip-hop like they're in a club? Why don't they just come to Club Contra? Prom doesn't even have glow sticks.
The first time I went contra dancing, I determined that it was the nerdiest thing I had ever done, which is saying a lot. Until the second time I went contra dancing. This night was advertised as "Club Contra". I didn't believe it until I saw the lights from the disco ball racing along the walls and heard the thumping beat. We're going to do-si-do to this? We all donned glow sticks and someone went around painting one-of-a-kind tribal designs on our faces with glow-in-the-dark paint. Keep in mind that the contra crowd is largely over fifty. If someone had accidentally wandered in off the street, they would have been shocked and appalled: This is what goes on at the neighborhood recreation center at 8:00 p.m. on Saturday? How long has this been happening?!
As my partner is swinging me round and round in the neon-splashed darkness, I wonder how it is that I became part of this insanity and whether the teenaged DJ is experiencing the same existential crisis. How does a DJ even get a gig at a contra dance? (The only reason I even know about contra dance is because of ballroom dance... it's a slippery slope.) Bringing hip-hop to contra is like bringing a vegan dish to a Southern cookout - just going to be smothered with cheese.
The culture of contra dance is confused enough without bringing hip-hop into the mix, anyway. Perhaps due to the archaistic nature of the activity, people seem to have no idea what era to dress from. Anything goes, from shorts with bowling shoes to bright orange hippie dresses with lace-up suede moccasins.
Dance fashion is a problem in general -- just look at prom. Girls wear fancy ballgowns straight from Cinderella so they can jump around to hip-hop like they're in a club? Why don't they just come to Club Contra? Prom doesn't even have glow sticks.
20110301
Corporate
Working for corporate is not how I thought it would be. The workplace seems to be designed by child-me: It looks more like a college campus than company property, with a huge sports complex and beach volleyball -- except no one's skipping to play Frisbee in the lawn. And -- is that a treehouse? Seriously, there are two men in suits and ties having a lunch meeting in a treehouse. Or treeoffice. Nope, it's actually called the treehouse, which means I wasn't just seeing what I wanted to.
Soon everyone hates me because my job is to fire their employees. Well, their contingent workers, anyway. They only hate me over the phone, so I don't mind. It just seems odd that they would be so upset to lose a worker who physically assaulted his boss the last time he worked for us.
Since I'm in HR, people are always asking me to get them a job. The funny thing is that I am contingent labor myself -- even though my job is to fire people, technically I am not even an employee of the company. So stop asking me; I can't even get myself a job! But if you do get a job here, I can take it away.
After awhile the daily tedium of two hours of spreadsheets and six hours of busywork in a tiny room with no windows begins to take its toll. Although the life has been sucked out of me until I am a scary joyless robot, my coworkers still flash a big smile at me every time they pass me in the hall. I begin to suspect that the reason everyone is so nice to me is because they want to prevent a shooting spree.
Soon everyone hates me because my job is to fire their employees. Well, their contingent workers, anyway. They only hate me over the phone, so I don't mind. It just seems odd that they would be so upset to lose a worker who physically assaulted his boss the last time he worked for us.
Since I'm in HR, people are always asking me to get them a job. The funny thing is that I am contingent labor myself -- even though my job is to fire people, technically I am not even an employee of the company. So stop asking me; I can't even get myself a job! But if you do get a job here, I can take it away.
After awhile the daily tedium of two hours of spreadsheets and six hours of busywork in a tiny room with no windows begins to take its toll. Although the life has been sucked out of me until I am a scary joyless robot, my coworkers still flash a big smile at me every time they pass me in the hall. I begin to suspect that the reason everyone is so nice to me is because they want to prevent a shooting spree.
20100715
Real Job
I've been with the company for weeks now and I'm still not sure what we do. I must finally have a real job now, because I do less and get paid more.
That's not the only nonsense here. Each month we pay $200 for a parking pass that gets filed in a cabinet. I couldn't find the folder it goes in, so I figured it would be all right to file it on my dashboard in the meantime.
That's not the only nonsense here. Each month we pay $200 for a parking pass that gets filed in a cabinet. I couldn't find the folder it goes in, so I figured it would be all right to file it on my dashboard in the meantime.
20100607
Elevator
Do you ever try to get excited about going on an elevator? Sometimes I try to psych myself up for the elevator, like it's a carnival ride. I've been temping at this office in the second tallest building in the city, on the 22nd floor, so I have a lot of opportunity. I pretend I'm a time-traveller from the 13th century and I've never experienced such speedy vertical transit before. Riding the elevator is the highlight of my day. It's amazing!
Or how about cars? Imagine the thrill of zipping down the freeway if you were from the Middle Ages. It would be like a roller coaster. And phones would be a real trip, being able to instantly communicate with someone miles away instead of waiting for months to receive a letter by horse-mail. The whole world is Disneyworld for a time-traveller. The whole earth is The Happiest Place on Earth.
But I'm from now; driving during rush-hour is irritating, my phone continually reports that they've hired someone else, and it's entirely possible for me to ride an elevator and cry myself to sleep on the same day.
Or how about cars? Imagine the thrill of zipping down the freeway if you were from the Middle Ages. It would be like a roller coaster. And phones would be a real trip, being able to instantly communicate with someone miles away instead of waiting for months to receive a letter by horse-mail. The whole world is Disneyworld for a time-traveller. The whole earth is The Happiest Place on Earth.
But I'm from now; driving during rush-hour is irritating, my phone continually reports that they've hired someone else, and it's entirely possible for me to ride an elevator and cry myself to sleep on the same day.
20100530
Eligible Men
Ever since she began craving grandbabies, my mother has been taking annual inventory of the eligible men in my life. I tolerate this fruitless exercise only because some part of me appreciates the reminder that there are, in fact, eligible men in my life. Unfortunately, my mother hasn't accepted that I'm not yet desperate enough to settle for any of them. When I say settle, I'm not implying that they're not good enough for me. I consider myself quite blessed by the high caliber friendtele in my life, male or otherwise. But you can't force the heart. (Believe me, I've tried.)
"I know Tom likes you," my mother insists about my long-time best friend.
"Mother, please. That's practically illegal."
"What about what's-his-name, that worked with you...?"
"You mean Andre? The ex-drug dealer?" I try to convince her on the basis of his grammatically incorrect tattoo alone that we are not a good match. She is more concerned about his criminal resume.
"Who else do you know?"
"Let's see, there's Grant, the heathen; Brian, Tom's east coast counterpart; Jason-- oh, he has a girlfriend now..." I offer, thoroughly enjoying the futility of this exchange.
"Well, what about Mario?"
They say a picture is a thousand words. I'm no mathicist, but I figure a 3-D sentient talking picture is worth at least ten thousand. My mother knows Mario very well, so if she doesn't get it, there is no point in me even attempting to explain this one to her.
I met Mario when I worked at the warehouse. The next time I saw him was a couple weeks later during break. He walked right over to where I was napping, woke me up, and confidently asked in his Salvadoran accent, "Would you like to go on a date wit me?"
I was still kind of asleep, so I don't remember exactly what I responded, but I think it was along the lines of "NO." I could be wrong, though, because later he showed up at my house for dinner.
When Mario's car pulled up to my house, I caught him spraying cologne on a huge white teddy bear. He then presented this bear to me. I was a little embarrassed that I had nothing to give him in return; how could I have forgotten that it was National Inappropriate Gifts Day? I named the bear Luigi and gave him to my mom along with some baby clothes, to tide her over.
We've remained friends for years, Mario and I, but every few months I have to remind him that it's never going to happen. Last Valentine's Day was the last such opportunity for "the talk." He tried to give me a heart necklace and a Valentine card with a pre-written message including the line, "all the movies with all the lovers that say they're going to meet in Paris are not as romantic as just holding your hand." He claimed it was out of friendship. If I didn't know better, I would have thought he just didn't read it.
Mario was extreme all right, but he was not nearly as funny as Berto, the lead in my department. Mario at least had the nerve to straight up ask me on a date. Berto's version was as follows:
"So, I was thinking to maybe ask you to dinner."
"Oh, really?"
And that's as far as that went. Poor Berto.
Sometimes Berto would consult me about proper English. "Is it, 'one eye, two eyes,' or 'one eyes, two eyeses?'" he asked.
"It's, 'one eye, two eyes,' Berto."
"Oh. Your eyes is like stars."
Berto played drums in a salsa band. I must have shown too much interest in this, because one day he brought in a tape recorder, mumbling something about how he was practicing the night before and "accidentally" hit the record button. I suppose it was also on accident that he placed it in his bag, and similarly happenstance when he set it next to me, pushed play, and walked away. Boppity-bop-bop-boppity-bop-badubop-badubadubop... I just sat there in bewilderment at what just happened, wondering when the soundtrack of my life became all rhythm and no melody.
At least Mom and Luigi are living happily ever after.
"I know Tom likes you," my mother insists about my long-time best friend.
"Mother, please. That's practically illegal."
"What about what's-his-name, that worked with you...?"
"You mean Andre? The ex-drug dealer?" I try to convince her on the basis of his grammatically incorrect tattoo alone that we are not a good match. She is more concerned about his criminal resume.
"Who else do you know?"
"Let's see, there's Grant, the heathen; Brian, Tom's east coast counterpart; Jason-- oh, he has a girlfriend now..." I offer, thoroughly enjoying the futility of this exchange.
"Well, what about Mario?"
They say a picture is a thousand words. I'm no mathicist, but I figure a 3-D sentient talking picture is worth at least ten thousand. My mother knows Mario very well, so if she doesn't get it, there is no point in me even attempting to explain this one to her.
I met Mario when I worked at the warehouse. The next time I saw him was a couple weeks later during break. He walked right over to where I was napping, woke me up, and confidently asked in his Salvadoran accent, "Would you like to go on a date wit me?"
I was still kind of asleep, so I don't remember exactly what I responded, but I think it was along the lines of "NO." I could be wrong, though, because later he showed up at my house for dinner.
When Mario's car pulled up to my house, I caught him spraying cologne on a huge white teddy bear. He then presented this bear to me. I was a little embarrassed that I had nothing to give him in return; how could I have forgotten that it was National Inappropriate Gifts Day? I named the bear Luigi and gave him to my mom along with some baby clothes, to tide her over.
We've remained friends for years, Mario and I, but every few months I have to remind him that it's never going to happen. Last Valentine's Day was the last such opportunity for "the talk." He tried to give me a heart necklace and a Valentine card with a pre-written message including the line, "all the movies with all the lovers that say they're going to meet in Paris are not as romantic as just holding your hand." He claimed it was out of friendship. If I didn't know better, I would have thought he just didn't read it.
Mario was extreme all right, but he was not nearly as funny as Berto, the lead in my department. Mario at least had the nerve to straight up ask me on a date. Berto's version was as follows:
"So, I was thinking to maybe ask you to dinner."
"Oh, really?"
And that's as far as that went. Poor Berto.
Sometimes Berto would consult me about proper English. "Is it, 'one eye, two eyes,' or 'one eyes, two eyeses?'" he asked.
"It's, 'one eye, two eyes,' Berto."
"Oh. Your eyes is like stars."
Berto played drums in a salsa band. I must have shown too much interest in this, because one day he brought in a tape recorder, mumbling something about how he was practicing the night before and "accidentally" hit the record button. I suppose it was also on accident that he placed it in his bag, and similarly happenstance when he set it next to me, pushed play, and walked away. Boppity-bop-bop-boppity-bop-badubop-badubadubop... I just sat there in bewilderment at what just happened, wondering when the soundtrack of my life became all rhythm and no melody.
At least Mom and Luigi are living happily ever after.
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