I Like Blue Pens

I’ve got that lightly crunchy feeling between my teeth, thanks to my toothpaste happy dental hygienist. Every time I close my mouth the miniscule sand-like pieces grind together, making strange echoing noises inside my head. Though I will give her credit for being reasonable with the tooth-scraping device, bless her.

After today’s trip to El Dentisto I’ve decided there’s no point in finding a mouth doctor you like because really, WHO CARES. The past three times I’ve been to the dentist I’ve sat in the automatic chair for 40 minutes while some abominably perky 23-year-old scrapes my teeth, takes x-rays and shoves the spit-sucker into corners of my mouth I haven’t seen in, well, ever. Senor Denisto usually rolls in as the Perky Hygienist is making my next appointment on their super-efficient touch screens located in every little room. Glad to see my insurance dollars are going to a good cause. Now, I certainly wouldn’t mind seeing a bit more of Senor Dentisto because he’s a tasty and delicious morsel, far above the normal cut of Mouth Gougers I’ve ever met. Hell, he’s a tasty and delicious morsel PERIOD. And it doesn’t hurt his cause that he always makes a crack about my five thousand bracelets and pointy shoes. But I do find it quite sad that he spends less than 30 seconds taking one of the pointy teeth-pickers and poking it at my teeth, only to announce with a great big toothy smile that my teeth are perfect, thanks for stopping by. I mean, I secretly love that he tells me my teeth are perfect because I have an unhealthy obsession with teeth in general. But 30 seconds? This is all I get for being poked and prodded and scraped for 40 minutes? I at least want him to slap my x-rays up on the screen and spend a few minutes looking at them in front of me, if only to give me the impression that Dentisto’s are just as involved in my mouth-health as those perky girls in black and pink scrubs.

And then I ruined my nice clean teeth by eating a baconeggandcheesemcgriddle from McDonald’s. AND IT WAS DELCIOUS.

Then I went to Old Navy because I still had an hour before I could feasibly show up for work. Wouldn’t want to get them thinking that I could come in EARLY. You might remember the last time I went to Old Navy- I woke up one morning and realized I had nothing clean to wear and promptly shuffled my pajama-ed self into my car, across town and into the warehouse environment where they pump steady streams of over-dj’d pop music. I picked up a pair of grey pants and a black sweater and changed in the car, where I was totally busted out by a 12-year old kid who was completely creeped out by the Lady With No Pants On. Today I had clean clothes but I really just wasn’t that keen on wearing them.

So I bought new ones.

And then drove to work, parked in the very back parking lot, whipped off my shirt and attempted to pull on
the tank top I’d carefully arranged for quick dressing. Naturally, there was nothing quick about it. My head got stuck in the arm hole while I flashed WHAT I THOUGHT was an empty rear parking lot. But I could never be that lucky. To the guy in the green SUV: THANKS AND YOU HAVE A GOOD DAY TOO, JACKASS.