You know what I think is a bad idea?

Hot dentists.

It took me years – literally, years – to get the courage up to go back to the dentist after too much berating by my former DDS (read: Degrading DentistS) who would NEVER believe me when I innocently insisted that I had GIVEN UP POP so there really was no need to tell me that I drink too much of it.  (I was being honest!) They would give me a smug nod and then proceed to floss me in a passive-aggressive fashion.

Lousy, stinkin’ bastards. They only fueled the fire of my dentist conspiracy theory which we can discuss at a later time.

(On the first date between TBWSRN and I – he told me that he, too, has a dentist conspiracy theory. That’s how you know it’s real, folks.)

I digress.

I finally decided to head back because my lower right molar felt like the side was peeling off like a splintered popsicle stick and I said to myself, “I kind of LIKE my teeth. Perhaps I should take care of this.”

So, I picked the first dentist’s office I could Google that was located in Minneapolis and I totally hit the jackpot. Our first meeting was just to sit and “get to know each other” because they suspected I might feel apprehensive about the initial appointment.

Due to the five years of missing dentist records.

Smart people.

Get this: they even have TVs on the ceiling.

YES. I enjoy watching The View while getting my teeth cleaned. Though my come-backs to Hasselbeck don’t make as much sense when the little mirror is shoved in my mouth.

The point of this is that last week I received an e-mail that told me that all I needed to do was click the “Make an appointment!” button and someone would contact me to set up a cleaning.

But I can’t get myself to click it.

Why? Because of the hot dentist!

The dentist who did the regular old cleaning last time was SUPER SEXY.

My teeth? NOT super sexy.

It was embarrassing.

I don’t know if I can, in good conscience, face that again.

Non-compliance. Bitches.

There are a few things in this wild and varied life that I’ve really tried to like because I feel like I should like them. But, I don’t. I just can’t. Things like…

beaches

trying on clothes

looking younger than my age

vests

Bon Iver

owning a car

knitting

Sheryl Crow

talking on the phone

yoga

cooking…

Okay, let’s talk about that last one.

Cooking.

Out of everything on this list, this is one I should probably give another go at. I mean, I can’t just eat take-out the rest of my life, can I? The four recipes I am capable of pulling together to result in what one might call a “meal” might end up seeming monotonous to my future dependents. And – let’s be honest – there’s only really four if you count tacos as a “recipe.”

A tasty dinner, yes. A true recipe? It’s iffy, boys and girls.

Anyway, there’s this class through the city’s Adult Community Ed called “Cooking 101: Basic Techniques.” Aannd, I’m thinking about it. Do you think I’d really get anything out of it?

Okay, perhaps it’s impossible NOT to from where I’m standing, but would I actually be motivated to…cook?… after it’s all said and done? How did you all start cooking?

I’m considering it. Cooking may be one thing I have to just shut-up-and-comply-with because if I were to become a good cook, I would really like that about myself.

How’s YOUR day going?

Imagine you wake up with that “Geez, it feels so late” feeling. You look at your cell phone alarm, which you will NEVER USE AGAIN. It has mysteriously frozen at midnight. You click until it comes back to life.

It reads 7:30.

But, but…you have to report to work at 7:40 and, on days with good weather, it takes you about 40 minutes to get to said work. Adding salt to your  barely awakened wound, you knew today was not one of those days. It had rained all day on Sunday, the temperature had dropped – creating a virtual ice rink – and then it had snowed. The windchill was 27 below zero so when you leave in your heels – instead of wearing your warm boots – the little cracks of your exposed upper toe area become crinkly and painful. You wonder aloud, “Why the F*** am I living in this godforsaken hell hole?”

Just kidding. You loooove it here.

Anyway, needless to say, the highways aren’t exactly “free-flowing” and as you give your secretary a panicky phone call, you realize it may take well over your typical 40 minutes to arrive at school. You say a quick prayer that your 8th graders will behave themselves in the dangerously unstructured time before Homeroom begins at 8:30.

You walk in the front doors at – miraculously – 8:30. On the dot. Your 8th graders have morphed into little angels and all are seated, being quiet enough. You stroll in nonchalantly. Everything is cool. “I was just at a meeting,” you say. Nevermind that you actually did miss your ILA Department meeting earlier in the morning.

Now, let’s say you arrive home to a stomach-churning smell. Why? Because you have a little doggy whom you carelessly tossed into her kennel this morning while you were running around half-dressed, trying to prioritize (AKA: Do I have time to make coffee?). The poor dear left a vengeful mess and continues to bark punitively the remainder of the evening. “Is glaring an effective training method?” you wonder – again, out loud.

You pour another glass of wine and remind yourself to pull out the faux-wood-paneled alarm clock you hate to look at, but love to hear in the morning. Okay, maybe “love” is a strong word.

Day over.

The Sound of Silence in 106

Since I moved into the newest of my new places (I’ve been quite transient lately – another story, for another time), I have been without television. It wasn’t my plan- I just never ordered cable and my late-90’s TV set requires an antenna to pick up any stations at all. It’s an accidental case of smug “I don’t watch TV” elitism. Pure laziness, really.

Nooo.

I’m not about to go around claiming that I suddenly don’t love TV. I definitely do – I can keep up on 30 Rock, The Office, and Ugly Betty online and The Huffington Post often shows the best clips from the most recent Saturday Night Live so I can skip the non-funny business.

It’s just that the extra 100 bucks a month (I steal my internet too and am not the least bit ashamed because I think it should be a public service – again, another story, for another time) have been helping my wardrobe TREMENDOUSLY.

And – okay – I feel just a smidge smuggish. Let me have that.

Anyway, as I was sitting here breaking in my new chair, drinking a glass of wine, and casually browsing the internet, I realized how accustomed I’ve grown to…quiet.

TBWSRN has been out of town most the time since early September, so there’s that. I used to just put Sex and the City episodes on so the witty banter and sexual innuendos of Carrie, Samantha, Charlotte, and Miranda could subconsciously pervade my thoughts. Perhaps I can become them through osmosis? Or I’d listen to NPR’s Wait, Wait, Don’t Tell Me so I could feel intelligent. And, you know, just to have some noise.

But now, the clicking of my keyboard seems to be sufficient. At least tonight, anyway.

Ask me again in March. I’ll be contemplating whether I’m high enough up from the ground to be successful should I choose to spring free and jump from my balcony.

I’m not. Just checked.

Squishy

When I turned the corner and headed down my hallway, I was witness to a small miracle. Living room chair cometh!

Because the directions actually had WORDS instead of just pictures (ahem, IKEA is the bane of my existence!), the chair was tush-ready in just a few quick minutes. See?

Dog with Laser Beam Eyes Sold Separately

(harharhar)

ACTUALLY, the chair was SUPPOSED to arrive prior to la partie avec mes amis on Saturday night. It did not, but never fear. Everyone still had a chair and we crowded around the table in a cozy-like way. Which is perfect for us because we’re cozy kind of people.

As we sat in chairs squished next to one another, we did what all old friends do. For the nine-hundredth time, we remembered how good DomestiKate’s dinners were, how Kari’ almost kicked a hole in the wall after a night of too much excitement, and how Bean and Betsy took 25 minute “power naps” in the library while on route at their job in the mailroom. We JUST KNEW Bean would be one the first to get married, despite her self-proclaimed “Eventually, a nun” status. We still anticipate Betsy’s dancers and their annual recitals – dedicating this year’s to our curious friend Michael Jackson. We marvel at the seven years that have passed so quickly since we met. The stories and memories have become just as squished into one another as we were as we sat in our chairs on that particular Saturday night.  One memory rolls into the next and it becomes hard to remember who was there on the night we wore side ponytails to the bar because we thought we were cute in a funny kind of way and which year we left which laborious and witty away messages on our AIMs.

My mother would always preach that “you change so much in your twenties.” I may only be in my late-ish 20s, but I have to say that I disagree – though I would never tell her to her face because, let’s be honest, my mom is scary. The point is that these girls have been my friends from my early moments of twenty and though our lives have changed, I’d say we’re all pretty much the same.

Which is refreshing and comforting all at the same time.

**PS: Thanks for the app. recipes! They were delish.

10 and 7

10: I was able to find my happy place during the race today and stay there for approximately 1 hour and 39 minutes. Congrats to my running friends who also rocked it out today.

7: Iris is 7 months old, which – in puppy terms – means she is becoming a woman. Well, thee who giveth can also taketh away (or something like that?) so, on behalf of her doggy mother, I will be taking Iris to get spayed tomorrow. And so the sun sets on Iris’ womanhood.

In an effort to tie these two bits of unrelated news together, below is a computer-generated image of 7-month old Iris running a 10-mile race. On the beach, no less. So spoiled.

Look to Craigslist for a Good Laugh

Man, would I love a homely apartment!

Is that bad?

Every time I see a stupidface biker pedal in the middle of the road because they think they’re a car, I visualize myself running them over.

36 Hours in Mpls-St. Paul

It’s always fun to get a little street cred.

The Cherry & the Schpoon

The article has some worthy restaurant recommendations. Well, the recs aren’t exactly hidden gems – they’re already pretty well-known- so more like affirmations from out East that you’ve been noshing on some decent grub. Not that we need them.

Gluttony

Because we were unexpectedly de-moved a few weeks ago, we’ve had to embark on a new search: an apartment to fill the de-moving void. This, my friends, is no easy task. Instead of avoiding it like the plague, however, I’ve been doing just the opposite; Craigslist has become my addiction.

When I wake? Craigslist.

Before I sleep? Craigslist.

What? It’s only been 20 minutes since I last checked? But there might be a NEW posting. This could be THE ONE! Especially the ones with pictures. I love the ones with pictures.

It’s an uncomfortable obsession because it doesn’t bring me any real satisfaction. Instead, I’m a slave to a hope that springs eternal and a little blue arrow that begs me to refresh.

I will, however, be forced to take respite these next few days as I am going to visit my friend Amanda in the city of sins, Las Vegas. Gluttony, you deserve a break. Let’s give those remaining deadly sins a go.

(So maybe I e-mailed myself a bazillion potential apartments and gave The Boyfriend Who Shall Remain Nameless explicit instructions to contact, walk-through, and debrief while I am away. BIG DEAL. Old New habits die hard.)