"Hello Ms. Callaghan, this is Dr. ___ calling from ____ Dentistry to confirm your appointment tomorrow for cleaning and X-rays. We understand you don't have health insurance. However, we also understand you haven't been to the dentist since 1999. This is not our fault. You should not have waited until you wince in pain every time you chew on the left side of your mouth before coming to us. While we sympathize with your plight as an unemployed writer and understand that the WORLD NEEDS MORE PLAYS, we can't just be giving out free shit. Your X-rays tomorrow will cost $[food for three weeks], the exam itself will cost $[train ticket to DC], and the subsequent work on your teeth will cost $[several rent checks]. And remember, the longer you wait, the more your repair work will cost. Perhaps [high-paying Showtime drama] will hire you NEXT season, but for now, we strongly suggest you go back on your lemon fast to save money on food and invest in the future of your dental health. See you tomorrow at noon!! Hugs..."
As the quote-unquote big day approaches and you start to feel the inevitable pull of nerves, just remember that remaining graceful under pressure will not only make for a gentler preface to your occassion, but may also prevent horrific and unforeseen disaster:
My favorite moment: "Shirley TEMPLE??"
Rain City rockin'...
East Coast in the hizzy...
California dreamin', old skool...
Common thread? So many fucked-up promiscuous third-world internet-addicted pyromanic teenage girls, so few U.S. cities (as the saying goes)...
While I sort out some rather time-consuming projects over here, why not amuse yourselves with a crude facial-feature recognition program which likens your visage to that of various celebrities? It's a neat and pain-free way to indulge your narcissism (though you should sign up with your fake yahoo account, because you'll most likely get butt-loads of spam).
And just 'cause you were wondering, my face is apparently a cross between Katie Holmes, Hallie Berry, Claire Daines, and Alyssa Milano. Which means I'm a babe to the fourth power. Yow.
Thanks to JS for the link.
That was me, two days ago. Let's just say a carrot was dangled, the kind of enormous well-paying carrot that keeps one up for 48 hours straight with insomnia, mentally packing her bags for another coast and preparing herself to leave loved ones and wiggle out of signed contracts, only to hear two days later that the carrot has been eaten.
So in lieu of telling you THAT story, which might still have a happy ending (albeit with more appropriate timing and less angst and some seed-sowing and carrot-growing), I will tell you a childhood story.
No it's not exactly childhood. More embarassingly, early adult-hood. The first summer I spent at my house after college. It was a new house, and I had my own bathroom adjacent to my bedroom. The bathroom was like a gift from my parents for forcing me to move against my will into a room where three small dogs used my carpet as a toilet.
Anyway. That song "Rico Suave" had just hit the charts... remember it? It was by the short-lived Latin sensation Gerardo who had a famous ass that was constantly sheathed in overly-worn jeans (a visual refresher, if needed) (and while we're at it, how did he grow his hair so long between takes?). And because the ass had become legendary, the be-assed pants followed suit. Thus, a fashion trend was birthed.
At such time it was revealed that Mr. Gerardo had his jeans professionally sand-blasted; the better to conform to his bottomly curvature. Whether this was true or whether he simply wore old jeans is irrelevant; EVERYONE was snatching pre-sanded jeans off the racks.
Now, being the frugal and creative individual I am, I thought I would sand my own jeans, thereby a) omitting the need for any extra money spendage, and b) updating a tired wardrobe item. Genius.
I made a trip to the local hardware store and asked for the "roughest sandpaper you got, bub." (Don't know if I actually called anyone "bub," but I wish I had.) I left the store with industrial-grade paper, so rough you could use it to whittle a [insert thing that people whittle] with just a few strokes.
I locked myself in my bathroom with my jeans, my sandpaper, my determination, and a vision. And with my new guilt-induced living arrangement, NO ONE would bother me in my bathroom while I was sanding. My plan was to emerge several hours later with a luscious, newly-sanded booty, looking like perfect Jersey trash-- I mean, a Gerardo sychophant-- I mean, a total maven of fashion.
So: here's me at 19, kneeling on my bathroom floor with my jeans laid across the toilet, the door locked, my back hunched and my elbow crooked and my torso moving back and forth, back and forth. I'm sanding. And sanding. And sanding. Arm aching, fingers numb. I'm gonna have fucking AWESOME jeans, goddamn it. I sand one thigh. I sand the other. I sand one ass cheek. The other. I've been sanding for FOUR HOURS. And nothing is happening to my jeans, except they are looking a little thinner fabric-wise.
Finally, I stop. Sweating, heaving, coughing. I calculate the cost... if I were sanding for minimum wage, I'd have made around $24... roughly the cost of a pair of pre-sanded jeans right off the rack. PROFESSIONALLY sanded. With machines. Much sassier-looking than the ruined shit I just created.
That's when I realize I've been coughing for quite a while. I look around me. The bathroom, once white, is covered in thin layer of blue dust. The floor tiles, the toilet seat, the sink, the soap, the mirror, the wallpaper, the light fixtures, the shower door... every single surface.
Then I look down at my arms. Covered in blue. I jump up frantically and look in the mirror. Blue dust in my hair, on my lashes. I stick out my tongue. COVERED in blue. I blow my nose. Blue boogers.
I start to panic... miners die from black lung, clowns get emphysema from white lung, but WHO THE FUCK EVER HEARD OF BLUE LUNG?
And what a horrible way to die, in the service of Gerardo... some one-hit wonder who sings about how he likes to eat women raw like sushi. What would my parents tell their friends? Could I possibly be the only 19-year-old on the block who thought of doing this? Weren't hospitals across the country filled with strange girls who had nearly suffocated while sanding their pants in poorly-ventilated rooms?
Long story short, I didn't die. I cleaned the room with wet rags, threw everything contaminated into the washer, and spent the next few days coughing up my blue jeans. Nothing tragic. But I never wore those pants. And Rico Suave fell off the charts rather soon after. And Gerardo was never heard from again. Coincidence? I think not.
Pulsing With Suck... One Woman's Struggle with Fashion, Hubris, and Survival. Much thanks to Patricia for the gratuitous instigation.
Lost your faith in humanity? Spending the holidays in a major city will do that... but here's a story that might renew it. Have you heard it already? It's remarkable.
**UPDATE: I keep reading it. It keeps making me cry. I need to stop reading it. But I can't. It's like a trigger. I click the link and BOOM. Waterworks.
I'm also still in my pajamas at 4pm and eating Nutella straight from the jar. Perhaps these are signals that I'm approaching a particularly emotional time in my cycle...?
...that describes my dreams of a career in the theatre. At age seven, I felt this:
At 33, I feel this:
I'm a little scared of what happens at 60.
(PS: I'm not really writing a poem.)
(PPS: Please direct me to some video of Liz Parkinson dancing. I'm in love with her. [But forget the promo for Movin' Out and the Cell Block Tango scene from Chicago. Seen 'em.] )
(PPPS: Happy new year.)
