January 2004 Archives

It's that one day every six months when everything is supposed to taste like blood. Or in my case every four years. Yesiree, that's how long it's been since my last dentist visit. It's a pattern. You see, I'm blessed, or perhaps cursed with a mouth chemistry that suppresses decay. I've got two speck-sized fillings from when I was 15, and that's it. And let me tell you, the lack of precious metals in my mouth isn't for lack of trying buster. I have a flossing problem. Which is to say: I don't. Okay, well maybe once every couple months or so. I have my 'reasons'--laziness, always running late, bad technique, naturally rosy breath, etc. And what it boils down to, is that by the time 6 months have passed, I get the shame complex that I haven't started flossing regularly since my last visit when I was scolded and chided for not sawing string daily. So I tell myself I need to get at least a good month of daily floss under my belt before I can face the hygienist again. It doesn't come to pass, and 3 or 4 failed attempts later, it's 2004 and I've got one big mortar-tooth on top and one on bottom. So I just suck it up and prepare to take my lumps.

And the funniest thing happened. The hygienist told me, as she began pincushioning me, that it looked to her like if I made it in for a cleaning every six months, I could probably even get by without flossing. I just about did a huge Monty Python double-take at her, but the fear of having a cleft sliced in my tongue kept me still. And I bet she immediately started cursing herself for having let such heresy pass her lips.

And then the pain began.

Four years of plaque makes for a huge backlog of pent up wounding. I couldn't find my 'happy place' no matter how I tried. Perhaps it was the shock of her revelation echoing through my mind that kept the void from even forming. And it's funny now, how I thought the curly stabber things hurt...hahah. Because then she dragged out this device I had never seen before. She called it an 'ultrasonic scaler' but it was also known as the Zoltrazon or something like that, and said it would help get off the really stubborn bits. Cool. Ultrasound, that can't help but be good for me I thought.

Then she fired it up and jimmied it up under my gums, and that happy scene I had almost begun to form in the respite between tool changings turned into a scene filled with fire and explosions and wailing forest creatures. Oh the scintillating pain. And the sound...the sound...it changed hundreds of octaves in fractions of a second as it ground into each individually shaped nodule and crevice on the roots of my teeth. You know that episode of Gilligan's Island where Gilligan's fillings got knocked together, and the radio would play through his skull? Well it was kind of like that, except it was all the radio stations in the whole world screeching into my brain at once. It's apparently a sound meant only for the recipient, because at one point as a particularly strong stream of tears sprayed the spotlight she said, "Oh! Am I hitting a sensitive spot?" And I wanted to scream "For the love of all the dying kittens in the world can't you HEAR that???" But, as my mouth was full of hands and inquisition tools, I just pointed at my ears while my eyes rolled around backward. "Oh, sometimes that sound will go right up through the upper jaw and into the ear." It's so nice when people understand.

But that cinches it. Good floss habits or not, I'll be nipping that in the bud 6 months from now. Just please, please, don't use the Zorgotron on me again.

But my teeth are pearly now. Pearly yellow, but pearly nonetheless.

The Flagstaff newspaper lists DUI arrests on a daily basis as a deterrant by way of embarrassment sort of thing. A lot of folks I know dive right over to that section as soon as the paper pops out of the rubber band. I guess it's like if the horoscopes aren't your bag, then the DUI list is the proxy. And with a town this size, odds are you're going to run across a name you know on a somewhat regular basis. Makes for good conversation starters. "Hey, did you hear about Anna Gleeb's son-in-law Garret? Yeah, got pulled over for EXTREME DUI night b'fore last. Myyyy starrrrrs. tsk. What's that family coming too..." Garret needs help. But now Mrs. Gleeb gets to deal with the funny looks and wonder about the whispery conversations when she walks by too. I'm not sure how I feel about the public stockade thing.

Well anyways, I heard Amanda and a friend of ours cackling on the phone this morning, and shortly thereafter was directed to this morning's DUI section. Out of the five people listed, we can distill down to:

Jeremy John, 24, of Tuba City, was arrested by Flagstaff police and charged with extreme DUI at 10 p.m. Sunday.
Jeremy H. Perez, 24, 3784 E. Foxtail, was arrested by Flagstaff police and charged with extreme DUI at 1:30 a.m. Monday.
Jeremy L. Anderson, no age listed, 1401 N. Fourth St., was arrested by Coconino County sheriff's deputies and charged with DUI Saturday.

First the triple-Russ thing last week, and now this. It's that middle one that has me worried though. Most people don't know my middle initial is P, so I can just hear it now: "Martha, did you see Jeremy's name in the paper this morning? Locked up for DUI! I never would've suspected. Do you think that was him? Maybe it's a different Perez? But what are the odds? Do they live over in Country Club? He is a little too bald and marshmallowy to be 24 years old. Might not be him. I'd be too embarrassed to ask though. Poor Amanda. mm mm mmm..." etc.

I know. I take things too far. It's always got to be about me, etc., etc., gag.

If you are a DJ. With lots and lots to say. And your spongey, bloated tongue flops and smacks around in your mouth like a huge, gummed hackysack, please: Back. Away. From. The Microphone.

Yechhhh.

My little nightmare episode that I posted about this morning got me to thinking about how those monster dreams aren't as scary as they once were. Which should go without saying, right? I mean, I am an adult* after all. I know monsters aren't real. Or are they? Ever seen a mole rat? Do we really know how big those things get? What about angler fish? Eeeyugh. There's fish that can slither across dry land, you know. And there's still got to be all kinds of other toothy, goopy critters out there we don't know anything about yet. And why wouldn't each and every one of them be interested in seeking out me and me alone at 3 o'clock in the morning, out of the 6 billion or so people splayed across the planet?

*shut up

Monster bait. That's what us nightmare-prone people are. Or were. See, it doesn't bug me so much anymore. And not because I don't believe some giant, oozing, water-born protoplasm from the depths of Lake Powell has slugged uphill some 150 miles just to digest me. No. It's because I've got a warm, cozy wife right there next to me. And she doesn't suspect a thing. But I know it could be out there. And it won't get the jump on me, no sir. As soon as I hear the window pane creaking, I'll be up in the air in a shower of bedsheets and squid ink (you think I'm kidding about the ink gland, don't you). And while the creature busies itself fending off Amanda, I'll be making my escape.

Juuuuust kidding. I wouldn't abandon my family to marauding monsters. I'd be yelling "Save yourselves!" while I occupied myself with being absorbed and minced into coffee-mug-sized bits.

I'd like to think.

There are some nights when my dreams just stick with me. Last night was one of them. Out of the various featurettes, I actually had a monster dream, like in the olden days of my childhood. I was not the protagonist in this one, it was some lady I was rooting for, partially controlling her actions, but mostly just tagging along and learning how she used the art of disguise to evade the creatures...I think she was inspired by the amnesia gal on that show Alias. The monsters were of the the tendriled, John Carpenter, body-snatcher type...heads with nothing but huge toothy mouths or eyes mooshed over to one side like a flounder, lurching around, snarling, and looking for the uninfected. Those are typically the worst things my imagination can think of to throw at me in the middle of the still, dark night when strange sounds creak and whisper outside the window. Stupid feral cats.

Then there was the dream about wandering one of those small, miserable towns along I-40 looking for a place to eat and finally settling on Denny's, that last-chance icon of nothing-else-is-open, so get in here, sit on down, and take it like a man. Then somehow, Mom appeared as I was leaving and for some unfathomable reason, I let her drive. It was dark out, you see. And what with the night blindness thing, well the rest of the dream revolved around trying to help her navigate and she's not making any of the turns, and about the time we were driving the car through a hotel lobby and past the elevators, I realized 'aw for pete's sake,' and woke up.

Uh oh, the Superbowl office pool is making the rounds. Gotta go hide. Heh, Rob says his idea of gambling is sticking 65 cents in the vending machine and getting a can of Dew every time. Guaranteed ROI.

We finally got some halfway decent snow this week. Giselle complains to no end about how cold and miserable it is at recess, with descriptions of all these frowny, grimacing kids huddled up against the building waiting to be let back in. Heheh. I try not to let on that I find it in any way amusing. I tried to get by with not shoveling the first day, but after an embarrassing episode of trying in vain to spin up my sloped, frictionless driveway a couple days ago, I figured it was way past time to get the tires replaced. Because, why shovel when you can upgrade and increase your traction instead?

So yesterday I drove over to Discount Tire, talked to a guy named Russ and asked for a quote on a pair of Michelin Destiny tires. (That's right, I didn't ask for a price, I asked for a 'quote'. Ugh.) Then I got back to the office, called up Big O Tires, and talked to a guy named...Russ...and asked for an 'estimate'. Feh. Then I called up Anderson Tire, talked to...Russ...and asked 'how much' for the tires. I had finally managed to de-market my vocabulary, but I was starting to wonder if all the tire store phone lines were manned by that same dude I spoke to at DT. I mean, Russ, is definitely an all-around great mechanic/tire store guy name. But 3 out of 3? That's a little too life-imitates-stereotype, even for my tastes.

Harrison came down with a hefty rash all over his body, so Amanda took him to see the doc. After some various probings and proddings, they determined he probably had strep throat and that it was most likely leading to the rash. That was a new one for me. I didn't know strep could break your kid out in raging facial & full-body acne. So they put him on antibiotics, and verified yesterday that the culture came back positive for strep. I don't know if that boy just has a high internal pain threshold, or if the infection just hits people different. Because I know when I've had it, the screaming pain is all I can think about. But he hadn't said a word about his throat or neck hurting, he just hadn't been eating very well. Gotta learn to read the signs man.

This morning as I was finishing up a toasty, drenchy shower, I got to thinking about how much I appreciate a nice absorbent towel. And how, as far as I can tell, there's this built-in, inverse relationship between how soft a towel is, and how absorbent it is. If you want to get nice and dry, well then here's your scratchy loop of burlap. Which, actually is fine with me. If it dries you quickly, there's no need and no sense in belt-sanding yourself with it. Just dab dab dab, and tah-dah! But if you prefer foofy, bunnyrabbit-softness in your towels, well then you might as well swab yourself with bubble wrap for all the good it does you. But who am I to say if somebody wants to luxuriate in their drips and fluff until evaporation works things out. Maybe it's just a reflection of the level of investment we've made in our linens that I've come to this conclusion. Maybe if I was willing to spend more than $2.50 on a towel, at Target, I'd open up a whole new world of fleecy dryness. Whatever.

It's kinda sobering...formatting data charts that say "Percent Survived" along the y-axis. Aneurysms are bad news, in case you didn't know.

I was home sick the better part of yesterday and today with the flu. Which is pretty unusual for me. I usually opt for an antagonizing cold with a bronchitis chaser. But this time I got the fever, chills, and strong urge for barfing, which I'll say proudly that I resisted. But is there really such a thing as the 24-hour flu? Or is that what they call food poisoning? Because if that's what it is, then I could be the culprit. Me and my ground-turkey spaghetti sauce that I was so eager to foist on my children the other night.

Amanda got smacked down with it too. And it's sad really to see Harrison's reaction to having both parents huddled under blankets on the couch and recliner, trying to grind through the fever dreams while Elmo and Cookie Monster rant in the background. Having Dad on the couch tossing and turning when he should be at work is just an anomoly apparently, but Mom, on the recliner, with her eyes closed? That was going too far. And so he would stalk up to her at regular intervals and scrinch his fingers in her eyes and chide her for being asleep. And so the occasional screams of agony helped keep me from slipping into a coma.

Hoo boy I'm hungry. What do I dare eat? Soup and crackers ain't gonna cut it, I can tell you that.

Harrison is discovering the strength of his will. Tonight as I served up spaghetti, I found him watching Dexter's Lab and said it was time to eat. What followed was a pleasantly calm, but intractable disagreement about whether he should come eat or watch TV. Finally I demanded (Method 1 conflict resolution) that he get to the table, and followed with a count to 3. I know, I shouldn't do the counting thing, but I did anyway. I got to 3, and he just sat there looking at me ever so calmly with an expression that said he was ready for whatever came next. So I picked him up, took him to his room and told him he was going to stay there with no TV or food until he was ready to come to the table under his own power, or until we were finished eating--whichever came first.

I went back and checked on him every 5 minutes to see if he was ready to come sit down with us, because of course it really worries me when my kids help contribute to the fact that 1 in 4 children in America go to bed hungry every night. But he just sat there on the floor listlessly playing with a couple toys and said he just wanted to watch TV. No Gisellian screaming and tantruming, just calm, hunger-strike, Ghandiesque resistance. I think it was the 3rd time I went to check on him that he told me "I give you coins if you let me come out."..."You'll what?"..."I give you coins--you like coins....can I come out?" I was at a complete loss. Come to think of it, I do like coins...but this wasn't the time or place to start taking bribes. From my kids. So I gave him a hug and told him the conditions for release again.

Finally after we were almost done, he decided he would join us. I think he downed 3 bites before Giselle enacted the knock-knock jokes and other boisterous table games. And that was it. There wasn't going to be any more eating by any more kids tonight. So I bid them off as they tickle-tortured each other up and down the house and went to play trampoline on Amanda. Sometime before dinner, his sister helped him get into the peanut butter and goldfish crackers again, I just know it. How they kept it clean is a mystery to me, but I guess it means he didn't go to bed hungry.

I was walking down the hallway a few minutes ago and noticed Jo having a short but awkward exchange with one of the more unstable denizens of our building. So I was making a taunting face in her direction, and as she walked away with a mortified look, Barb popped her head out of her office, looked at us both and said (rather loudly I might add), "Jeremy! Did you just fart??" And as those words echoed ominously down the hallway, I'm sure I heard the entire accounting department go silent, followed by the swishing of heads turning in my direction. I tried to blither out an explanation of what just happened, but it was too late. Yes, I know, I've brought this on myself. Just wasn't expecting it just then.

Greeting card stores make me queasy for some reason. And besides that, all I can figure is there must not be any money to be made in the miserable backwater business of anniversary cards. If you're looking for a birthday card, well put on your sunglasses and prepare to be dazzled as the fresh 128-Crayola box is opened before your greedy eyes. But you want an anniversary card, you say? Well here's the nubby 8-Crayola box, oh and by the way, the red and blue crayons were eaten a couple weeks ago. And 80% of what you do find is just dripping with make-me-wanna-barf. If I wasn't such a bum, I'd make my own.

I almost got nailed by a wanton, intersecting car while driving my lunch errands today, but through nimble use of my mediocre Midtown Madness skills, I swerved and weaved out from a certain crunching. Video games are the devil's work and all, but I'd swear they've pulled my butt out of a spot more than once.

[ed. 3 hrs later] Alrighty. I just passed that same stretch of road after picking Giselle up from school, and there was a fresh, glassy 3-car accident splayed across the median. No deaths or dismemberments like poor Rob always comes across, just a bunch of wide-eyed people on cel phones standing next to their cratered vehicles....Man, Rob is always seeing the aftermath of fatal car accidents. At least one or two per year, and he's not a reservist fireman or anything...just a guy driving a car around, seeing dead people. I'd probably need therapy...more than I already need :P

Cold it was this pink-skyed morning. One degree below zero Fahrenheit cold.* Giselle was all bundled, capped, gloved and scarfed for school and did a great job not wiping out on the ice as she trotted from the car. The very hairs of my nostrils alternatively froze and dethawed with every breath, tugging and releasing with the steadied rhythm of skilled Viking oarsmen.

As I walked into the office after being gone almost 2 weeks, I noticed that 2 out of 3 of my plants are toughened drought resistors. Sadly, the third was petulant and droopy in its grief.

I hope it recovers and plumps up. It hadn't reached crispiness yet. It would be a real shame to lose it after 9 months of speckled, frondy company.

* If you live anywhere else in the civilized world, check here for a snappy Celsius conversion. Oy.

p.s. My hands are still iced up in this freezery office, and besides the gloves, I'm seriously considering the linty, woollen hat of passive aggressiveness too. (Thanks for the idea, Dave.)

Woah.

Sudden Oklahoma journeys last week. I didn't have time to finish installation on the space-time benders, so I'm more than a week behind on everything.

Amanda got all ambitious and washed the curtains today. I'm still trying to figure out what feat of daring and bravery I can come up with to match that one.

Heh, I guess Harrison was laying the stink down pretty thick this morning, because I woke up to the sounds of Amanda hunting him down asking if Old Smaug the Golden had payed a visit.