Tuesday, 29 March 2011
Rod Hull and Emu on The Tonight Show
Wednesday, 23 March 2011
Tuesday, 1 March 2011
There’s A Reason It’s Called Dental-phobia.
My tooth hurt. A lot. That meant I would be going to what I feel is one level up from hell itself, and that’s the dentist. Since there were no available appointments in Carleton Place, I would have to go back to my dentist in Barrhaven.
I take care of my teeth so I DON’T have to go to the dentist. I believe that if my teeth aren’t broke, they don’t need fixing. I can tell you with great certainty that I am not alone, because let’s face it, sometimes dentists are scary.
Enter my unavailable dentist’s father, a super-happy dental guy who has been poking at teeth for probably half his life. I swear that after he x-rayed my sore tooth, there was a gleam in his eye as he said those two dreaded words to me. . . root canal.
Gulp.
After the lecture about if I had been getting regular check ups he could’ve caught the cavity before it killed my tooth, he told me to come back in a week and he would fix it.
I hate lectures.
It’s a week later, and I should’ve known there would be a problem when I walked in, and Dr. Evil Dentist hollered before I could sit down that I was one minute late and he had to get me in that chair and get me frozen.
I was already frozen with fear.
I apologized for wasting his 60 seconds and popped my bum in that chair before another 5 seconds was missed.
I’d brought my MP3 player with me to listen to music while my mouth was torn asunder. I figured I’d be distracted and could turn up the volume when the drilling in my skull became too loud to bear. I thought it was pretty darn smart of me to bring it.
Dr. Dentist wouldn’t let me fiddle with my headphones until he had jabbed that numbing needle into my gum line a few times. It was a better use of time. After all, we had 60 seconds to make up for.
Ever heard of a dental dam?. It’s a piece of balloon that they put around the tooth for a clean working environment. Dental dams are great, I guess, if you like choking on and tonguing latex.
The worst part is that I have a small mouth. Quit laughing, people. Figuratively, I have a huge mouth. Physically, not so much.
So when Dr. Dentist peels my top lip back over the top of my head and skull to the back of my neck and uses a crowbar to get my jaw open wider, I feel like the corners of my mouth are going to tear open and leave me smiling like the Joker for the rest of my life.
God be praised for skin elasticity.
Let it be known that I am still not allowed to put on my headphones and float away on a musical cloud of phony comfort.
Dr. Dentist prefers to give me a John Madden play-by-play as he works on my tooth; what’s inside, how the roots grow and die. If I could talk, I would’ve told him that if I wanted to know my tooth that well, I’d go out and buy the biography.
Here’s the scary part. After the drilling, the scraping, the buffing, the poking, the stuffing, the incessant lecturing, the gleam in his eye returned.
He said, as if in a bizarre Apocalypse Now scene that :Yeah, there’s nothing like the rush of a good root canal in the morning.
He says he’ll never quit dentistry. The bead of sweat hanging from his chin sent me into a panicked state and I would’ve run screaming if I could.
I couldn’t look away from that one drop of sweat, knowing that at any second, it could fall on me.
I was approaching a good anxiety/panic/nervous breakdown attack before the nurse reached over and wiped his chin. I tasted latex and bile.
Ten minutes later I was out of there. I cried a little, because it was a mentally damaging 45 minutes. I guarantee you that I will let all of my teeth fall out and wear George Washington’s teeth before I will visit that dentist again.
No dentist should ever take that much joy in his work, in my pain. It’s just creepy.
Sunday, 27 February 2011
Blah-nchette
Oscars. . bleep - Not!
Oscar
Wednesday, 23 February 2011
Spam – Congratulate Me, I Am a WINNER!
By the time you read this, I will have responded to the 187 daily e-mails that I’ve received for as long as I’ve had an e-mail account. And all of these e-mails proclaim I am a winner. I’ve given up the fight and am claiming all of my prizes. I have tried to live a humble life, but can do so no longer. They said I am a guaranteed winner, so I’ll no doubt write to you next from the shores of a fabulous tropical island, dripping in diamonds while I sip frothy cocktails.
Here’s the plan: first, I’ll respond to all the guaranteed cash winning e-mails. That will net me an assured $756,434, and that’s just today’s mail.
Next, I’ll begin an itinerary that includes every trip that I have been guaranteed, every airline ticket, celebrity filled cruise and African safari. From a week’s worth of e-mails, I figure Peter and I can circumnavigate the globe about three times before we run out of gas, so to speak. And even then, the thousands of dollars in promised gas cards should help out a bit.
I will outfit myself in all of the free clothing, shoe and jewellery gift cards that have been promised me by the likes of Niemen Marcus, Tiffany & Co., Juicy Couture, Abercrombie & Fitch and Nine West. Every card promises a $500 shopping spree. I don’t know about you, but I love a designer that cares enough to just give their stuff away.
When Peter and I return home from our extensive travels, the latest in electronics will be waiting for us. Because of all the free cell phone offers I’ve received, Peter and I will be able to give cell phones to every deer and squirrel that lives in the woods surrounding us. We may have to give away any number of plasma televisions, as there are only so many rooms in our house, and these companies just won’t stop guaranteeing me a new television.
In fact, the Internet people care so much about me winning all of these treasures that they’ve made sure to contact me no less than an emphatic sixty-two times each, just to make sure that I’ve been given enough warning. It’s only when I receive that ominous ‘final notice’ that I give in and claim my prize. It’s like I’ve given them every opportunity to give the prize to someone else, but they really want me to have it.
I’m thinking of hiring a personal assistant just to write thank you notes for the flattering kindness I receive, every single day, via my sweet e-mail in-box.
I guess if I was a smart girl, I’d quit daydreaming and maybe adjust the spam settings on my e-mail account before I climb out of my designated spot in the Matrix into the cocoon of wealth.
And really, maybe I shouldn’t be so greedy. Give me your e-mail address, and I’ll share the wealth by forwarding them to you. After all, there’s always tomorrow’s batch of false hope. I’m happy to share.