The Fine Line

My dentist said that I should get Botox®.

It was more like a suggestion really… A really suggestive suggestion.

We were just sitting there (well, actually I was sort of reclining in the chair and he was standing over me with a mouth mirror and a torque wrench), casually discussing oral health (as one does when one is at the dentist) when he casually said that I could, and possibly should get Botox®.

I should note: I suffer from Temporomandibular joint dysfunction (TMJ to the lay person), which is a dental condition involving the jaw joint, muscles, teeth, and central nervous system. I have to wear a (sexy) mouth guard to bed every night because otherwise I’ll grind my teeth and then my jaw will dislocate, and then I can’t open my mouth wide enough to eat a club sandwich.

Enough about the cross I bear…

“Dr. Cho” said that he could inject Botox® in my jaw, which would block the nerve activity in the jaw muscles, causing a temporary paralysis which could help with the ol’ TMJ. Then he casually added that it wouldn’t take a whole vial (Botox® is sold in vials), so he could put the rest of it in my forehead and take care of that “fine line”.

I left Dr. Cho’s office feeling a lot of things… Anger, sadness, embarrassment, lust (all the feelings), and to make matters worse, my gums were bleeding from an over-enthusiastic hygienist.

Dr. Cho made it sound as though my mid-30s face required it.

Some things to keep in mind:

1. I have been ID’d on multiple occasions and locations, which means that some people (with glaucoma and other “seeing” problems) think that I look younger than the legal drinking age, which is 21.

2. I regularly ask people at work and on buses how old I look and they (almost) all say: “late 20s”.

3. From the back, I look even younger.

There is a fine line between being giving constructive and pertinent medical advice and suggesting (admittedly, casually) that an extremely young looking patient (with zero cavities) could, and possibly should inject Botox® in their face… Just because they have some fine lines.

 

The Memo

So, last week I went to Utah.

Utah is… (How shall I say this delicately?)

Utah is an interesting state in that… It’s not very interesting. On a scale of 1 to 10 (1 being the least interesting, and 10 obviously being the most interesting)… Utah is a 0.5.

Meaning, it doesn’t have a lot going on. It has, in fact, very little going on… At all times (days, evenings, weekends, etc.).

I was also surprised* to see so many women with short, spiky dyed blonde hair… a la Kate Gosselin.

You know… This gal:  images

You know that idiom; he (or she) “didn’t get the memo”? It means that he (or she) wasn’t informed about something that is considered common knowledge by everyone else on God’s green earth.

Yeah, I don’t think Utah got the memo.

About a lot of things… birth control, alcohol, caffeine, up-to-date hairstyles, ethnic diversity, and having just one wife or husband, etc.

As Oprah would say… These are good things.

I don’t understand why the majority of Utahans don’t like these things.

Birth control? It’s great. You can have one (or none!) children, and enjoy (or endure) sexual intercourse as often as you like.

Alcohol? Come on! Do I even have to explain this one? It’s basically the best thing ever, plus it’s a social lubricant and a beverage that dulls (but never erases…) the pain of past regrets. Can water or orange juice do that? No.

Caffeine? How else does one make it through a day of work? Seriously.

Up-to-date hairstyles? Perhaps I shouldn’t be the one to comment on this as I’ve rocked the “Hilary Clinton bob” since 2004.

Ethnic diversity? Who wants to just look at a bunch of white people all day? Not me! And, who doesn’t like Mexican food… specifically, guacamole? Well, guacamole wouldn’t exist without ethnic diversity… just sayin’.

Having just one husband? It works for most people. Cleaning up after more than one man seems like it should be considered a punishment for a heinous, hateful crime.

(Okay, now that I’ve had some time to think this one over, I’m not entirely opposed to the whole “having more than one husband” thing… I’ve always had somewhat of a “crush” on Pearl Jam’s lead singer Eddie Vedder, but I’m also extremely committed to my husband of nearly nine years. If I could marry them BOTH… I could maintain my wonderful relationship with my husband, whilst occasionally making out with Ed Ved. My husbands would have separate rooms – or, better yet – wings of the house, and I could choose who I wanted to sleep with each night. We would obviously hire a housekeeper to help with the extra chores, and to free up more time for “cuddling”. This actually sounds pretty good to me. I’m going to run it past my current husband tonight. Fingers crossed!)

So, Utah… you may have not have gotten the memo, and you may be super boring… but I think you might be onto something with the extra husbands… So, thank you.

+++

* I wasn’t that surprised.

The Overindulgence

Yesterday I ate a lot of food. A lot (a lot).

We are currently on vacay, and sometimes when “one” is on vacay, “one” may overindulge because “one” might feel that it is well-deserved (and by “one” I mean me). In the past three days there has been a lot of overindulging.

I have ordered whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted… Including cocktails at all hours (as early as noon!), red meat, and tons of gluten.

But yesterday was a whole other ball of wax (more specifically – a chicken schnitzel with spaetzel and red cabbage, a half bottle of wine, two shots of premium whiskey, a creme brûlée, fresh cherries, and a dinner roll).

And (not surprisingly), I felt quite sick. Quite.

I woke up at 1am with a stomach ache, and a realization: I’m a glutton… for punishment (and also, just a regular “glutton”).

When “one” eats until they are stuffed, “one” should not be surprised when one regrets such decisions.

Have I learned from my late night ordeal? Of course (but that’s just me – a learner).

Do I still have two days left of my vacation? Yes!

Can I take a half-drunk bottle of premium whiskey on the plane home with me?

(Does anyone know the answer to this?)

 

 

 

The Gravity

I often look around me… at whatever’s around… the pavement, my husband, a palm tree, a squirrel running up the palm tree… and I’ll be amazed.

It’s all amazing… Concrete. Humans. Plant life. Squirrels.

Everything is (amazing)… and the fact that everything just stays there (where it should stay) is also pretty flipping’ amazing.

Why?

Okay, the obvious (and accurate) explanation is gravity.

No, I’m not referring to the Oscar-winning sci-fi thriller starring Sandy Bullock as an astronaut that is stranded in space (I’ve heard Clooney’s performance is “top notch”). I’m referring to the natural phenomenon whereby all things attract one another, giving weight to physical objects (pavement, husbands, trees, squirrels, etc).

The world spins, and we spin with it… at about 1,040 miles per hour, and its gravitational force keeps us from floating off into the atmosphere.

But sometimes we forget.

So, we’re grumpy sometimes, and sometimes we forget to say, “thank you”, and sometimes we roll our eyes at our moms when they mother us, and sometimes we don’t appreciate all that we have.

This natural phenomenon “gravity” (not the movie) is what keeps us from floating out to space…

I think if you (or me, or anyone) actually stopped for one minute and looked up from your phone/TV/computer screen/mirror… and you actually thought about the fact that you live on this giant, spinning orb and that its gravitational force keeps you “grounded”… and how it doesn’t really matter that you didn’t get that thing that you kinda/sorta wanted, because OMG you live on a giant, spinning orb in the middle of an expansive 13.2 billion year-old galaxy comprised of stars, gas, and dust… and, you are (somehow) alive and able to breathe, love, cuddle, eat pizza…

If you don’t think about these things sometimes… Why not?

Is it easier to not think about these things?

Is it easier to think that you’re an island, and stupid stuff actually matters, and you have a right to roll your eyes at your mother (the woman who birthed you)?

Because you don’t…

And, you should (think about these things).

The Cat-titude

You know… the Grumpy one.

Or, the one that appears to be grumpy because of a genetic medical condition called “achrondroplasia” (feline dwarfism).

He (or she!) might not even be grumpy. They might be the most exited, excitable cat around, but one would ever know it…

Then again, I’ve had several cats over the course of my lifetime and none of them have shown a cheerful, pleasant attitude either.

However, it is my feeling (and you’re welcome to disagree), that all cats are grumpy, but only some of them appear to show it.

Grumpy Cat being one of those.

Grumpy Cat’s memes have made me laugh the way very few things do (The Last Man on Earth, my husband’s dancing, Waldo Pancake, puns, when people drink outdated milk and then do a spit-take), and its memes now appear on all kinds of bric-a-brac: magnets, mugs, key chains, “cattoos” (a term for cat-themed tattoos that a co-worker coined), and of course, t-shirts. I love all of it.

I suppose I love Grumpy Cat because (for me) he (or she) symbolizes the attitude of all cats everywhere (grumpy, cantankerous, crotchety), and that is very, very funny to me (possibly because sometimes – very occasionally – I share that same attitude. Like, when Aunt Flo is visiting. Or, right before she visits. Or, right after. Or, when I’ve not had enough sleep. Or, when I’ve had too much to drink the night before. Or, when I’ve not had enough to drink. Or, when somebody says something insulting in jest, but I know there is truth behind it, and I can’t help but feel insulted and provoked. Or, when someone eats the last of the peanut butter and leaves the jar in the fridge… Those are some of the times when I might share that “grumpy” attitude – or “certitude”, if you will).

I mean, come on…

29-Best-Grumpy-Cat-Memes-That-Went-Viral-9

great-grumpy-cat-memes-13

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The Rain

You know the old saying, “when it rains it pours”? Yeah… that’s not true in Southern California. When it rains here in SoCal, approximately 4 – 6 drops fall from the sky, and then it stops raining, and people feel disappointment for many reasons (for example: they have wanted to take a bath for the past six months but feel too guilty to indulge in such pleasures), but mostly because we Californians are in the worst drought in 1,200 years.

So, let’s be honest… when it rains, it doesn’t necessarily pour.

Although, to be fair… sometimes when it rains, it does pour.

So, I think we can safely say that both statements are true. Sayings are sayings for a reason.

And, sometimes, when people say “when it rains, it pours,” they aren’t even talking about rain (or any form of precipitation for that matter).

Sometimes they are talking about how when things go wrong (or right), a lot of things go wrong (or right).

I’ll give you an example…

You wait for two years for great work opportunity and then two equally great work opportunities come your way within the same week. And then you’ll say something to your friends like, “when it rains, it pours!” and they might think you’re talking about the weather and the chance of precipitation, but you’re actually talking about the fact that two work opportunities have come your way in the same week. Oh, and you live in California (Southern), and your friends (who also live in Southern California) might get excited by your statement, thinking that the end of the worst drought in 1200 years is imminent, but then you say you were actually just using this particular idiom to illustrate your point about how when things go wrong (or right), a lot of things go wrong (or right). And they might get (very) upset with you, thinking (and saying) that you are taking this drought thing too lightly, and now you’re also using it to illustrate points, and that perhaps you do not recognize the severity of this drought, which happens to be the worst drought in 1200 years.

And then you’ll reply, “I totally understand the severity of this drought, which is why I haven’t had a bath in six months.”

Drastic times call for drastic measures.

 

 

The 110%

holdyourhorse:

I still hate this (almost more than anything, but less than melted cheese).

Originally posted on Hold Your Horse:

Hate is a strong word, but I really hate when people say that they are going to give it 110%.

First of all, it is impossible to give 110%. The percentage is a fraction based on the whole possible amount.

You can give 100%.

100% is the maximum possible percentage of what you are capable of doing. You are not inflation or the NASDAQ. You are just you (not that there is anything wrong with that).

Second of all, if you are going to throw improper ratios around, you may as well make it worth my while. Tell me you are going to give me 400%. Then I’ll know you really mean it! An extra 10% means nothing to me. And frankly, now I’m offended.

Thirdly, let’s be honest, we are all working at about 60% of our maximum. None of us work very hard for very long. If we…

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The Date of Birth

holdyourhorse:

This came up again this week… The husband insists that he’s a spritely 40, but his gait and gray temples suggest otherwise… I’ve checked his documentation and it all seems to checks, but sometimes I do wonder who he had to trick/bribe/kill to get his records “fixed”.

Originally posted on Hold Your Horse:

He and I had known each other for two years. His birth date was exactly six years and eleven months before me, but I could accept that. Our relationship had blossomed from one of lust and like, into full on love. I had met his parents, and he had met mine. Everyone got along, and pronounced it grand.

We were engaged to be married in the spring, a time of awakening, a time of refresh. He bent down on one knee and asked me to be his Misses. How could I refuse? We set the date for summer, with only three months to prepare. The decorations, the flowers, the food… it didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was him and I, and the life we would share. He wanted to give me everything I wanted: the house, the car, and the ring. I was less inclined to…

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The Niceness

I’m in Canada right now (this very second), and I must say… Everyone is really nice here. 

It started at the border… I approached the border security officer with my passport and I was greeted with a smile and a verbal declaration, “welcome to Canada”. 

This contrasts strongly to my arrivals at LAX, where border security officers greet you with a head tilt and a cavity search…

So, needless to say (and yet here I am saying it anyway), I was taken aback by his niceness.

But then I remembered: Canadians are nice!

Really nice. 

Not the fake nice – where you smile with your mouth, but your eyes give you (and your hate) away.

The real nice – where you go out of your way for others, help others, give things to others, greet others with genuine smiles, etc.

Having lived abroad for five years, I have become slightly less nice. 

It’s not my fault. (And how dare you imply that it might be.) It’s hard to be nice when you’re around people who aren’t as nice (Brits, Americans)… I’m not saying that all Brits and all Americans aren’t nice! I am saying that they aren’t as nice. Because they’re not (it’s not even close). On a scale of 1 to 10, Canadians would be 9.5 (to account for the a-holes), the Brits would earn a loose 5, and the Americans would come in at 6. (It goes without saying the French hardly managed a 3.)

(If I had a bar graph it would go right here.)

When you’re around 6s or 7s, you start to behave like a 6 or a 7… Sadly, the niceness wears off. 

That’s what happened to me.   I’m like an 8 now.

The Blouse

holdyourhorse:

You guys, I had another job interview and guess what? I got the job. Of course I wore my lucky blouse to the interview…

Originally posted on Hold Your Horse:

My lucky blouse My lucky blouse

“Blouse” is such a gross word to me. It conjures up images of ill-fitting, non-breathable, printed polyester. It’s up there with “brassiere”, “panties”, “moist” and “Voldemort” as the top five words that should never be said.

I own one “blouse”, and it’s currently hanging in my closet. It’s a black, cotton-polyester blend (50%/50%, I checked), with dime-sized pink circles and black buttons. It looks dressy, but not too dressy. I think it says, “I made an effort, without making too much effort”. I keep it around for events where I want to look less like a thirty-something ragamuffin and more like a real adult.

I wore it to the last job interview I attended, in March 2011.

I selected my outfit the night before. I laid my “blouse”, black trousers, black cardigan, black socks, black “panties” and a black “brassiere” out on the bed. I put my…

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