Ah, dammit. It’s well after midnight and I’m still awake. And I need to wash my hair tomorrow morning, which means I can’t just stagger out of bed at 6:25am, pull my pants on and head for the subway. Another night with five hours of sleep, max. Dammit.
I had a dentist appointment booked for December 5th, plenty of time to work up my nerve, and then today the receptionist called to tell me they had an opening Tuesday at 2:30pm and would I like to reschedule? I don’t know what madness possessed me to say yes, but I did, and now I have to go get cavities drilled and a filling replaced. Bugger. It’s going to require needles, and it’s going to be two hours long, and I am NOT HAPPY about this situation.
The worst part is going to be getting myself there. Mostly because I have to take myself, by myself, to an appointment every nerve in my body screams to run away from. Then I have to sit myself down in the big reclining chair, and patiently and without fighting or punching or throwing any kind of fit or tantrum allow someone to go INSIDE MY BODY with invasive metal implements and HURT ME.
I always believed that this was what growing up was about. Achieving the kind of self-control and discipline over your inner child that let you take your own damn self without outward influence or supervision to the dentist. The alternative of course being that you go skiving off down the street to Sugar Mountain, buy a pound of caramels, and vow to wait until dentures to become a necessity before visiting the bloody dentist again. Bugger bugger bugger. I certainly don’t feel very adult about this. In fact, I can’t think for the life of me what makes someone an adult anymore.
I have my driver’s licence, I can vote, and drink and all that. I have a mortgage, credit cards, RRSPs and a full-time job with benefits. I guess all that’s wanting at this point is the spouse and offspring, although I often feel they might never come at all. People have said (and by people, I’m not just talking strangers, I mean my mother and my best friend) that I’m one of those odd people who might just be a perpetual batchelorette. Always the bridesmaid, etc. Heart breaker. Never want what you can have. Too free-spirited.
If that’s the case, will anything make me an adult? Should I even wish for such a thing?
I hate going to the dentist.
I had to have some of that action done earlier this year. I did not like it, Sam I am. Although, I walked in there without too much angst – only because I’d never had cavities filled before (bonding done yes, teeth pulled yes, never cavitities) and I really had no idea what to expect. It wasn’t awful, but man, that’s not a way anyone would CHOOSE to spend their afternoon.
So what time is the dread appointment? What time are we hookin’ up tonigh to liquor you up and begin to erase those traumatic memories…?
Also – HUGE congrats on getting Wesley back (also, I’m curious as to *which* Wesley you named her after…)!!! See, we’ve got some kind of mystical kitty-connection going on, and must find some way to harness and use this power…
It’s remarkable how fast I’ve taken to this LJ format. I prefer the Diaryland setup for my long-winded short-novel style, but that’s only good when describing a big event or quote-unquote deep thought. These quickie updates are handy for mini-explosions of narrative.
My dentist appointment should be over by 5pm, so as long as you don’t mind watching me drool all over myself while drinking Green Label (could be fun, actually), we are good to go when you’re done work. Movie, pub, kitty sitting, mutually geeking out on the computer — whatever takes your fancy, darlin’.
I actually named my cat Wesley after a curious verbal hangup exhibited by Mr. Butlertron on the animated TV show “Clone High” — another in the long, long string of shows that I loved and lost due to premature cancellation. Mr. Butlertron is a domestic robot invented by the demented Principle Cinnamon J. Scudworth. His programming has a glitch, such that he calls everyone Wesley, in a deep, modulated intonation that can exhibit a surprising amount of uber-dry sarcasm. This explains the cross-gender naming, as Wesley is in fact, a girl kitty.
But there’s also the subtle inflection of my childhood beloved, Wesley of The Princess Bride. I constantly borrow names from this film, as per my hotmail address and user handle “DulcetDarling”.
And of course, the gorgeous and recently wed Alexis Denisof as Wesley Wyndam-Pryce. Although I liked his initial stiff-upper-lip British charm in Buffy, I found him far sexier in his stubbly-jawed Angel incarnation: capable-demon-hunter turned evil-lawyer-screwer. So much hypenation with this guy! Geez!
And don’t forget Wesley Crusher, who may not have been much to write home about, but who was portrayed by the ever-fascinating (if a bit navel-gazing) Wil Wheaton, who has quite the way with words.
As for tonight, I should be home by 5:30 or shortly thereafter… shall I ring you on my cell when I get in?
Also, what are your feelings on sooooshi? I’m thinking you won’t be much for chewing or, you know, being able to close your mouth, but miso soup might be soothing. We could order in, so as to not humilate you with acts of public drooling.
Yeah, one of the not-so-secret shames of my youth was that Alyssa and I braved a Star Trek convention sometime around 1992/93 and went to see Wil Wheaton.
What made him cute was how hard he was struggling against his stereotype of the goody-two-shoes brainiac. He was wearing this metal-studded black leather biker jacket and ripped jeans, and he had a really bad-ass Brooklyn accent. It was tough not laughing. I think I have photos somewhere.
When I asked my co-workers just now what their first thought was when I said “Wesley”, they both came up with Wesley Snipes. I thought that was a fascinating look into the normal human non-fanatic perspective.
I’m all about the liquid meals. I think I will just drink myself into a stupor this evening and blame my hangover tomorrow on the extensive dental work from today. Maybe with the drooling and the boozing, we could make me out to be a pirate? Stick an eye patch and some gold hoops on me, I’ll don some ragged, mismatched clothing and a smackload of eyeliner, and we can limp our way over to the pub and stake out a dark corner and eyeball the other patrons suspiciously.
Then again, maybe staying at home is a good idea.
Yeah, one of the not-so-secret shames of my youth was that Alyssa and I braved a Star Trek convention sometime around 1992/93 and went to see Wil Wheaton.
Dude. Lena and I were there too. I kid you not.
Same reason.
I think I will just drink myself into a stupor this evening and blame my hangover tomorrow on the extensive dental work from today. Maybe with the drooling and the boozing, we could make me out to be a pirate? Stick an eye patch and some gold hoops on me, I’ll don some ragged, mismatched clothing and a smackload of eyeliner, and we can limp our way over to the pub and stake out a dark corner and eyeball the other patrons suspiciously.
I dunno, this sounds kind of fun. Maybe you should bring your pirateiest accessories, just in case. The more we drink, the better this idea will sound!
Side note: One of the side effects you will notice from LJ is that the comments section almost entirely eradicates the need for email.
There were a lot of e-words in that sentence.
I’m going now.