Dental Hatred

Where can I buy this book??

I hate the dentist. Not personally.  It's the "He's a great guy but I hate his profession" syndrome.  I never have cavities, but it's like every time I walk in  they conspire against me--whispering in undertones about ways to make me uncomfortable and/or nervous.  Everyone dislikes going to the dentist.  We don't want people in our mouths. We don't want weird sounds emananting from scary objects approaching our gums.  We don't want to be in the compromised and vulnerable position of laying on our backs with our mouths open!  It's a proven fact that redheads fear the dentist more than people with other hair colors. And it's also a proven fact that no matter how nice your dentist is, he's secretly an evil being. 


I went in today.  I had no cavities. I had little tarter. But of course, the hygienist uses that new invention--I call it Satan--the electric tartar scraper.  It makes a highpitched noise akin to nails on a chalkboard, and this is, consequently, enough to get my palms to sweat and my "fight or flight" syndrome awakened.  Needless to say I was already on edge. 

Then I hear that dreaded phrase from dentists, "Hmm what is that?..." That has got to be one of the worst feelings ever--invoking sinking dread while watching their face turn curious as they probe something in your mouth.  "That" turned out to be a salivary stone. Seriously, who gets these?  Me!  I didn't even know my salivary glands were under my tongue! Now I have a build-up of calcium in them?  What is this?!

Why are dentists such awful people?! It's like no matter how confident you feel going into the dentist office, you will feel exponentially more awful walking out.  Even if your teeth are beautiful, you might have a salivary gland stone now!! Or, if you're one of the lucky ones with absolutely nothing wrong, your gums are still sensitive from being attacked and you're stinging with fresh guilt from the "FLOSS MORE!" chastisement. 

I can't take it anymore. 

To Femininity And Beyond!

Top Ten Reasons Why Being a Girl is So Much Better

1) Periods. You get to shed your uterus every month, like a snake. Everyone loves snakes.  Everyone also loves mood swings. Shake it up, I always say. 

2) Hair! You get to shave or wax about 90% of your body hair, but get to keep the hair on your head long and luscious, lest you be labelled a dyke.  You get to spend lots of money on expensive conditioners to lather into your hair, giving you an excuse to wash your hair twice. (What could be better!)

3) Pregnancy.  If you want to fool around and be sexually promiscuous you get the thrill of knowing that at any moment you could mess up and then be committed to a long, laborious (pun intended) pregnancy, and then a life as either a single mother, or married to the partner you didn't quite remember the name of so you labelled him "Potential Father of My Bastard," in your phone.

4) Birth Rights.  You get allll the privileges of birthing a baby. Remember, if you choose to go natural, you will get to experience the most excruciating pain there is to experience, next to breaking your femur.  Who doesn't want to go through that?!  If you do choose to go with an epidural or c-section, you still get fun things like c-section scars (battle scars, really!) or a torn up vagina.  New experiences galore! Remember, there's a good chance you'll be fat, oozing with various bodily fluids, and stretched out after the birth, so you'll be really glad you have a crying baby at 4 in the morning to distract you from those little diddies.

5) You get to worry about everything incessantly!  Personal appearance, sex appeal, weight, and even the things you can't control--like height and nostril diameter.

6) Other girls.  Other girls are wonderfully dramatic creatures who will hate you and try to destroy you if you so much as casually mention that their boyfriend looks like a hungover Mick Jagger.

7)  Feminism.  Feminist?  More power to you, literally!  Join the lesbians and bitter, single, working women of the world in the pursuit of more power!  Or, if you're not a feminist, you get the treat of being labelled "traditional" and sneered at by women who are far superior to you.  Middle of the road? Don't feel left out--feminists and non-feminists alike will both despies and disdain you!

8) Bras.  Because everyone wants to strap part of their body into uncomfortable pushed up positions or be considered revolting and saggy. 

9) Poor Driving.  Whether the stereotype is true for you or not, you don't have to worry...it is assured for you that men will never, ever, EVER, trust your driving.  Whether you can read a map or not, whether you can parallel park or not, you will never have to do any of those things, so long as you have a man.  HE will know how to drive like a NASCAR racer and navigate with the skills of a pirate king himself.  It'll be like having a chaffeur--who either won't let you drive or will nag and grumble about your driving skills! And it's free!

10) Sexist Pigs.  No matter what, you will always encounter a sexist pig.  There is no need to worry if he is or isn't going to pop into your life and stare at your chest, grinning slightly, while you explain that the gas pump isn't accepting your credit card.  He will always leer at you when you feel least attractive. He will whistle at you if you crouch down to tie your shoe. He will  make rude comments to his friends audibly enough that you can hear them. Reliable, perverted, and undressing you mentally, he's as reliable as the sun rising in the east.

Retirement Community Crisis

Just imagine it. Bingo Night every Wednesday.  A swimming pool that nobody uses.  Free applesauce  on Sunday afternoons at the community center.  Peace and quiet 25 hours a day.  A funeral every other month.  Who doesn't want to live in a retirement community??

Me.

I hate applesauce without cinnamon.  I cry like a faucet at funerals--then get a headache.  I don't want to get yelled at every time I go to the pool without a full-body wet suit.  I suck at Bingo. 
In addition, I'd like to walk on the grass.  I'd like to smell like my Marc Jacobs perfume and live my life without an overwhelming scent of prunes and must.  I'd like to not have a neighbor named Old Mrs. Plum who tsks disdainfully at me when I come back at 8:30 pm, muttering about the state of my morals.

Seriously, so one of my friends/roommates is looking at apartments like a fiend.  She's unable to satisifed with anything but the best, or such is my creeping suspicion--this suspicion arising from the fact that everything she looks at is over a thousand dollars a month for rent.  Call me cheap, but I'm not going to pay that much. 

And then, lo and behold, our dream apartment drops in from heaven to grace us with its splendor.  950 a month, 3 bedrooms, 3 bath, a swimming pool, spacious, great neighborhood. (Previously, she'd turned her nose up at anything with less than the best neighborhood.)  So far, so good, right? 

"It's in a retirement community made up of 55 year old people and older...but living with old people will be great!" she added hastily.

....Are you kidding me?  Ok, I'm not "agist." I'm not against elderly people.  They're great, really.  In all their wrinkly, saggy, prune-smelling, splendor, I really love old people.  But I refuse, as a rational, level-headed, loud-music loving, college student to live in a retirement community.  I refuse to invite friends over, and ask that they turn down their cell phones to vibrate--maybe silent, if the neighbors are sleeping...at 6:30 pm.  I'm not going to live in a "condo" if that means I have rush to the microwave before it can ding loudly and startle Old Mrs. Plum.  No. I refuse.

I tried arguing rationally.  Wasn't there some sort of rule that would keep us out, seeing as we're about 30 years under the age limit? No.  Didn't they distrust us, fearing for their "Tranquility and Utter Silence" rule? No--the manager was a really super nice guy.  Didn't my friend want to live somewhere with younger people? No.  3 bathrooms, 3 bedrooms? Wouldn't that make things cramped?  No no, the rooms were very spacious. 

I've resorted to a simple "I don't like old people," motto.  (Again, that's not true at all. Please, don't attack me with your walkers, oversized handbags that weigh down the right side of your body, or walking canes.)   But we wouldn't fit in!  And they wouldn't like me for the simple fact that sometimes when I'm excited my voice goes above a whisper!

What college student can even throw a party in a retirement community?  And I'm not talking about a rager where you meet friends of your friends' older siblings' friends' friends and where there's beer so sticky on the floor you're reduced to standing in a weird awkward corner talking to a really hammered guy with a pedo mustache. No, I'm talking about having a few friends over and watching Disney movies in your pajamas with popcorn and those sour gummy watermelon candies.  I'm talking about a study group with your nerd-friends from Anatomy class who you depend on to get you a passing grade. I'm talking about a "get together." A "rendezvous."  A "hangout," if you will.
Lest I write an essay on my displeasure I will end with--I'm not living in a retirement community.   Stop frowning at me in all your disdainful wisdom Old Mrs. Plum.  Geez.

Oh Yeah? Well My Rubber Band Ball is Bigger Than Yours!

And they say reception is boring...

What I did today:

• Stamped mail.
• Rummaged in a drawer. Found the roll-on stamp-pad inker.
• Inked my date stamp. 
• Contributed to my rubberband ball.
• Made faces at people over the phone.
• Re-inked my date-stamper.
• Put Fingertip Moistener on my fingers and tried it out. (I could turn like a million pages)
• Tried out my date-stamper, again. Felt dissatisfied.
• Re-inked my date stamp.
• Read the "do not over-ink pad" on Ink Refiller.
• Got ink on my fingers.
• Added more rubberbands to my ball.
• Stamped "sensitive information" on a bunch of papers for no reason.
• Re-inked my date stamp, despite warnings. (seriously, that never gets old)
• Listened to Maroon 5's Songs About Jane on repeat.
• Examined my toenails critically.
• Spun around in my swivelly chair a few times.
• Gazed at my rubberband proudly, again.
• Gave the re-inker the eye...
• Closed up shop. 

 Productivity, personified.

Why Stuff is Gay

"Why Stuff is Gay" is not politically correct, now is it?  "Retard" is supposedly offensive.  So is saying "That's gay," or "Oprah's black," or "I was eating my lunch and some Indian came up and asked me for the time."  All of those were quiet politically incorrect. Even racist. Right?

I DON'T FRIGGIN GIVE A FLYING CRAP.

I am so done with calling receptionists or secretaries, "Administrative Assistants." Why would I spend that much time with that long and obnoxious alliteration? I'm a receptionist.  La dee frickin dah.

Oprah IS black. She wasn't born in Africa.  Most "African-American" people weren't. I'm sorry, but I don't go around correcting people about my German/Scottish/English heritage, now do I?  "Excuse me, people of the world, I'm caucasian.  Did you just call me white?  Did you just--oh my.  No, no, that's unacceptable. You're a terrible human being.  Get out.  Learn yourself some socially acceptable mannerisms and then come talk to me."  No, I've never said that. Mostly because I don't know when people would approach me abuot being white. However, it's possible.  Black people? Be. Black. You are not ACTUALLY black, but I'm not ACTUALLY white! I'm more of a mottled peach. Therefore, please address me as such.  In addition to this, I'm really curious--who's pushing the "African American" card? Black people, or white people? 

Now. When I say, "Well that was gay," I don't actually mean it's homosexual. I mean it was dumb, or I didn't like it. It is no reflection on homosexual people or anything at all.  If it was a reflection on a group of people I felt negatively towards, I would start saying, "Man, that was so political," Or "You're such a politician.  Stop being so politician-like.  Loser."

Next, Indians--are Indians. We've been calling them that for ever. I'm not about to adopt the words, "Native American." That takes wayyy too long to say.  Six syllables? Are you joking me?  I could have posted something awesome on Facebook or made a grilled cheese in the time it took me to say "Native American." Oh, look, a grilled cheese.

While I'm feeling irritated about stuck-up "open-minded" retards going around labelling everything I hold dear to my vocabulary, "Politically Incorrect," I'll just throw this out there, "Merry Christmas!"

I REFUSE upon threat of death to say "Happy Holidays."  Christmas Break is Christmas Break.  Winter Break is a result of friggin Christmas Break.  People get off work for CHRISTMAS.  Not because it's "Winter."  Freakin tards.  There is no such thing as holiday break. Holiday? Holiday for what? Kwanzaa?  Seriously what?  You know who started complaining about the whole, "Merry Christmas" thing, don't you? It wasn't the Jews. they have their Hanukkah and their Adam Sandler and they're fine.  It wasn't the Kwanzaa-ites.  I don't even know who celebrates Kwanzaa honestly. What the heck is it about anyway? The people that began to feel irritated and leftout were the freakin Atheists!

Now don't get me wrong, America is freedom of religion for everybody.  I consider Atheism a belief, and therefore sort of a religion. Whatever, it's getting complicated. Point is, some little kid got upset because his parents said that he couldn't have Christmas and he grew up hating Christmas and decided to fuss about it and now everyone has to sing "Holiday music" and wish each other a "Happy Holiday" when they're checking out with all their Christmas gifts at Wal-Mart.

Give me a freakin break.

So to all you politically correct high-society gay-tards, get off your Equestrian Mammal Friend With Feelings-it's a horse, and you sound like a prick calling it an Equestrian Mammal Friend With Feelings.

Life Goals

Aspirations as of Right This Minute

• Name a child (not necessarily mine) Smoove*
• Acquire a hot tub
• Own the Secret Garden
• Fall in and out of love in rapid succession with a Brazilian man with diamond earrings
• Get a tramp stamp and wear belly shirts for a week.
• Call myself by my name, always.
•  Answer the phone, "This is Ginger, you're welcome." Always. 
• Get over 100 "likes" on Facebook on a mundane post
• Meet Justin Bieber. In front of his fans confess to him that I feel neutrally about him and that I could care less if he can grow a mustache or not.
• Protest a protest, preferably something really controversial
• Be Charlize Theron
• Win a staring contest
• Punch someone in the nose over something quite trivial, claiming my honor was at stake
• Listen to a song not featuring Pitbull on the radio
• Pull off Halle Berry's Catwoman outfit for a day
• Tan

*Smoove is a character in the satirical newspaper, The Onion.  All rights or whatever go to them.

  

Babies, Babies, Babies...

Question:

Why do actors have so many babies???

I was surfing celeb news, because obviously that's much more important than that old-news, trite, over-dramatized, war in The Iraq or whatever, and what do I see?  "Twilight actor's gf has baby.  Reese is prego.  Thor's girl has baby. Blondie, from 50 first Dates has baby.  Hugh Dancy (got his last name because he's beautiful) will have first child and his woman might be present too.  Rumors of Charlie Sheen's alien pregnancy circulate..."

Seriously what??   Not that I'm anti-birth or anti-children or anti-happiness, but none of these people are married, nor will they stay married for very long, and they're all popping out babies like the end of the world is coming! (If someone murmurs the words twenty twelve spookily right now I swear...) I'm sorry, but if you're that wealthy--and unstable in everything besides finances--, use a freaking condom!  Ever heard the ol, "I don't wanna bring kids into this messed up world?" Apply it, for once!  You're the people who are the most messed up!

Honestly, Hollywood.  What is with the babies? Did I miss the memo?  Did  it go something like, "EVERYONE. IMPREGNATE THE CLOSEST ATTRACTIVE PERSON TO YOU. NOW. THANK YOU."??

You know who got the memo. You knew as soon as I asked my first question. You're absolutely right.   Angelina Jolie and Billy Rae Cyrus.

....Upon closer inspection I have decided that is not Mr. Cyrus and instead is actually Angelina's live-in nanny, by the name of "Brad Pitt." Never heard of him.  Apparently his mother is conservative...That's all I know. 

Also that Asian woman in the background looks like she wants her son back.  But, knowing Anglina's Mother-Lioness-like fighting skills, Miss Asian is wise to stay back.

Enough commentary.  I just want to get my hands on that illusive, but apparently very real, memo.  Here's to baby-making before the Apolocalypse. Cheers.