Part I, More Tales of the Mundane
After Tuesday morning’s 5-mile lumber, I quickly headed home for breakfast and to shower before heading to the dentist to finally get my teeth cleaned after two weeks of rearranged appointments, sick hygienists, and one annoyed would-be patient.
I was disappointed to see that I somehow ended up with the same hygienist I get every time; you know, the one who is super into Star Wars cosplay shit and never takes a breath between sentences as I sit, tilted back, her unwilling conversational hostage with multiple instruments of dental wizardry stuffed in my mouth and a cheezy pair of dentist issued sunglasses on my face to protect my eyes from whatever it is they need protecting from that didn’t need protecting from 20 years ago.
This time, rather than regaling me with tales of costumed Star Wars cantina parties, she endlessly rattled off talk of holiday prep (please stop, PLEASE!), her distaste for cooking (anything at all), dead dogs (hers, not mine), cookie baking (sugar cookies, her husband’s request but he’s not getting them), Elvis-loving adult sons, her love of being a Disney Adult (please, shoot me in the face!), and a $300 mailbox her husband wants for Christmas (he’s not getting it, or those cookies, on her watch). I felt like I was having a fever dream while being lowered into the flames of hell, one quadrant of my mouth at a time.
Rather than attempt to engage and launch projectile saliva in the air and onto my cool sunglasses, I’ve learned to let her ramble. By doing so, she sticks to the task at hand (in my mouth), and I can get home to mentally purge this one-sided conversation from my brain.
However, before I can do any purging, I have to wait for the dentist to come in, scratch my teeth a few times, and tell me things look fine before ushering me towards the over-friendly front desk receptionist, eager to collect my copay.
That also means that my conversational hell is not yet over and will no doubt be made more hellish with the approaching holiday. I decide to play it cool, which sort of means being a dick and hopefully letting him know I want to be left alone.
The dentist enters, the hygienist says something about observing one of my teeth, and then he greets me.
“Hey Jason, how are things? Teeth feeling good?”
“All good. Thanks.”
“Big holiday plans?”
“No.”
“Traveling?”
“No.” (Not on your fucking life)
“Ah, hosting?”
“Um, yeah, sure.”
“Big crowd?”
*Cheese and Rice in a D cup, please make him fucking stop!!!!!!!*
“No. Just a few people.” (That means me, Wifey, and B)
Then he shoves the scraper tool in my mouth, and he and the hygenist continue talking, with me once again held hostage.
“I was telling him how my husband makes the turkey and ham, and my sons think that’s what all men do on Thanksgiving! Hee, hee, hee.”
It was even less funny/interesting the second time around, and I wanted to say, “I’m a dude, and I can make an entire tasty Thanksgiving meal by myself with one vasectomized testicle tied behind my back!!
Now the dentist is all hopped up on pre-holiday cheer and waxing nostalgic like he’s Norman fucking Rockwell about all the family he’ll have over, how much they’ll eat, and how much fun they’ll have playing cards and watching football. I wanted to take a dental drill to his skull.
As for me, I’m still a captive in the chair with various instruments shoved in my mouth and my cool sunglasses on. Which thankfully saves the dentist from seeing my eyes roll sarcastically or hearing me whispering under my breath for him to go fuck himself; the holidays suck, and if you’re not spending your day reliving a 250 terabyte mental hard drive of childhood traumas on repeat, ignoring endless racist diatribes, religious kookery, unsolicited opinions, and white guy conspiracy theories, therefore undoing years of medication, EMDR, flash, and psychotherapy you’re NOT actually having a holiday. Now, PLEASE let me go, or I’m calling Amnesty International when I get home!!
Finally, I got the all clear to go and get the hell out of there. But not before the dentist launched one more volley of attempted holiday cheer at me like a deranged psychopath intent on destroying me.
“Enjoy your Thanksgiving, and have a merry Christmas!”
*Oh no you fucking d’int!!!*
“You too.”
I could NOT get out of the office quick enough.
Part II, My Kid is Home!!!!
Obviously, this is a semi-funny/horrific look at the various issues I have regarding the holiday season, but they should actually be pretty swell.
B made it home Tuesday night, and it was only the third time I’ve seen him this semester! After many hugs, he gave us the latest on his capstone film project that he’s currently swamped with, his last weeks working for the university’s media department, his plan to polish off his credits learning abroad in the UK this summer, and some potential post-graduation plans he has in the works for the fall. It’s all very exciting and coming way too fast! I don’t know how common it is for a father to find his son a hero of sorts, but I’m pretty sure I do, and I could talk to him forever.
Part III, Another Lumber
I got out Wednesday for another 5+ mile lumber in the frigid woods.
The soggy leaves and mud are now frozen, and the permafrost crunched underfoot for most of the hike.
The woods remain mostly lifeless, and photos ops are few and far between. Regardless of the lack of images, it was still a nice hike, and I hope I can get out Thanksgiving morning, provided no turkey trotters are trotting the trails.
Part IV Dinner Ideas and a Thanksgiving Tradition
I still need to finalize my un-traditional Thanksgiving menu for tomorrow. B isn’t fond of the traditional meal, Wifey eats like a starved toddler now, and I’ll make/eat anything. So, I can’t make up my mind if it’s going to be a carnitas taco/burrito bar or “fried” chicken, roasted fries, homemade mac and cheese, veggies, and other gut-busting fixings. The world is my rotting oyster.
As an added “holiday miracle,” Spurs play Roma in the Europa League in the afternoon because, in Europe, it’s just Thursday. I’m pretty stoked to make food and watch footy at the same time. Hope we can get a win without our starting keeper!
OK, that’s it. Wifey promised me that we could play Myles Standish and The Settlement Harlot later. I’m reprising my award-winning role as the sodomizing adulterous harlot, and I still have to find my bonnet, sexy bloomers, and dress from last Thanksgiving, as well as put that damn stockade together.
It seems the woman and her whorish mouth doth protest too much and must be punished for her deeds by Holy stockade, whip, and hell fire.” – Myles Standish