I'm a Hobo

Midway through exploring my poor tooth that's suffered through two root canals and a crown, the doctor said, "yep, we're going to have to pull it."

"What!" I said (and maybe my sailor mouth came out a little), "but I just got a crown!"

Dr. Z didn't respond -- perhaps because my sailor mouth was not appropriate in his Madison Ave office. Even numb from Novocaine, you can't shut me up.

"But! I paid 600 bucks for the crown! And only 5 months ago!" All my sentences were fragments, finished with exclamation marks. That's never a good sign.

Shouldn't the dentist chair be raised to give such bad news? Apparently not -- the chair stayed a mere foot off the ground, as if I were revisiting kindergarten.

Dr. Z looked sad, or maybe I was just confused by the binocular extension on his glasses.

"I'm sorry," he said, as if it were his fault. I liked that -- someone should owe me an apology. And with that, I moved into phase two: acceptance.

"Can I keep the crown?" I asked, but Dr. Z thought I was joking. He responded with a laugh, and then went in with the pliers. But I wasn't joking -- I like souvenirs, and deeply buried within the crown is gold. Sure, it's encased in porcelain, but still -- sparkly! pretty!

Now I have a hobo-rific hole in the middle of my mouth. I am a hobo. Let's all be grateful my two front teeth are intact -- that joke would have gotten old real fast. This is probably all punishment for being so delighted when Seth was mistaken for a hobo.

Best

I sign all emails that aren't going to close friends with "best" -- I just don't really see any other way to go. I guess I could try "cheers," but it feels a little too British to me; I'm fauxster, not an anglophile.

The NYT has determined that "best" is poor netiquette. Says one dude: "an e-mail sender who writes "Best," then a name, is offering something close to a brush-off."

To clarify to everyone I've written emails to in the past seven years or so: I'm so sorry for being cold and unfeeling. Thanks Style section -- I was running out of meaningless things to worry about.

Returning to My Roots

I'm getting a root canal.

Again.

In the same tooth.

Actually, it's not actually a root canal. It's something far grosser and more complicated. I can't really explain -- I spelled it so badly when I wrote it down at the dentist that even the Google can't figure it out. Anyway, apparently I'm part of the five percent of people who have failed root canals.

If you'd like, you can read more about past tooth troubles.

Dear New Yorker,

Whhhhhhhy? Is it because I'm not influencial enough for you? It's not like I really thought I was going to get a free copy of An Inconvenient Truth.

Except that I did, you know, and I could tell I really wanted it as I flipped through the pages outside of my mailbox. Nothing but subscription squares, same as always.

Since I've seen the movie I've drastically reduced use of the A/C and used NO HEAT AT ALL. None. I mean, when I was in college I used to crank it to 87 and run around in my bathing suit. I've reformed; I've changed & grown.

I understand your decision, but you've made my Monday sad. Those influencial folk in influencial industries like "business, government, and the media" better take some action now that they've got the free DVD.

Love,
Madeleine

PS: At least I got my favorite of the four Chris Ware covers.

Watching the Detectives

My obsession with Law & Order: Criminal Intent is rapidly becoming a full-on addiction. It's potentially time for an intervention and here's why: in my dreams each night, I'm a detective.

Detective Burry, that is, complete with uncomfortable looking trousers, straightened hair, and a seemingly endless supply of evidence bags and plastic gloves.

Have you met me? I'm a bit, well, squeamish. It's not that I faint when I get shots (I do), but that I feel faint when other people get shots. I'm very aware I wasn't cut out to be a detective. Unfortunately, dream Madeleine--or should I say, Detective Burry--does not seem to be aware.

In my dreams, I wander around grisly crime scenes, feeling faint and nauseous. I'm very bumbling, and solve none of the cases. Mornings, I'm exhausted and dissatisfied: it's hard work not solving the problems of New York city.

But one time, wandering through dream NY, in my ugly dream suit, handcuffs dangling from my pockets, I solve a case. I found the murderer, made him confess, and heard the satisfying bum-bum of success. So go ahead -- rip from the headlines! I'm ready for it.

Remember the World Series?

yeah, this is a true story of one night in madcat's life during the world series. posting delay due to blogger difficulties. my one true reader complained, so up it goes!

I'm full of hate for domino's today. (Never fear: the crust of my hate is filled with cheese and comes with a side order of dipping sauce.)

Last night I made a decision to be spectacularly lazy. (Wait, how is last night different from every night?) There was gonna be a game on. And I was gonna get in touch with my inner frat boy watching the game with beer and wings.

Things went off track quickly. For one thing, the game was rained out. Then the wings didn't come...for over an hour. The delivery guy apologized, but you can't eat "I'm sorry" dipped in bleu cheese.

So the Domino's (and people, I'd craved bad wings! I knew what I was getting into) was a disappointment.

Then this afternoon, sitting, watching TV, being monstrously lazy, I saw the Domino's commercial for Brooklyn Style Pizza. It's an absurd ad, like they called up the dept of Brooklyn cliches. I'm from Brooklyn and I never rarely scream out the window. To call in my own cliche dept, you have to see it to believe it. Better: taste the pizza. It's an offense to Brooklyn.

Domino's: we're so on a break.