I Am Not Molly Ringwald. At Least Not Yet.

It’s been a wild and crazy year so far here at RCDJ headquarters, and I couldn’t be more thankful that so many of you take time out of your week to come hang out here with me.  If you don’t, that’s okay (you’re dead to me).

Here are just a handful of reviews I’m so grateful to have received this year, with only a couple of them resulting in sleepless nights of terror and/or restraining orders.  “Blessed” is the word you’re looking for.

Matt from Poughkeepsie, NY:

“Ur funny 4 a girl.  Send pics of feet.”

Natalie from Ogden, UT:

“Before I found your blog, I was at the end of my rope and I didn’t know where to turn.  That’s mostly because if you’re at the end of a rope, the only way to go is down, so turning isn’t really applicable here, unless you mean like turn in a circle?  This is a terrible analogy.  I loved you in that movie with Duckie and that other one with Farmer Ted.”

On a related note, I had two people approach me last week and ask if I was Molly Ringwald, as opposed to the one a week I’ve been getting since I was 15, so my Ringwalding must be speeding up as I get older.

Oh, and this is how smart-ass bartenders put my name in the point-of-sale system when they think they’re being cute:

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Matt from Poughkeepsie, NY:

“Still waiting 4 pics of feet.”

Suzanne Somers (Chrissy) from Three’s Company:

“I never thought I’d find someone who loves Three’s Company as much as me, but seriously.  It’s just a television show – it’s not a thing you should base your entire identity around.”

Jenilee Harrison (Cindy, replacement for Chrissy) from Three’s Company:

“I never thought I’d find someone who loves Three’s Company as much as me, but seriously.  It’s just a television show – it’s not a thing you should base your entire identity around.”

Priscilla Barnes (Teri, replacement for Cindy) from Three’s Company:

“I never thought I’d find someone who loves Three’s Company as much as me, but seriously.  It’s just a television show – it’s not a thing you should base your entire identity around.”

Cody  from West Palm Beach, FL:

“Haha – Weren’t you in that band that opened for Hoobastank?  I didn’t even know Molly Ringwald was in a band!”

YOU KNOW WHAT, CODY?  WE ALL MAKE HOOBASTANK-RELATED MISTAKES IN LIFE.

Sorry To Say Your Lolita Never Took Chemistry

I was chatting (talking shit) the other day with a friend (skank) and she said, “Oh, she’s one of those people who never forgets a slight.  You know the type.”

I laughed and said, “Those people are the worst!”

Then I narrowed my eyes and mentally replayed a scene from 25 years ago when I had just turned 18, when my 32-year old boyfriend came into my kitchen with his hand on his belly and said, “Do you have any bicarbonate?”

I responded, “Huh?”

Then he closed his eyes and sighed, exaggeratedly shaking his head “no” like I was the dumbest person on Earth, his low-rent David Coverdale-esque mane flurrying scalp-snow down the front of his favorite t-shirt, the one that had a cartoon drawing of brains racked up like billiard balls with the words “Rack your brains!” underneath it.  Because he was such a COOL GUY.

A cool guy who couldn’t afford his own dandruff shampoo and instead used half of my goddamned bottle to hose the flakes out of his mop any time he stayed at my house, which was every night.  “Dry skin” he called it.  IT’S DANDRUFF, GUY.  I HAVE IT, TOO.  STOP LYING TO YOURSELF.

Bicarbonate?” he repeated.  “Do you have any?  For my stomach?”

This went on for another couple rounds before I said, “I have no idea what the hell you’re asking me for here.”

He feigned surprise and said, “Bicarbonate is baking soda, darling.  It works for upset stomachs.  I suppose it’s my fault for asking.  I forget sometimes that not everybody has a PhD in Pharmacology – I’m just so used to being around academics.”

My god.  That is so true.  The teenager you’re dating doesn’t have a doctoral degree.  HOW COULD I HAVE BEEN SO STUPID?  THE SHAME!  MY GOD, THE SHAME.

Maybe I should spend the rest of my life thinking about how dumb I was for not having a doctoral degree when I was still young enough to still be asked for ID when attempting to buy Hello Kitty barrettes with a debit card.

Maybe I should keep a set of chemistry books at the ready for when an unemployed thirty-something dickwad with a PhD needs something to settle his stomach after I buy him dinner at the goddamned Olive Garden with the last forty bucks I have and he acts all affronted that I don’t have enough money to buy him an espresso afterwards, commenting that without the espresso he “wasn’t really treated to a proper Italian meal”.  AT THE OLIVE GARDEN.  BY A TEENAGER.

Maybe I should have a translating device for when old men with their old buttholes have digestive problems and can’t muster the strength to dumb themselves down to say the words “baking soda” to their Lolita and prefer, instead, to play pretentious verbal tennis using the word “bicarbonate” as the ball and a teenage girl’s self-worth as the racket.

Maybe I should wear an empty, industrial-sized sack of Arm & Hammer as a tunic and then fashion a gigantic crucifix out of baking soda boxes and then haul it down the side of the highway on my shoulder every Good Friday through Easter for the rest of my life so that the world will know how Father Time here really put one over on the young Magster.

“Bicarbonate!  Can you believe she didn’t know what bicarbonate was?!!  Hahahahahahaha!!!” his academic peers ERUPTING into emphysematic laughter at my expense, their old man balls jiggling and clinking like fetal pigs in jars during an earthquake at the science lab.

“OBVIOUSLY I HAVE TO PAY FOR THIS INTELLECTUAL INFRACTION,” I THOUGHT.

Oh, and by the way, baking soda is sodium bicarbonate – not “bicarbonate” – so you can just crawl into whoever’s car you’re borrowing these days, DOCTOR, and drive it straight into a mountain made of dicks and finally declare yourself the King of Dick Mountain.  Dick.

And I realize that you’re so old that you probably started having digestive problems when prairie medicine was still in vogue, but why don’t you take some goddamned Tums or Zantac like a normal person instead of swishing baking soda around your wooden dentures and down your crusty old blown-out bagpipe esophagus, Doc Holliday?

On a related note, I have been referring to this guy as “Dr. Shitbag” for the past 25 years.

My apologies for the diversion.

Now let’s get back to those people who never forget a slight…

Hakuna-Dentata

Due to all the inbreeding, malnutrition, curses put on me by junior varsity football players and whatnot, I have what they call in the orthodonture world a “jacked-up grill”.

Tip for the people of the British Isles, roundabout 250 years ago when my ancestors were still farting around there:  Find people to bang who aren’t your siblings.

Nobody’s saying hands-off the second cousins, but maybe lay off the first cousins for a few generations, at least until the teeth start looking human.  Oh, and a couple hundred years later when someone wants to put fluoride in the drinking water?  LET THEM DO IT.

The top teeth are mostly okay, but the bottom look sort of like those sticks they put up around the wall in Game of Thrones to keep the White Walkers out.  While this setup may be useful for impaling the rotting, re-animated corpses that are coming to destroy your world, it doesn’t do much for the ol’ self-esteem when someone goes to take your picture and says, “Smile!” and then you smile with your mouth closed, and then they say, “No, really smile!” and then you smile with teeth and they scream, drop the camera, run away, and jump into a pool of lava.

I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’ve gotten a lot of free cameras that way. The jacked-up grill is not without its merits.

Besides all the free cameras, the jacked-up grill is useful for any number of things, ranging from receiving genuine sympathy while panhandling outside of ZZ Top concerts all the way to winning the spokesmodel category every year at the plutonium-enrichment factory’s “Employee Star Search”.

Heck, people give me a hell of a lot more credit than I deserve for my jug band, especially considering I’ve never been in one.  Any time I jump a freight train to the hills with my carny friends and pick up a banjo made of a bedpan tied to a broomstick, at least half of the contestants drop out of the Hobo Skills Challenge on the spot.

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Not everyone has that kind of privilege, I know.  I’m sure that both the completely toothless AND Sloth from The Goonies see my teeth as a thing to aspire to.  I’m not ungrateful.

So!  It is with great longwindedness that I tell you I’m finally getting them fixed, or as I refer to it when I’m feeling emo and perimenopausal, “Killing my entire identity.”

I’m getting Invisalign this week.  My orthodontist said that either traditional braces or Invisalign would give me the same results (at the same price and duration) given my particular situation, so my vanity went with the option that won’t make me look like a nerd.  My apologies if you have traditional braces, as I do not mean to offend any of you nerds.

I’ve researched this for a long time and have already signed the contract, so please refrain from nay-saying this decision, unless you fear you may die if you don’t say something.  Let’s keep the horror stories to a minimum for the sake of my insomnia.  It won’t do me any good to hear about that time Invisalign dumped you for your best friend and the two of them ran off and became a successful country music duo leaving you with nothing but an empty trailer and a half-empty bottle of Southern Comfort in which to drown your sorrows.  Unless you’ve already put it to music.

The good news is that I’ll be writing about my experience with Invisalign from time to time to let you know how it’s going – and you know I’ll be giving you the good, the bad, and the ugly.  Obviously this is not a paid endorsement situation, as who the hell would pay me to review anything, so I will absolutely tell you if it’s great, if it sucks, or if the trays migrate up into my brain and wipe out all of my tween memories of reading The Babysitters Club while listening to Roxette.

You can really tell who the weirdos are by whether they see the title of this post as being related to The Lion King due to the first word, or related to that other movie due to the second word.

You weirdo, weirdo, weirdos.