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.

Shuuuuut Uuuuuuup

I came home to a neighbor blasting a Kid Rock song (on repeat!) through the wall of our apartment the other day.  Now, normally I’m very meek when it comes to confronting neighbors, having toiled with some particularly nasty and violent neighbors in the past, but I made it less than ten minutes before I marched over and started banging on his door.

You’re gonna play Kid Rock into my HOME?  Where I eat and sleep and expect houseplants to flourish?!

It got me to thinking that I’ve never heard someone blasting music that I would consider decent. Not once.  Not once in my life.  Not through an apartment wall, not out of a car, not from a radio on a towel at the beach.

(For the record, it was that “Sweet Home Alabama” monstrosity that Kid Rock horked up and furballed onto the radio a few years back.  The one where he rhymes the word “things” with “things” for god’s sake.  Also, he is not from Alabama, and neither is Lynyrd Skynyrd.)

I’ve never sat next to a car at a stoplight that was blasting music and thought, “Oh wow!  This person next to me has got great taste in music!”  It’s always something just absolutely terrible.  It’s like there’s a law that if a musical note is heard loudly in public, it has to belong to a musician who is no more than six degrees of separation away from Limp Bizkit.

Same goes for someone prominently holding up a book that they’re reading.  They’re never holding up something fantastic like a David Sedaris book or a Jughead comic.  It’s always something like “How To Win Bitches” or “Chicken Soup for The Precious Moments Figurine Collector’s Soul” or some shit by Ted Nugent where he’s wearing the Constitution as a loincloth. I think if I ever heard a good song blasting out of a car or saw someone holding up a decent book, I would be so shocked that I would just drive right into an embankment.

Witnesses say the last words the victim uttered as they pulled her charred, limp body from the fiery wreckage were, “Finally! Someone blasting The Ramones! Please – someone save my Betty and Veronica Double Digest on the passenger seat. Save it for the future generations.”

I’ve come to realize that the same is true for loud conversations.  As a soft-spoken type, I’m appalled at how loudly people converse in public, and it’s always the conversation that you don’t want to hear.

We were sitting in a bar the other night (big surprise there), and someone nearby was having a two hour long, one-sided conversation with the person next to them, broadcasting it out of their mouth at approximately 5,000 decibels, blasting in my ear like in the opening scene of Back to The Future when Marty McFly plugs his guitar into that giant speaker and it blows him back like ten feet.

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Actual footage from the bar

The subjects varied between a riveting tale about that time she ordered a bottle of wine at a Red Lobster in Daytona Beach in 1982, several mentions of how the Jello-shot the bartender had just given her looked like a urine specimen, her strong belief in guardian angels, and how Trump was going to earn her vote again if he levels Iran.

Basically the conversational equivalent of a Kid Rock song.

Never once in my life have I been sitting at a bar and heard someone shouting a conversation about the Abstract Expressionist movement in art, or about the best red lipstick for your skin tone, or about how every single kid on Mr. Belvedere was so ugly that sometimes it actually hurt to look at the television.  You know, stuff that I’d actually be interested in hearing about!  Never!

It’s always the person who wants to shout racial slurs and talk about the “handy” he got for half-price when he was stationed in Okinawa because she was missing two fingers.  Or the women at brunch who try to top each other’s birthing stories at full volume, making sure to really enunciate the words “…THE SIZE OF THE BLOOD CLOT THAT FLOPPED OUT OF ME…IT WAS LIKE TWO CALVES’ LIVERS, CAROL.”

Nobody’s ever like, “Let me yell my well-thought out opinion about Wendy’s versus Arby’s!”  That’s a conversation I could get into!

I mean, where are my people?  You’re probably off in the corner, like me, quietly debating the best Talking Heads song, not talking about Jello urine specimens or vag-shrapnel, and making plans to get nachos and watch Rocky IV for the fiftieth time later.

And Wendy’s is the superior option because they have baked potatoes that are actually baked in an oven, which are something that would take you like an hour to cook at home and would heat up your whole house.

And because Arby’s killed my entire family when I was a child.

Okay, maybe not.  But Arby’s doesn’t have baked potatoes.

I just looked it up and they actually do have baked potatoes.

See you in Hell.