a talk talk speaker on the end of the wire
Hello and welcome to No-Delete Thursday! For once I am not typing on my lunch “hour.” I have wine! I have pajamas on! Also I don’t have any notes or cryptic Google docs with things that I thought I wanted to type about. WE ARE STARTING FRESH AS FUCK. Just me and the cursor and the keyboard and the DARKNESS that GROWS inside me with EVERY PASSING MINUTE okay wait, that was unnecessary. Mustn’t grumble! Let’s start over. (Since we can’t delete.)
(What is this “we” shit? This diary is not a group project.)
O Bulleted List, save me from having to construct an overarching narrative of time spent since my last entry! In no particular order:
- I went to the dentist for a cleaning. I let the hygienist do her (barbaric) thing, and then they announced that one of the practice’s seemingly interchangeable old white Actual Dentists would arrive in a minute to peer in my mouth and announce that all was well. I got more than I bargained for though, when a freak in a bow tie did weird things to my head! I guess that hygienist is actually in dental school (maybe she can loosen the old-white-man grip on this office someday), so he wanted to show her, specifically, how fucked up my jaw is despite what seemed like an entire adolescence full of orthodontia. This involved him grabbing my face and sort of shoving it backwards on its neck stem, a guess in an effort to prove that my jaws don’t line up in that position? Oh, and he also said, “Just relax” a lot during the maneuver, which was very not-relaxing. I am not necessarily against being used as a prop for dental education but I do feel a bit persecuted at this point, since I previously had a dentist who really, really wanted to break my face, to the point where I had to be very clear that no, you may not break my face, and I am tired of the part of every dental cleaning where I listen politely to your explanation of why I should let you break my face, so please write my preferences down somewhere.
- Quite frequently, I talk to myself and sing little songs about my current activities (Linda Belcher is my life coach), and N has started to jot down some things I say around the house. This is alarming because the last thing I want is a spinoff blog along the lines of “Shit Mimi Smartypants Says When She Thought You Weren’t Listening.” A recent favorite of hers was me pulling a not-so-great blossom off of a flower and saying, “You dead. Bye now.” Not sure why that is so quote-worthy to the teenage brain but okay.
- SPEAKING OF FLOWERS, here is the orchid* that I have nurtured forever and ever. Like orchids do, it went all dormant for a spell and the husband was like “why do we have this stick on the windowsill.” HA HA NOW LOOK.
- Look how many flowers are nigh! (Yes, I said “nigh.”I regret nothing.) That will teach people to never count an orchid out. Orchids are rising up, straight to the top. They had the guts and got the glory. Orchids went the distance and aren’t going to stop. Just a flower and its will to survive.
- Also in this photo you can see a creamer that Nora decorated with nail polish long ago, my little white ceramic whale (he is really a tealight holder but I just like to pretend he has a giant blowhole) (sort of like your mom) (oh HO HO), and my dumb left hand. Nice wedding ring, bitch.
*I feel like every time I mention my orchid I have to add “no testicle jokes.” I may just have PTSD from living with LT for so long and you had no intention of making a testicle joke. Still: no testicle jokes.
- That was a lot of words (UNDELETABLE WORDS) about an orchid. Along with my hair doing its best to go entirely gray, I seem to be collecting some elderly-ass hobbies. The orchid, the testicle jokes,** feeding the birds, etc. I even considered taking an embroidery class at a local studio, because I had visions of stitching contentedly away like a lady of good breeding, until I admitted to myself that I am too twitchy for needlework. Also there are entirely too many library books and too much Netflix, so never mind on the textile-based hobbies. I’m sure there are people who can watch a show and craft at the same time, but I am equally sure I could not.
(**Strikethrough does not = delete, in case you were wondering)
- Also, I debated about whether to type this next one. Too late now.)About a month ago I took a drug, a prescription drug that nonetheless had not been prescribed to me, and there was nothing particularly fun or recreational about it but somehow it cut through the Lexapro “not giving a shit about shit” fog I’ve been in and made me weirdly interested in my work and in the goings-on around me. (I have not, lately, been much interested.) I am considering bringing this up to the shrink next month, just in the sense of “here, what do you make of this,” but—will she consider me a drug seeker? Will her little pointy rat face get all horrified that a grown-ass lady tried someone else’s pill? Is honesty good here or should I just deal with the giant overflowing cornucopia of pharmaceutical “eh” I’ve been blessed with, in regard to this current prescription?
- So as not to end on a question (like the fucking first verse of “The Star-Spangled Banner,” man I hate that—either sing the rest or change the song): happy holidays, yo. Get festive.
—mimi smartypants is taking liberties.