Best Furniture Ever

Cleveland went abroad a little while ago, and this is a conversation we had when he first arrived (more or less):

Cleve: The hotel I'm staying at is "sustainable." The power comes from windmills and solar panels, and everything is set up to create less waste. What the website didn't mention is there are all these little signs all over the room and hotel that address you like the furniture is talking to you. For example the little table that I am typing on says this: "I am strong, smooth, and delicious: I'm made from recycled coffee cups. Which means I'm both kind to the planet and caffeinated. But please don't lick me. I'm already in a relationship with the chair."

We had a pretty good laugh, but I got worried when he repeated this one, the bathroom soap, which is in dispenser- like a public bathroom: "I last longer and love you better. Maybe you've flirted with those little bottles of hotel soap and shampoo? They soon run out on you. It is time that you had some personal care from a big reliable source. Baby, I can keep dispensing all through your stay and beyond."

Between being mistaken multiple times for a genuine European and his hotel room putting more effort into seducing him than I do, it was easy to wonder if he might never come back.

Rest assured, though reader- eventually he came home, and our reunion was full of smiles and hugs. I'll have to remember to get him one of these so he sticks out more:

Crazy Gifts

I can't begin to tell you how much delight curating this post has brought me.

First of all, I love balloons. But only the latex kind, the mylar kind sort of bother me. But in my quest for the perfect man-friendly gift to deliver Cleveland while I was in Indiana, I found that latex balloons are not permitted in hospitals, therefore are more expensive and difficult to come by than they should be.

First of all, I found this under a "For Him" section of a website.Gourmet chocolate covered bananas, incredibly phallic.

 

 

 

 

 

Here are some gems from the search. Most of these were from BalloonPlanet.com, but they don't deliver in Portland.

The caption says, "Eat veggie soup." Nothing like a little Chicken Head to brighten your day. 

I think this one was almost $100.

Four foot tall free-standing Bugs Bunny. SO CLOSE to getting this one, in hopes that during a disoriented midnight bathroom break, he'd forget it was a life-size balloon and flip out.

Fingers crossed something like this comes my way when I graduate next spring.

 Smiley faces are the worst!!

 I can't even begin to explain why this one is so horrible.

Only thing worse than a smiley face is a smiley face WEARING A HAT! But only if you're celebrating your retirement.

In the end, I was looking for something like this:

But I ended up going with this. Hopefully, it was just the right amount of ridiculousness without devastating my budget.

 

Haters be Hatin' (I'll be Dat)

I offered to cover "I Question America" for the Free Press when it was performed at USM a few weeks back, primarily because I wanted more experience in the Arts and Entertainment section, partially because I knew it would be challenging, but mostly because it's my job and I wanted more hours.

It's a one-woman play written and preformed by E.P. McKnight about Civil Rights activist Fannie Lou Hamer, presented by the Multicultural Student Affairs office in honor of Black History Month.

Here's the article.

And a few days later I received this comment:

"Wow, I can't believe you would be critical of a play about the civil rights movement during black history month, let alone get away with it. "The story took a serious turn..." when it effin started. Now, I love the first amendment as much as anybody- but please stick to blogging about things you know like your relationships and punk rock. you know, shit nobody but you or your friends cares about. Thanks."
  
A policy of the Free Press is that writers can't comment on their own stories, and that's a rightful policy. But there's nothing that says I'm not allowed to respond in another medium.


Yes, I do blog about my relationships, but it's supposed to be entertaining and possibly insightful, but certainly not news. The fact that he neglected to mention that I blog just as much about my cat, my friends, and drinking, means he probably hasn't seen the blog. Which means he is also then assuming that I'm a punk rock expert.

I'm going to venture that this guy probably doesn't know a whole lot about punk rock. It's probably his rudimentary understanding of counter-culture, much like the way some people think that only the music that exists is the music on the radio. Sure, I spent enough time working at the record store to bullshit with anyone about just about any music genre. And although I've written about music from time to time, very little, if any, has been punk rock. In fact, I think the only time I even say the words 'punk' and 'rock' together is when it's preceded by 'wicked,' and I'm trying to be funny. Emphasis on trying.

He must've entered his name wrong in the comments section, because he claims his last name is Benjamin. I looked him up on Facebook anyway. In his Favorite Quotes section, he wrote, "When I walk up in the club bitches be like he ain't shit. I'll be dat- Redman." Whatever his reason for listing this as his favorite quote, his support of the term 'bitches' to refer to women disqualifies him from telling me, a woman writer, that I shouldn't criticize a play written and performed by a woman, about a woman.


There also did not appear to be anyone who fit his description at the play.  Because if he was, he probably would've understood what I was talking about when I said, "The play took a serious turn."

Let me be honest. The play wasn't very good. Some things were edited out for word-count reasons: the play began light-hearted and silly, McKnight portraying humorous versions of Hamer as a curious young girl and a twitterpated young woman, but the play became increasingly tense and serious as Hamer's story unfolded. There was also an extended cut of Martin Luther King Jr.'s "I Have a Dream" speech- which I thought was completely unnecessary. Hamer was actually there for the speech, which makes it a part of her life, but she was also there for many of MLK's other speeches. I think it would've been more effective to use either the last speech he gave before his untimely death, or maybe part of the speech that hasn't been replayed in every classroom across America.  

I was criticizing the play and the presentation of the story, not the story itself, "Hamer’s story is incredible, but between the unintelligible rants, the distracting names and dates, and the extended cut of “I Have a Dream,” this play came short of capturing the intensity of her story in its entirety."

Cleveland also made an insightful point: I would add that the argument that we cannot critique a play just because it is about civil rights and (presumably) written and performed by an African-American is itself a kind of racism. It reduces African Americans to representatives of their race, rather artists in their own right.

Facebook Follies

Facebook is creepy and it makes me feel creepy. How does it know who I want to see in my news feed?

I think it knows that Cleveland and I are in a relationship, even though we're not "In a Relationship." I keep getting ads for engagement rings on the left hand side of the page and I always 'x' them out because they are incredibly disturbing, and I specify that the ad is offensive. He's also always, constantly at the top of my news feed. How does it know? Is it keeping track of who I poke?

Anyway, Facebook also does this thing where it shows you teasers from people's photo albums, if you're say, writing a message or responding to an event. Even if you weren't thinking about wasting time on clicking through people's vacation photos, seeing a snippet can be enticing. Remember when looking at vacation photos was like, a boring chore you did just to be polite? I do, vaguely.

I happen to take Facebook up on the offer to look at one of Cleveland's photo albums, from a family trip to Central America. There was a picture of an iguana, and he'd written a caption about how most of his pictures from the trip were of iguanas, because deep down he's actually like, seven. I laughed out loud, recalling a few nights before that he couldn't go back to sleep after having a bad dream.

Since I wasn't doing anything except lurking on the internet at that particular moment, I decided to share the picture with Mandy, because I knew wasn't doing anything and she'd appreciate the humor.

Approximately six minutes later, much to my horror, I realize I posted it to my news feed instead of sending it as a message.

IT WAS ON MY WALL FOR THE WHOLE FACEBOOK WORLD TO SEE!!

I 'x'ed it out as fast as I could while trying not to hyperventilate. Not everyone knows that we're dating- I'm not trying to hide anything, well, except for here. But if I posted one of his vacation photos to my wall it would   be like doodling I Heart Cleveland, Mrs. Amanda Jennifer Ohio all over my "About me" section. I sort of held my hands up so as not to accidentally click the wrong button again, and frantically looked around the computer screen to see if there were any clues indicating that anyone noticed. He told me he was writing, but anyone who does any work on a computer knows how easy it is to get Facebook-sidetracked. But it was 9 p.m. on a Saturday night and Facebook seemed pretty dead.

We weren't hanging out that night because it was my last double shift at Maine Roasters Coffee, and after waking up at 5 a.m. to work from 6 a.m. - 6 p.m., the last think you want to do is hang out. Plus we were going to the yurt the next day. He didn't mention it, so I didn't mention it, and I don't think anyone else saw it...

The Free Press pays me.

Beer Bellies and Vodka Soda

The Grinch of Valentine's Day

Although I make light of how disinterested in Valentine's Day I happen to be in that column, me 'n Cleve had a really enjoyable time at J's Oyster and he showered me with presents. He'll say that it wasn't a competition, but he totally won Valentine's Day.

Fashion Props and These Boots

I've been reading a lot of local fashion blogs, and like a kid on the playground, I feel a little bit left out. Just wanted to give some props to Sweet William, Fore Front Fashion, Sweeter Salt, Grandma June, and Mainely Mara are cool, smart, fashionable women, and hey, sometimes I don't wear sweatpants. Tomorrow is the first day of school and I actually intend on showering. I can be fashionable! And I love Lady Gaga!

I've also modeled some killer vintage finds for Mandy at Shop Grandma June.

Here's the outfit I wore on New Year's Eve, just picture it without the double chin and the mess in the background. God, I look like all of my aunts on my father's side in this picture.

Shirt: 100% silk, vintage.
Skirt: wool, J. Crew. (Pockets!)
Shoes: patent leather(?), Steve Madden.

I sent this as a pic-message to Cleveland, as I was choosing my outfit the night before. He said he was speechless. Assuming he wasn't talking about the mess, I told him not to get his hopes up, it was just a good angle on the mirror/camera angle. Still haven't seen the pics from that night so we might never know...

Oh, and after MUCH, MUCH controversy, I bought these boots on Etsy:

Does anyone else know what it's like to wake up, check your checking account balance and have a panic attack, thinking that you're going to overdraw and be hit with some serious overage fees? I lost my job and suffered two dental traumas in the last two months, over the holiday season. It was a difficult time. I deserve to treat myself to one special present for not falling into a bottomless pit of despair, as I might've done in other phases of my life.

These boots might even inspire me to reprise my role as Carrie Okay. START WALKIN!

This was taken from an actual text conversation with Mandy, where I actually had to fart really bad.

The Flowers, the Bacon and the Tooth

This story is completely true and yes, I'm alright. I wrote this just before Christmas. 

The man I'd just started dating went home to Cleveland for Christmas, and the morning after I was preparing breakfast for myself at my apartment. We'd been spending a lot of time together, and a marathon 48 hours straight before he brought himself to the bus station. You're probably not surprised that I'm seeing someone new... but it seems to be going reasonably well, although we're both slightly terrified that we're going to do something to screw things up. This could be a good sign? Anyway, eggs in the skillet and a mix he made for me blasting, when there was a frantic banging on the door. I tried to ignore it; it might've been my landlord hammering upstairs. It continued. My upstairs neighbors are from Australia, and in the midst of their shotgun Portland wedding two months ago, they were getting a lot of packages and flowers. Everyone else in the building has normal jobs, and I'm usually the only person around to sign. I was really irritated to have my tomato, spinach, feta scramble with a side of bacon interrupted. The man banging on the door was holding a gigantic bouquet of flowers. I rolled my eyes.

"Hi! Guess that knocking really paid off! Amanda?" I almost fainted and vomited, simultaneously. I'm not even sure if I thanked the delivery man. The card read something sort of romantic about him being gone and me being here blah blah blah. I sat in front of my breakfast, basking in the glow of how thoughtful Cleveland was and how lucky I am to have him in my life (not just saying that because I know he's reading; also, HI!) I was already thinking about how I could turn this into a story about romance not being dead and how men seriously underestimate the effectiveness of sending flowers to a women. There wasn't much time before I had to leave for work, and so after texting Mandy and talking to Rebecca briefly, I started hoovering my breakfast. A huge bite including a well-done, thick cut slice of bacon...  and I felt a molar crack in half.  It started bleeding, and I couldn't close my mouth because the loose piece was jabbing into my gum... and I started flipping out. I called Janna in a panic and she found someone to cover for me. I felt my gum bleeding. My old Portland dentist was going to charge $70 to just look at it, and the sliding-scale place wasn't returning my call. I don't have health insurance, let alone dental. This being the holiday season, despite my best efforts to abstain... there isn't a lot of extra money in my checking right now... what if it was going to be expensive, what if I couldn't pay for it? I remembered a friend just got an awesome new job and said domestic partners were covered in her new benefits package. How much time would it take for that to go into effect and would she be into the idea of switching teams for the cause of my tooth? Completely overwhelmed, I started crying. Once I became hysterical, I called Angela. She's one of the many people in my life who won't freak out if I called them crying so hard I can't breathe. I explained that it was like a (bacon) earthquake hit my mouth. Part of my tooth was like California, sinking into the ocean, only my gums wouldn't let it. She talked me off the edge and I decided to walk to the store for a bottle of wine, a pint of  ice cream, and some cotton balls. Eventually, the clinic returned my call and said they saw emergency patients at 8 a.m. and 1 p.m.

It was awful. I couldn't eat. What about Christmas dinner, and why is it that terrible things always happen to me around the holidays? This year I was hoping to go to Mexico and skip Christmas, but then I lost my job. Was this the Ghost of Christmas Past, besmirching me? Has my negative attitude about the holiday season created a self-fulfilling prophecy? What about the fact that this happened less than ten minutes into sharing this really romantic moment with Cleveland? It's hard not to ignore the fact that I was eating a piece of bacon and he's a vegetarian, my least favorite of all his amazing qualities. He made pizza the other day and I said, "It'd be better if it had bacon." Seriously. Maybe it's not just karma from me focusing on his vegetarianism, maybe it's karma from all the slaughtered pigs in all the world?! The timing was so incredibly unfortunate. Quick, who has a copy of Omnivore's Dilema to loan me?

I called Cleveland from Rite Aid, and broke the bad news. After explaining that I wasn't in any serious pain and the panic attack was over, he joked that he was upset with me for managing to overshadow the flowers. I agreed, and he asked me to please cross out everything he'd written on the card and rewrite, "Get Well."

This isn't the first dental issue I've had. My dentist growing up was an awesome guy. Dr. James Davis, not to be confused with Jim Davis, the guy who writes Garfield. I know they're not the same guy because I asked him when I was 7. I had a lot of cavities over the years, so I was in there every few months, between six-month cleanings and subsequent fillings. Between the deep grooves in my teeth and my infatuation with Bubblicious gum, we joked that we were funding the new renovations at his practice. It also meant that he made exceptions for me, like taking out my wisdom teeth instead of referring me to an oral surgeon. He did my first root canal, and let me tell you- there was an abscess in my tooth once, and since I don't plan on bearing children, I know that this is the worst pain I've ever felt/will ever feel in my life. Even so, the dentist office was never a scary place for me. It was always just the place I went to get my teeth taken care of. But teeth are little bitches and after yesterday, I'm never going to trust another dentist ever again.

http://sketchedout.files.wordpress.com/

The night of the break, I had preemptively taken some pain killers before I gave my mouth the chance to experience pain, not realizing the tooth was already dead from a root canal a year before. I'd had insurance back then, and the cause of the root canal a chipped tooth, neglected for too long. (The tooth Dr. Davis did the root canal on is still fine, despite it being ten years and me still not getting a crown. He's that good.) Then I made some sangria out of a whole bottle of wine and drank it. For dinner, I had more painkillers, all of the sangria, and a pint of Haagen Daas ice cream. Ben and Jerry's was my first choice, but they all had too many things I'd have to chew. (Disclaimer: this was a special circumstance. I was alone, broken tooth, days before Christmas, unsure if I would be able to fix it or sleep, about to fall into a bottomless pit of despair. My drinking has been very responsible these days... apparently the holidays and broken teeth bring out my Catholic guilt, as well.) I rolled out of bed the next morning in low spirits, put on my boots, coat, and left for the clinic.

The woman who took my x-ray asked me twenty times if there was any chance I could be pregnant. Apparently x-rays are really dangerous to your unborn child. I wouldn't know this, because I do the mental version of plugging my ears and humming when someone said unborn child. I assure here that there is NO WAY. She made a joke about the Wise Men, commenting on the unlikelyhood of there being another immaculate conception, seemingly because she was relating her sexless life with my own. But I'm really just on the pill! Not pregnant! But if someone asks you twenty times in one day if you're positive of something, it's normal to question yourself. So I had a brief panic attack, lasting only until the dentist walked over...

I'm still wearing my coat and scarf. The dentist does not introduce herself, but she's a petite Indian woman in her mid-thirties, about three months pregnant. Hopefully she wasn't around when the x-rays happened. She asks me how long ago I had the root canal, I said either one year or ten, because I don't know which tooth is which. She looks at me like I'm insane. She does not sit, she does not ask me how I'm feeling, if I'm in any pain or discomfort. The broken tooth needed to be extracted, but they couldn't do it. But she didn't explain why, until I asked. I needed to see an oral surgeon, and then starts telling me about the other cavities that I had which needed to be filled. It's not specified where the oral surgeon is, if the sliding scale is going to apply, or even who the oral surgeon is. She calls to see how soon then can take me, but they're closed until Monday. I start sobbing uncontrollably in the chair. There is a loose, broken tooth in my mouth. It's loose like your baby teeth got loose. This was also not going to help my recurring nightmare, the one where all of my teeth fall out. I can't close my mouth and I can't chew, and she's telling me it was going to stay like that until at least Monday? I flipped out and started crying hysterically, wearing my coat, reclined in the exam chair.

The nurse/hygienist comes over. I don't know who she is, because she doesn't tell me. She's about 50, Asian, with some sort pouffy 80's hairdo. Apparently this place is big on Affirmative Action. She asks me if I have insurance. No. Not even Maine Care? No. One would think these people would understand that not everyone qualifies for Maine Care, not everyone is approved, and homeless people and teen moms would take priority over me. She makes me feel guilty for my broken tooth and for not getting a crown and not taking better care of my teeth. She makes me feel guilty for making the dentist feel bad when I started crying.  This makes me cry even more because none of these things were my fault or within my control. In the next room over, I could hear a man talking to a young girl and her parents about her teeth. The man, presumably another dentist, was cordial and friendly and very helpful in explaining thouroughly everything he noticed about little girl's teeth. This assured me that it was possible to get quality care at Community Dental, and that it wasn't a company-wide policy to treat their patients with disregard.

The dentist comes back and tells me she can remove the broken piece and give me a filling- a temporary fix. This is the best news I've heard all day, but she doesn't tell me how much it'll cost. At that moment there was $140 dollars in my checking account, and if it was more than that, I'd probably just have to run away.

Usually, when a patient needs to be injected with Novocaine, they put an orajel-like substance on the gums, leave it for a moment to numb the area, and put the needle in. She puts the orajel on, but immediately goes in with the needle. Luckily, I'm not freaked out by needles. She takes the broken piece out and removes the old filling. There was a sharp edge to be filed. They rinsed and suctioned, but did not put in a new filling and didn't explain why, not that I was even sure why it was necessary in the first place. Some of the water sprayed onto my hand, jacket and the floor... this has never happened to me before (sounds like my first time!) When she was done, she put some paper towels on the water and told me to be careful. She handed me the paperwork to give the oral surgeon and walked away. She did not tell me when the novacane would wear off. She didn't tell me if I should expect bleeding or swelling. She did not tell me if I couldn't eat for a certain amount of time, or if I should avoid hot or cold beverages. She also didn't tell me a time frame to be sure to see the oral surgeon. She just walked away.

I get in line to check out, and the nurse walked by me three times, ignoring me all three times. The line took forever, which gave me a lot of time to think about how completely awful my experience was. The receptionist tells me it's going to be $75, but doesn't explain the sliding scale or ask for proof of income, which I had. I hand her my debit card and start crying, again. All I wanted to do was get out of there.

My friend Brandon said he saw me walking down Brighton Avenue, which is a weird place for me to be walking, especially so early in the morning. The bus came right away, but I decided to not get on. I was hysterical and everyone on the bus would've thought I was insane. Brandon pointed out that most of the other people on the bus were also insane, and they would've just assumed that I was learning to speak Homeless. I told him it was too bad he didn't beep and wave, because I could've thrown myself in front of his car.

If this was an episode of Seinfeld, I would chalk it up to the fact that dentists aren't real doctors so they were never taught bedside manner. It's not their fault, they just don't know. But I do think dentists are real doctors! Okay, so these people work in at a non-profit practice that sees a lot of low-income people. They probably don't make a lot of money in comparison to other people in their field, overworked and underpaid... but that does not give them the right to treat me with disregard, disrespect and all kinds of other words that start with un and dis. Not that it should make a difference, but I've asked other dentists to tell me about the worst mouths they've seen. There are meth addicts who's teeth were crumbling out of their mouths and people who'd never brushed their teeth in their entire lives. My cavities and one stupid broken tooth are far from the worst they've ever seen, but all of their patients should be treated with care.