So I told the girls at work about my silly tomato plant packaging and how it promised bushels of fun. They were as amused as I was. One of the girls said, " What's it going to do... get up and dance for you?"
Yesterday, I went to the dentist. Groan. I don't generally enjoy having my teeth cleaned. The sound and feel of sharp instruments scraping on my teeth is just not my favorite way to spend forty five minutes. Plus, my dental hygenist is extremely talkative and, while not totally obnoxious, we're not exactly kindred spirits.
For example, last fall I had an appointment with her. It was a couple days after the election and one of her conversation starters was, " So, you were probably as bummed out by the election results as we were..." and I was like, " Um...No...Actually, I wasn't." Um, hello? Okay: awkward silence. Anyway...She really means well, but...
This time, she asked me at the end of the cleaning which flavor of mouthwash I wanted to rinse with..."Citrus or mint?" I said, " Citrus." At least I thought I did. I'm pretty sure I did. I always choose Citrusy things over Minty things. Perhaps she was just so into talking about why I should have my "chart" done ( even though I told her I wasn't into astrology) that she wasn't listening. She gave me Mint mouthwash. ( This was approximately five seconds after I told her I wanted "Citrus.") What's the deal? They don't even sound alike. I said nothing. ( Just pay your bill and leave, Claire.) I guess she probably figured that the stars were aligned in the Minty House and that even if I thought I wanted Citrus flavor, the planets knew better.
I'm not even going to get into the whole Mountain Dew/Coke/delinquent girl story that she launched into when she heard that I worked at the Shelter. Let's just say, it's never boring with this lady.
The thing about going to the dentist is that it's all a big old SCAM. Once you're in their clutches, you are inextricably entwined in an evil system. You go for a cleaning, and-SURPRISE!- they just happen to "find" another cavity! You go six months later to fill the cavity, and lo, they find another! It's a fearful, endless cycle. ( And I floss and brush and rinse like a maniac. It doesn't make sense! It's too ironic: Brad isn't half as uptight as I am about the whole dental care thing and he NEVER gets cavities. ARGH.) Going to the dentist is like going to the mechanic - I'm afraid that instead of just changing the oil, they will discover that the car requires repairs that will cost the equivalent of the national debt of Namibia.