Antisocial

I spent the afternoon (if 90 minutes qualifies as "the afternoon") at the dentist.

I haven't been there in 12 months which surprised everyone, myself included. I like my dentist. They recently redecorated and it's very clean, modern, quiet. Restful, even, if you can tune out the radio, which I mostly did (Kelly Clarkson's "A Moment Like This" was on, and also that band Snow Patrol, and Whitney Houston. Oh, and a Sting song. Sting should just stop writing songs, or go back to writing songs that are more imprecise and less obvious. The song wasn't "Englishman In New York," but there's a fine example of a piece of shit song). The hygienist is an interesting lady who asks interested and interesting questions, and I made her laugh a couple of times in the chair. I wish I could remember one comment that caused us both to totally giggle for about five minutes. She made me feel as if it's perfectly normal to be both a gagger and a spitter. While she was working on me, she was fast, funny, hummed along (she particularly liked "Greatest Love Of All" and the Snow Patrol song), and waited a few seconds after asking me a question so I could spit and/or swallow and answer her question, before sticking her hands back in my mouth.

Not a bad place to spend 90 minutes, if you can disregard the whole business with the pointy, scraping implements of torture.*

...

After that, I didn't want to just go back home where I knew I would plop down on the couch with a bag of chips and the TV (I have officially quit Weight Watchers, and am plotting another weight loss venture, but haven't made any moves yet. Watch this space for updates on whether or not I return to cow status or get a grip and try to work out a more pleasant outcome). This weekend I didn't do much, but I did notice that I didn't have many interactions with anybody other than Patrick, and the cats. I was starting to feel a little funny about that. So, since it was early (I had made an appointment to get my eyebrows waxed but I had about an hour and a half to kill), I decided to go to the library.

I've been reading a co-worker's book. I borrowed it while she was on vacation and I needed something to read at lunchtime. I always need something to read at lunchtime. This particular co-worker majored in journalism, and the book is a collection of prize-winning newspaper and magazine articles (I had it with me at the dentist, and the hygienist said one of her kids, who is in college, has it, too. I told her she should read it and she said she might). One of them is about a man named Vivien Thomas, and I sat there in a not-so-easy chair by a table of three high school students (two girls in unflattering Catholic school uniforms, and a guy who looked like a cross between Matt Damon and this guy Mark Ramsey I knew in high school. I was a little surprised I couldn't find any photos of Mark online; he was the kind of guy you thought would grow up to do something worthy of having his photo taken for. Unless he became a priest, rabbi or lead singer of what looks like a terrible band, I couldn't find him. It was a cursory search, sure, but still) listening to my iPod and reading about this amazing guy. I might get his autobiography. He was really an inspirational man, and wow, the book picked a great example of really good writing.

The title of this post is "antisocial" because I guess I've been having these weird detached feelings every once in awhile, and though I only spoke to one very bad librarian (I was looking for a book Patrick's cousin recommended while we were in El Paso, which I couldn't remember the full name of. I gave her most of it ["...to a revolution..."], however, and she couldn't find it in the catalog. I just looked it up on Amazon.com, a resource the County librarians surely have access to, and found it as the number 7 listing by using the same three words I gave to her), I felt a little better than I would've had the mailman caught me for the fourth day in a row in the same position on the couch (the mailman in El Paso was named Cornbread, by the way. I keep forgetting to include that in these posts, and I think it's hysterical that he a. bothered to introduce himself to us, but it was sweet of him; and b. admits to people that his name is "Cornbread"). It was nice to be around other people.

The other instance of that weird feeling (and maybe "detached" is the wrong descriptor: I don't want you to be thinking I'm a serial killer or something, and maybe this next anecdote won't dispel that notion, but here goes anyway) was, the other day when I was on the freeway on my way home from Santa Monica, I had the sensation - and it only lasted for a second, or less - that I was driving against, rather than with, traffic. Like I was pulling a Nicole Ritchie move of my own on the 405 south, through Culver City. Obviously I wasn't, and I hadn't had too much to drink (about half a small glass of red wine and more food than you might've thought humanly possible: we were at Buca di Beppo, after all) and obviously I was in my lane and fine and not running into things, but it was strange, and then it was over.

I got to the dinner party a little late, and so ended up sitting next to the director's husband, a man who still totally intimidates but interests me greatly (he's a writer, and Smart), and the boyfriend of one of the girls from the cast of The Bald Soprano. A nice guy - another lefty - but I didn't end up having the kind of fun time I had sort of envisioned ahead of time because I'm, you know, shy, had I been sitting next to people I'm a tiny bit more comfortable around. That said, I mean, I did have fun, it was just different than I thought. I got to talk to this girl's boyfriend and he was nice, and Frederique was on the other side of Charles and I spoke with her a bit, but everyone else was about 12 feet away, and the fucking pope was in the way.

And so I thought, hmm, maybe being around other people (most of my co-workers hardly count as "people," and I don't mean that to diss them at all, only to point out that I don't know most of them - the friend from whom I borrowed the book is absolutely not included here - very well, and they don't really know me. Which is fine, but these are people I spend a good deal of time with and it seems weird to me that only two of them sort of know me even a little bit. And one of those two reads this blog so she probably knows me more than she would like! I think the rest of them think I'm a goody-goody, just there to point out their mistakes and bad writing. Ha! bad writing! Look at this example right here, people!) was a good idea. And it was.

*See, a good writer would've caught that the way I wrote this implies that I think having one's hands in my mouth for 90 minutes is "a good place to be." No, I only meant, reclined in the comfy chair, the sharpness of the afternoon sun cut by soft white cotton blinds - all I needed was a blanket and maybe less plaque, and I would've been asleep. There was no drilling or other audible sounds of dentistry going on. The receptionist had stunning blue eyes and offered to see if my insurance would pay 50% of the cost to have my amalgam fillings replaced with more pleasing to the eye white fillings. She asked me about my husband, and remembered that I have cats (did I mention it's been a whole year since I've been in there? Sure, maybe they have this stuff written on cards, but still, she was very natural and sincere). The dentist himself was a gracious, white-haired old guy dressed like my gay older brother, which I find incredibly comfortable and reassuring. All in all, it was a nice visit, and I'll go again when they call me in six months and remind me.