Gerald Ford, I Hardly Knew Ye

Tuesday is a national day of mourning for our thirty-eighth president, which means the post office will be closed. It would be unbelievably sweet to work for the post office- whenever we want to "honor" somebody, our first inclination is to close the post office. Or the DMV. Really screw up everyday life for the living. Anyhow, life as a postal worker could have been pretty great. Except for having to wear the shorts. And, you know, anthrax. Is that stuff still around?

Things with my tooth are seemingly getting worse. But the flowers sure were a nice gesture.

Tooth Update:

Still hurts. Hurts worse and worse by the day. Went back to dentist yesterday because of all the pain, and the dentist seemed mystified that the pain was intensifying. Didn't seem to know what to do. Gave me vicodin, but I can't exactly pop a vicodin and then go to work. I feel like I'm going crazy. Ready to drive my car off my cliff, but, knowing my luck, I'd end up not killing myself but simply smashing my tooth against the steering wheel.

Dentist took another X-ray. What's the deal with that X-ray vest they put over your chest? Thank you for protecting my trunk against radiation, but you're pointing the X-ray maching at my FACE. Why isn't there an X-ray vest for my brain?

Really putting a damper on my week. Just want to curl into a ball and cry.

Also amoxicillin causing embarrassing side effects. Will tell you in person but will not broadcast all over the internet. Must find car, cliff.

An Open Letter to John Irving:

John,

What's up with "The Fourth Hand?" I have considered you to be one of the best American novelists to ever grace my own personal library (followed closely by Margaret Atwood, although I understand she's actually Canadian, poor slob), but my excitement to dive into "The Fourth Hand" was quickly diffused by the awful, awful story that sloppily unfolded on the pages.

One of the main things that really bothered me was the sub-plot with Dr. Zajac. What the hell was that about? You introduce us to a doctor who has the quirky habit of playing games with dog poop, give us insight into his mal-nourished son and hot maid, but then refuse to make any part of him, or his life, relevant to the rest of the novel. You're John-freaking-Irving. You're the king of everything affecting everything else. But you totally dropped the ball with the doctor, and at times I felt that I was reading a totally different novel, but one that was possibly penned during National Novel Writing Month. You know the month I'm talking about- it's when douche bags across the country write for the sake of writing- characters, plot, and correct grammar be damned. The only thing that matters to them is word count. That's kind of the feeling that I got from you.

Also, the main character himself, Patrick, was charming and intriguing, but only for the first chapter or so. Only until he loses his hand to a lion, and then he becomes kind of a lifeless sack of crap, just a pile of words like "handsome" and "charismatic" and "handless"- words that mean absolutely nothing. Show, don't tell, Mr. Irving. You have Patrick fall in love with the oddity that is Doris, and the only thing even slightly interesting about Doris is that, at one point, you mention that she has the hint of a mustache. While that certainly gave me pause ("handsome" and "charismatic" men rarely like chicks with facial hair), it doesn't tell me what Patrick actually saw in Doris. Sure, she gave him her dead husband's hand. Fabulous. But what did he love about *her*? Also, the fact that she was a Packers' fan was a mildly disruptive plot point, if you don't mind me saying so.

Seriously, though, this novel amounted to little more than empty sentences limply strung together like sad, unlit Christmas lights. I've actually read "Chick Lit" books that have had more substance than "Hand."

Also, I found the meaning behind "The Fourth Hand" ridiculous.

The first hand is the one he didn't lose.
The second hand is the one he eventually did lose.
The third hand is the replacement hand from Doris' dead husband.
The fourth hand is the void where the second and third hand used to be.

I'm sure you thought this was extremely clever, but I found it stupid. I didn't find it to be a beautiful metaphor or a commentary on how shadows of objects and people are often organic in their own important way. Nope. My opinion is that you tossed in that tidbit in a transparent effort to be clever. As somebody who often does that in her own writing, I definitely saw right through you.

By far, "The Fourth Hand" is the "Bean" of novels. You may remember from our earlier letters that "Bean" (the movie) was a tremendous let-down, one that I will not soon forget. I feel the same way about your fourth hand, Mr. Irving. I only hope that I can find it in my heart to give you a second chance.

Oh, and the cover art also stunk.

Jook

I had half a root canal yesterday. I didn't know you could do a root canal in stages, but I suppose my particular situation is so bad that they can't just do the whole thing in one fell swoop. Either that, or they're trying to get as many co-pays out of me as possible.

After the second half of the root canal is over in two weeks, they're going to give me a crown for the tooth, which will replace the cap I have on it now. The reason I have the cap is, of course, due to when I smashed my face on the floor of the swimming pool after an ill-executed dive, chipping my tooth and also my confidence. If only I could go back in time and simply stay home that day. Anyway, I'm hoping the crown will look better than my cap, because I am very self-conscious of its shape and color. The good news, as well, is that they'll also be able to straighten that particular tooth because it sticks out a little due to general bad luck. So maybe now I'll feel okay smiling in photos.

I don't know whether I respect or resent the dentist I went to yesterday. She kept using the words "pain" and "hurt" as in "This is going to cause some pain," and "This is really going to hurt."

"I thought doctors were supposed to use words like 'pressure' and 'discomfort,'" I complained through a mouthful of cotton and medicine.

"I tell the truth," she said, tapping vigorously on my bad tooth for the sole purpose of amusing herself. Later, when they were working on my tooth, I asked the assistant the name of the particular tool they were using.

"I don't want to tell you," she said, looking away.

"It's a drill," my dentist piped up, and she held it out in front of me so that I could see it in all of its Sears-hardware glory. "I'm drilling a hole in your tooth. Okay, this is going to hurt...."

Anyways, I'm in a little pain today, but I suppose that I'm finally on the right path. It was embarrassing telling them the little saga of my tooth and the fact that I've putting this procedure off for so long. I think my pride was hurt more than my mouth, and my mouth was most certainly hurt, especially when she did this test which required placing a freezing dot of foam on my tooth to test the sensitivity. That cute little dot of whiteness hurt so badly that it made me cry and, I'll admit, scream. It was even worse than the needle she poked into my gums after applying the mostly ineffective numbing agent.

To be continued.

I have a dentist appointment in about an hour. I am in a world of pain, and now that my appointment is looming, I am also in a world of fear. I am nearly crippled with said fear, in fact, and I think the fear is beginning to affect my vision.

I have needed a root canal for approximately eight years. That's a pretty long time to go with a bad tooth, but because I am strong (and fearful) I have managed, successfully, to go the better part of a decade with simply ignoring my problem. Now I have throbbing, and severe "discomfort" and I absolutely have to have something be done. The problem is, it's one of my front teeth, and I'm afraid that they may have to completely remove it and give me a falsie. How will a falsie look? With any luck, the falsie will drastically improve both my attractiveness and of course my ability to eat apples. If I'm plum out of luck, then perhaps the falsie will render me completely incapable of going out in public ever again. Or of eating- anything.

There are very few times in my life when I've felt this scared, and while I know it's a bit immature of me to feel this way, I can't help it. I need to be held. If only there was someone at work willing to hold me in public. Oftentimes I get offers to be held in private, but that doesn't really help me now.

I guess I can understand why dentists have such a high suicide rate. It's because of people like me who equate them with the devil or a prison executioner. A tax man, or the George W. Bush of gums and teeth. I only hope my dentist today will be gentle and understanding. Seeing as how he was my sixth choice today and how he's the only dentist in the tri-state area not only working but also with an available appointment, I'm sure he's going to be stellar. Why must this all happen before the start of a holiday weekend? And how generous will he be with the pain killers?

I find it funny that two of the cities we "considered" moving to are topping opposite lists in Money Magazine this magazine.

Indianapolis: #1 Most Affordable Housing Market
Los Angeles: #1 Least Affordable Housing Market

In Indy, the median household income is over $65,000, while the median home price is an incredibly low $122,000. When we were looking at townhomes down there this past summer, we were amazed by what we could get on our budget. We'd be living like kings! Like lonely, friendless kings.

L.A.'s median income is $56,200, and the median home price is $523,000. Yowzas.

My friend Brian was reading my blog, and he used the search tool at the top of the page (I didn't even know it was there) to find blog entries that included his name. Unfortunately, the comedian Brian Regan was mentioned more often than Brian, my friend Brian, and while he didn't actually come out and say it, I think this upset him.

So here's an entry about Brian.

• I can't remember how we became friends. We met in high school, but I feel that we actually became real friends after high school, or just as high school was ending (at least for me, since I am one school year older). When I think of the moment Brian and I actually bonded, I recall a man-made lake in T.P., and how we went there one early summer evening after some party (graduation, birthday, bar mitzvah) had ended. We shot the shit, had one of those spill-your-guts conversations, and shared a few laughs. The thing is, I'm not entirely sure that was Brian. It could have been any one of at least five people, two of which are male, two of which are female, and one of which is actually a calico kitten. Either way, it is a fond memory, and I attribute it to Brian.
• Brian and I once played a game of Pictionary. He drew the following two things: Rosa Parks refusing to get off the bus and a quote from As Good As It Gets. The quote was: "Where do they teach you to talk like this? In some Panama City 'Sailor wanna hump-hump' bar, or is it getaway day and your last shot at his whiskey? Sell crazy someplace else, we're all stocked up here."
• I wonder if Brian remembers that, for one of his birthdays, I gave him Arby's coupons. I wonder if Brian ever used them.
• Brian and I share an affinity for good sandwiches. Once, in passing, the idea was brought up that a trip to Sandwich, Illinois might be a good way to spend a Sunday. To date, I have never been to Sandwich, Illinois. I wonder if Brian has.
• Brian makes sausage. I once found a picture of him and his father in the Chicago Tribune Magazine giddily holding up their homemade sausage. I cut it out and I think I still might have it somewhere in the section of my scrapbook entitled "My Friends And The Strange Ways They Pass Their Time."

I could never eat sausage, much less create it. But it's normal for friends to disagree on certain things.

Why Illinois Sucks

The Game Show Network's website includes games that can be played for cash prizes. Considering that I am very good at certain games (such as Lingo and Lingo Plus) I think, "Perhaps this would be a good way to supplement my income." I prepare myself for a night of raking in cash: bottle of wine uncorked, iTunes geared up, web browser opened, credit card handy. I mentally think of five letter words that begin with the letter "m." I hum the theme music. I input all of my personal info on the registry page, and - hey, what's this??

When I get to the point where I need to put in my billing address info, I am stumped to see that "Illinois" is not a listed state in the drop down box. I immediately hit the "Chat for Help" and a fellow blandly named "Richard" tells me that Illinois, along with several other fun-less states, has regulations about cash gaming over the internet. There's a lot more legal mumbo jumbo to it, but the gist of it is that I can't win money on the internet correctly spelling words.

The disappointment is as heavy as Grandma's gravy. Here I had a nice little evening ahead of me, and it's ruined, just like that. If I only lived an hour north.

I then do the only thing I can, seeing as how I already have the wine, the music, and the credit card. And, no, this has nothing to do with porn. I buy jeans, nice ones. But I'm not happy about it.

I could have made thousands of hundreds of dollars playing Lingo. It's as if "they" knew. "They" being Rod Blagojovech (who is also, somehow, to blame for that small electrical fire that started in my favorite grocery store earlier this year. The place hasn't been the same since.)

The weekly writing prompt from Writer's Digest Dot Com is to choose three people you'd like to invite for dinner (dead, alive, famous, fictional, animal, vegetable, mineral). You must write WHY you'd invite these three people, and what the topic of conversation would be. I think the creator of this prompt, though, has ignored a key factor in this five hundred word travesty, which would be:

How well can you cook?

Because if you're inviting three people over for dinner, and you cook poorly, perhaps you'd better make sure that you're choosing three people that you do not care about impressing. For instance, I'd love to have Vince Vaughn over for dinner, but I would also hate to give him a major case of diarrhea. Knowing that I'm cooking the meal, I would probably then choose three people I only have a passing interest in, three individuals who I would not lose sleep over if I accidentally induced some kind of internal explosion within their bowels.

Also, let's take a moment and consider menu planning. You have chosen Jesus, Nemo (from "Finding Nemo"), and Tom Cruise. You can see the problem already: Jesus liked fish, Nemo was a fish, and Tom Cruise is a fucking nut bag.

I know this comment is a little dated, by the way, but how cool is Brooke Shields?

Irregardless, writing prompts are generally horrible, except for these particular gems. And I've never liked questions with limitations. Three people to invite for dinner. Five items to take on a deserted island. Eight favorite MySpace friends. I wish somebody would shit in your hat.

My personal blogging crisis cannot be explained without digging deeper into the psyche of Jackie, so we shall simply say I went through the following steps:

1. Deciding I'm done with blogging.
2. Deciding I'm not done with blogging, but that I need some kind of blogging "schtick."
3. Deciding I can't possibly maintain a schtick.
4. Deciding to break for lunch.
5. Deciding to start all over with a different site, but not really changing anything else.
6. Deciding that was pointless.

Also, might I add, I signed up for Blogger Beta. Can somebody tell me what "beta" actually is? Blogger Beta's not that different from regular Blogger, yet it contains a nuance or two that sends a spasm down my spine. I also just signed up for Hotmail Beta, which is a cross between Microsoft Outlook and a steaming pile of crap. So obviously this Beta thing is widespread, or at least two-spread. And it's not good.

One more thing:

What's up with these idiots getting hurt by their Nintendo Wii-mote? I think Chris cut to the core of the matter when he stated that we'd better hurry in getting our Wii before some douche gets the whole system recalled and ruins it for the rest of us.

With all of the destruction this Wii-mote has caused, though, I want the new system more than ever. Breaking things is cool.

Five things you didn't know about me:

1. I didn't know how to tie my shoes until I was ten.

2. I really kind of like Ashlee Simpson's albums.

3. I have a heart murmur.

4. When Chris and I first started dating, I determined that we were eventually going to get married based solely on his bowling score.

5. I watch Oprah. And I'll read whatever she tells me to.

I have to tag 5, per Dax's instructions.

Dan, Ocean, Rachel, Michelle, and Chris, who has forgotten how to type.

Winter has begun. With a vengeance.

I work about about three miles away from where I live. With the unplowed streets and approximately a foot's worth of snow to barrel through, it took me a solid forty minutes to get to my intersection. However, I couldn't turn into the parking lot due to abandoned cars and snow drifts blocking the entrances, so I turned around and went home. By the time I pulled back into my driveway, I'd clocked a good hour twenty sitting in my car for a six mile trip. I almost reached my driveway, but then the car got stuck. So I called various people who had better luck than I, at both my location and one other, and said I wouldn't make it.

I let two hours lapse, and then I decided to have another go at it. The guilt was eating me alive. Maybe I should have tried harder to find a way to get in, because obviously a few other people had. Stupid arrogant SUV owners and their 4 wheel-drives. Maybe if I'd have gunned it in my little car, maybe I could have done it, too. At eleven o'clock, I began the arduous task of shoveling my car out of the snow and headed back out. This time the ride only took me thirty minutes, only six times my normal commute. And I barrelled my way through the drifts, past the abandoned cars, and into a makeshift parking spot. Killer. I'd made it.

I was informed a bit later that we could all leave at 3:00. So after three hours of work - loosely defined- I got back on the road.

Clear sailing.

I never see any trucks plowing the street. What I see are plow trucks driving around aimlessly, plows in the upright position about eighteen inches off the ground. I'm convinced that there's an element of magic at work. During the worst winter storms, I can't imagine ever making it to my destination alive, or being able to move my car again until after spring has arrived. I feel resigned to the fact that either death or a permanent parking spot under a million feet of snow is my destiny. Then, a few hours go by, with no real signs of anything really happening to change the state of things- no plow trucks, no sunshine or heat, no shovels or snowblowers- and, boom, things are instantly better. The streets are beautifully clear, the snow has backed away from my car of its own volition, and, hey, I almost feel like it's time to put on a T-shirt again.

The picture above is the view from my balcony and gives no real indication of what it was like to be out and about at eight in the morning. Which is why I stole this picture from a local paper:

White nightmare. But it's over.