One of Those Days

Ever have one of those days where everything on the schedule screams "Suck!" but yet the day itself turns out pretty nice? If no, hope for them; they're good.

I woke up this morning with the following agenda: walk the dog who is getting WAY too overweight thanks to heartworm treatments and overindulgent parents, go to the Dentist all the hell the way in Marshfield, stop into the old summer job to pay for my health insurance for the last time, and then try to time dinner to when the Crimefighter gets home starving even though he invariably forgets to call me to tell me he's on his way home even though his come home times vary drastically.

The dog walk was pleasant, mostly because my old friend/nemesis, who I call Mrs. Hurvitz simply because she reminds me of the REAL Mrs. Hurvitz from the Corey road days who I miss, is on vacation. Mrs. Hurvitz (the second) is one of those anomalies you only get in suburbia. I met her a few days after we got Boogie. I was taking him on one of our first walks, trying to bond Cesaer Milan style, when the door of a house I must have passed a thousand times alone flies open and an older lady in a hastily thrown on housecoat comes tearing down the walk. With little fear of imminent danger (I'm not tough, but I figured I can take on a septuagenarian in a housecoat), Boogie and I waited patiently. She immediately threw herself down on the ground beside my dog and began to squeal with delight. Unlike the original Mrs. Hurvitz, she had little to say to me. What can I say? My boy is a ladies' man.

Within a week, she had purchased dog treats to give to Boogie every morning and afternoon on our walks. Boogie is strictly a Science Diet/ Iams boy, so the treats soon became the reason he woke me up every morning for his walk. I have nothing against Snausages, per se, but they do pose a problem when your dog's system is used to genetically perfected dog food formulas.

Explosive diarrhea. And gas.

Within two weeks, The Crimefighter and I almost had to move into the spare room. From his place conveniently in between the two of us and often under the blankets, my boy was a lethal weapon.

This put me in a quandary. This little old lady bought my child treats. She adored my boy, and he loved her treats if not her (but probably her too - my boy, he loves the ladies). Still, my bedroom was becoming a gas chamber. Fortunately, pretty days in Massachusetts, they do not last forever. When the cold weather came, I shortened and changed my longer summer route, and the Crimefighter and I once again slept without the constant fear of methane poisoning.

I haven't decided what this summer will bring. So, for today at least, crisis averted.

On to Marshfield, a city on the South Shore where I once wasted a great deal of my youth.

Allow me explain... no. Is too much..... Allow me sum up:

My first dentist in Boston was hot. Achingly so. This is not why I chose him, but it is not a reason to stop using a good dentist. At the same time, I was dating someone who could not understand why I "needed" to have such a good looking dentist. As if my oral hygiene were a thinly veiled attempt to cuckold him.

Seriously? I know my strengths and my flaws. I grew up without benefit of fluoridated water. The inside of my mouth does NOT send men, least of all dentists, into a frenzy. It is NOT my most attractive feature. I do have Swedish teeth, which is good, but I also drink coffee and soda incessantly. You do the math.

Continuing summation: My then boyfriend (to protect his identity, we'll just anonymously call him "The 175 pound mass of drunken buffoon") wheedled and cajoled until I agreed to go to his mother's dentist, a kindly older white haired man. I needed some work done, so voila, new dentist.

Imagine how hard it was not to smile when I was told that I would not be seeing said kindly older, white haired man but his son who is about the DB's age and significantly more attractive.

INTERJECTION: My dentist is a lovely man with a lovely new husband. These are things I knew about 10 minutes into my first visit. Once you have dated for 20 years AND attended English graduate school in literature, you kind of get a sense of the men who want to play, don't want to play with you, and aren't even aware the game is on. And this is not information I ever presented to the DB. You want to drive yourself crazy with paranoid fantasies you have no reson to create? Knock yourself out. But I digress.

The DB came and went in a series of ugly confrontations, only some about the dentist, but I kept the dentist. He's funny. I figure it's easier to find a new boyfriend than it is to find a good dentist. Turns out, I was right.

What I love about this dentist is that somewhere along the way, it became as important to talk about the books we were reading as about my teeth. Sure, I get a good cleaning (gold star today -- the $100 toothbrush is worth it!), but I have to laugh when he comes in at the very end and the first thing he tells me, before the X-rays and the tooth stuff, is that he's reading Never Let Me Go by Kazuo Ishiguro. I thought it was cool because I have listened to the book on audio (pretty cool, but weird even for Ishiguro) and because I teach an article at Northeastern that relies heavily on his Remains of the Day.

And, no, I didn't ruin the surprise.

All in all, I no longer feel as judged when I go to the dentist. Maybe this is because I get to do a little judging myself. And, for the record, both he and I did well.

PS -- The DB? No clue since he Step Nine-d me (that's an AA thing where you make amends for the people you have wronged).

I told him not to worry about it. I got the dentist, and I've got the Crimefighter.

All in all, I traded up.

Ooo... Just started Captain Freedom: A Superhero's Quest for Truth, Justice, and the Celebrity He so Richly Deserves by G. Xavier Robillard, and it's knocking my nerdy socks off.

Also about 50 pages into The Man Who Sold the World: Ronald Reagan and the Betrayal of Main Street America by Willi Kleinknecht. I still have much to go, but Ronald Reagan may have been a douche.