I am currently broiling in my office, as the building clings desperately to the notion that it is still mid-winter. It’s so hot that the chocolate kisses in the candy tray on my desk are melting. The thermostats have been placed on the walls for placebo effect; it isn’t working. I’m done with my burst of productive energy for the day, and the heat does not put me in the mood for knitting (haven’t forgotten you, Faye! Expect an octopus or two to make an appearance soon). Instead I’ll type up a review of a movie I’ve seen recently, a Korean flick called ‘Lady Vengeance’, about a hot-tempered woman (ha, how’s that for a segue? My brain, sadly, is quite baked).
Dentists, possibly second only to clowns, are the all-time most dreaded figures lurking in the shadows of one’s childhood. Worse than the bogeyman, certainly more sinister than any monsters sequestered under the bed – the friendly, neighborhood dentist is armed with an arsenal of sharp metallic drills, hooks, and other mysterious devices that may or may not be legal to use under the Geneva Convention. The little pat on the head and the free tubes of minty toothpaste doled out at the end do little to make up for the preceding torture.
This fear of dentists stuck with me past childhood, after my mom stopped forcing me to go on dental visits on a regular basis. The visits became less and less frequent, and after I went off to live on my own, stopped entirely. I am more than a little embarrassed to admit, to the Internet (and to those of you who I actually have to interact with in person), this little confession: prior to my last dental checkup, I hadn’t been in just over five years.
One glance at my apartment floor, and you could never tell that a vacuum had been in the neighborhood, let alone run; a certain intrepid quadruped has occupied himself by blanketing the area with the allergenic remnants of his fur. The shedding never slackens in pace, regardless of the weather – one would think that he would be interested in keeping his outer coat during colder times, but that is a mistake of common sense. Current brushing does a pitiful job of combating the fur problem, so I solicited the advice of my feline-owning sister, who recommended getting a rubber brush. While running errands yesterday, I stopped by Pet World on a whim, to look for it.
Pet World does not carry this particular brush; instead, they offer what I now refer to as the Ultimate Destroyer of Dandered Fur:
Private space was not always an issue for me. Back when I was working in the dungeon that is the basement of Strong Hall, we had very little private space. My only moments of freedom were gleaned from hanging out with my inveterate smoke-a-holic co-workers during periodic breaks. Certainly I couldn’t listen to music, or browse every last corner of the internet, without co-workers glancing over at what I was doing every now and then – even if I had the time.
This current job has quite spoiled me; now I command a large range of space. The space incorporates my desk, three feet to the side and immediately behind it. Should this inner sanctum be violated, I become extremely agitated. Alas, this is often the case.
