Dental appointment yesterday was a pain in the ass, or more accurately a pain in the tooth. The new dental hygienist was slow and it took a good long while just to get through the cleaning.
Then I flunked the x-rays, having a cavity. Twice a day brushing with electric toothbrush, daily flossing, and this is the thanks my teeth give me?
Doc wanted to fix it on the spot and I thought and said aloud, “why not!” Why not indeed. Get it over with.
Predictably he under-numbed my gum and I had splitting pain the first drill go-around, so he had to inject more and wait more for a second try. Glad I complained because no pain followed thereafter. But I feel like my teeth and gums have been through a seriously unnatural action.
Ideas why dentists tend to under-Novocaine me:
1. They want to err on the side of too little so that I won't be so numb so long after.
2. They think I look lighter weight-wise than I actually am (my preferred answer!)
3. I have a low threshold for pain.
4. They make mistakes.
Listened to a couple episodes of political talk show With All Due Respect and the squirming by Clinton spokesmen Jennifer Palmieri concerning the email scandal was almost perfectly satisfying, the only thing being better if it was Hillary herself getting all flustered and bewildered.
You just can't make it up how difficult it is for these political operatives to defend indefensible stories. It comes down to no one being able to overrule Hillary's lies and obfuscations. Makes for perfectly awesome TV though.
Too funny, excerpts from novel "Dear American Airlines":
Back in my very early twenties I actually wrote a thank-you note to the Swisher Cigar Co. of Jacksonville, Fla., to express my gratitude for the sublime if stinky cheer its flagship brand then provided me. I spent an inordinate amount of time crafting that letter and went so far as to cite for particular praise the Swisher Sweet’s “cognac-and-campfire aroma.” That I’d never caught so much as a whiff of cognac by that time mattered little; it was alliterative, and alliteration bewitched me to such an extent that in my undergraduate years I romanced, in succession, a Mary Mattingly, a Karen Carpenter (not the singer), a Patricia Powell, and a Laura Lockwood, as if culling my dates straight from the pages of a comic book.*
She’s engaged to a woman named Sylvana, meaning my future daughter-in-law is one letter away from being kin to my television set. I don’t know if Stella—that’s my daughter, named after her mother—will be the bride or the groom and I suspect it’s poor form for me to inquire. And how does a father assess his daughter’s choice of spouse when it’s another girl? I generally know a beer-guzzling, wife-beating, underbathed, unemployable lout when I see one, unless she’s wearing a dress in which case it’s damnably hard to tell. Sylvana is a lawyer which should be a comfort—oh goody, my daughter’s marrying a lawyer!—but that’s about as much as I know about her.
We translators must be realistic. To translate a literary work is to make love to a woman who will always be in love with someone else. You can ravish her, worship her, even ruin her; but she’ll never be yours to possess. Less romantically, I’ve sometimes thought of translation as being akin to cooking. At your disposal is the meat of an animal, and it’s up to you to create dishes from it, to make it digestible. But the novelist or poet has the more Godly job. He gets to create the animal.
I read this morn about how it took a pilot line, a kite string, strung across the Niagara in order to start construction of an eventual bridge.
As a kid I had vivid, if fatally flawed, explanations for wonders: a stereo had little people playing music in it. Babies happened when a man and a woman married and slept in the same bed presumably via the sharing of breathed air. And bridges were built across spans not using “pilot lines”, whatever they were, but by starting on one side and just building a little bit more bridge every day till you reached the other side.
One mystery I could never explain was how a ship got in a small-neck'd bottle, or how if you just added water, sentient seahorses would appear.
The pilot line story shows how you often have to do something that doesn't seem productive in the short run: what does a kite string across the Niagara buy you? It seems like it's wasting time that could be spent building the actual bridge. Preliminary work, including preliminary work in fostering a more fertile ground for, say, the gospel, ought not be underestimated.
I miss our dog Buddy, his winsome presence. Maybe presence is everything? Or maybe it's nothing? I can never make up my mind on that because it depends on what you mean by presence: God is present, and Buddy is with God, so therefore Buddy is present.
I miss his large shepherd head with perfectly symmetrical coloration: black above the eyes and along the nose and snout-line, gold-leaf in between. God he was a beauty.
Lightning round time!
Marco Rubio unlikely to earn GOP new Hispanic fans.
Ramos made even Trump look good.
Hillary likes government schools and government servers - except for her and her family.
"How do Dems feel that the party allegedly in touch w young is choosing 73 y/o Bernie Sanders, 67 y/o Hillary, 72 y/o Biden, 66 y/o Warren?" - seen on NR
It's funny that a pro-government liberal like Hillary would privatize her email server.
It seems like what passes for "foreign policy credentials" is hawkishness. #sad
Hillary: "I did not have classified relations with my email."