My sister and I got in a fight

My sister and I got in a fight the other day.
I am writing this because I neglect writing as an act of therapy. A thing it has always been for me in the past.
The fight was quick, which I regret.
I dream of my fights lasting long, like in soap operas, where they often span several episodes and usually end with some great climax of passionate forgiveness or murder.
Mine started with:
"Stop telling me I'm a grandma,"
and ended with
"Shut the fuck up."
It lasted, literally, no time at all. The walk up the hill at Columbia park where the park reaches the river. Ten seconds.
I dream of fights lasting a long time because during a fight there is always more to say. When you get to a fight it never is about one thing, it's about a culmination of events warehoused in a scrum of old laundry.
There really was a lot more to say.
I wish you would let me live my own life without shaming my into doing things you wan to do.
I wish your activities were something I wanted to do.
I feel angry when you tell me I'm not fun.
I feel angry when you constantly tease me for what you feel is being boring.
I wish we had more in common or I wish we could find something we both could do.
I wish you wouldn't give me the stink eye.
I also wish you would sometimes shut the fuck up.
Erica and I went to Columbia park to jump off the bridge. I didn't plan on jumping off the bridge. I wanted to be in the water but I didn't want to jump off the bridge.
"Not my style," I had told Erica as she hung off the edge, beckoning me to climb over.
There are a lot of things I'm scared of and a lot of things I'm not scared of. One of the things I don't like to do is jump off bridges.
Once, at Cove Palisades my whole family jumped off the huge bridge lolling over Lake Billy Chinook. It was high. I could see rocks. I didn't jump. Maybe I wanted to practice how to not commit suicide which in this light makes me the most sane in the family. I climbed down a rock embankment decorated with beer bottle jewels in flimsy flip-flops. A thing I handle particularly well is ninjas. Also: ghosts, roller coasters, panic scenarios like bank heists, heat waves, car accidents and the end of the world.
So. She kept nagging me, and she always does this. Erica is president of an organization called D4AE; down for anything and everything. Our family has teasingly called it Down for Anything Erica wants to do.
For this reason she heckles someone who doesn't do something spontaneous. Taking preparation time is abhorrent to her policies.
Now, this is all very partisan and I didn't want this. I want to be sound and objective. For this reason I take a moment and give the many virtues of being D4AE.
Truth is, when you are D4AE you have more fun. It's like a permanent game of dare.
When one member wants to have a craft night everyone must have a craft night. If a member wants to take ballroom dancing classes everyone takes ballroom dancing. It's a community where everyone is enriched my others ideas as well as having an automatic network for their own specific needs. It is really really fun when you just play along and allow yourself to get caught up in the flow of impromptu activity.
But. It's not for me. Not right now anyway. Plus it often costs money and involves driving places which are my least favorite things.
We actually like the same things; late night bike rides, drinking beer, being with people, going on hikes and having adventures in new places. But it's all different. The nature of bike excursions are different, the beer is different, the people are different, so are the hikes and interpretation of the word adventure.
This is difficult for Erica. It's difficult because I don't call her. I don't ever want to do anything with her.
This is neglect. I am a neglectful sister.
'You're different," she accuses me. "You don't have fun anymore, you just want to clean your house."
Yes. This is true. All I like to do is clean my house and listen to This American Life. I love doing the dishes to Terry Gross interviews. I love vacuuming between the cushions in the coach while listening to a new Julie Sabatier, DIY in Portland bit. I dream of clean house nirvana paired with provoking radio.
I often fail to see the problem with this though Erica never fails to point it out every time we get together.
Apologies. I'm being biased again.
Listen. I didn't want to jump off the bridge, she wanted me to. She heckled me. I told her to shut the fuck up, which she did.
There is this comic aspect regarding fights which end in a bike ride. The person who labels themselves the victim, Erica (since I had the last words), who is allowed to trail behind the perpetrator and has the privilege to mope all the way home. Erica rode on the wrong side of the road.
Failing to obey bike laws makes me crazy, so when she started doing it, it actually made me laugh inside a little. How spiteful! She knows how much I respect the road! And on my own bike nonetheless! TSK!
When we got to my house I apologized. I normally don't yell. I made an exception this one little time because otherwise I would of just never called her again like I do most people. She deserved better than that. She's my little sister.
Now we're not talking and for the most part I'm okay with it. She's stressful. Lots of accusing and shame-mongering and I had been avoiding it for too long.
As of now, a day later, I don't know what I am going to do. It's not like we run into one another a lot. All of our "hang-outs" were primarily initiated in the sparse free-time either of us had for one another and most consisted of an activity one of us was forced to do. One enjoyable activity was hiking the butte during dusk.
For the bit of time I will contemplate what it is I want from her and redefine what it is that causes conflict. Brainstorm how we can share time without the stress. That's what a good sister would do I guess.
For now, I'm glad she knows my anger is out there. Typically my cards are played very close but I made an exception and just threw them all on the table. I let her know. I never do this.
I know I'm rambling now, groping for a way to tie this into a neat package.
There is this children's show; Dora the Explorer. There is a fox called Sniper. When Sniper wants to steal something Dora chants, "SNIPER NO SNIPING! SNIPER NO SNIPING!" over and over until he stops doing what he's doing and leaves. Sometimes he doesn't leave and gets what he wants. Dora's magical charm doesn't always work, it seems to be telling kids, sometimes the bitches still get the goods.
But the lesson there is be perseverant and not aggressive. Be assertive, repetitious, a little bit crazy for believing repeating a command will manifest real results.
Maybe it can.
If it can we should do it during hostage situations.
I think; what if I did that to Erica instead of being so direct and vicious, instead of going straight to the vein and biting.
"ERICA NO NAGGING! ERICA NO NAGGING!" is what I would say when she's pointing out what a loser I am in her book. It's not the best solution, maybe the point wouldn't be reached how much I hate being harassed whenever we're together.
But, like Sniper, maybe she would just stop. Put down Backpack and trail back into the woods. Or at least stop. At least not be crushed.

Best Thriftstore in Bend

Gold glitter pants, Wedding dress, Green sweater made in Scotland, Ancient Harlequin Romance novels, Black pleather purse, Christian literature and tapes. This and more can all be yours for less than $5 dollars. Enter the cherriest of thriftstores: The Discovery Christian Thriftshop: 1434 NW 4th St. It can be found off Newport Avenue behind the Discovery Christian Church (look for the white steeple) and is open Wednesday-Friday from 11AM-4PM. They also accept donations Monday between 9AM and 2PM.
Boxes on the porch are free things (I once found a bunt cake mold) but I recommend looking through them on your way out rather than when you enter. Freshly painted and carpeted you will be greeted by children's clothing and toys as well as the sweet ladies of the Discovery Church. Tight racks of hokey women's clothing with a shelf of dated kitchen appliances on the left, the right with shelves arrayed with knick-knacks and must-have Precious Moments collectors items. Farther in the store two rooms branch off at a built in book case, to the right is .25 cent room and the left is it's more prestigious brother, the .50 cent room. A dollar will certainly equip you with a new outfit, five dollars and you are a bonafide king in these parts. Second-hand McDonald prizes sit alongside Billy Blanks VHS's all wanting homes and someone to love them (or get ripped glutes).
The Discovery Christian Church is a jackpot for microwave cook books and I once even found an Al Burian zine. You really never know. Proceeds are donated to the Shephard's House and other good places. Make it a point to go here. It's awesome. Also make sure to not mention how ridiculously low priced everything is. I have this theory that they simply are not aware that they are being robbed with such low prices. You can literally recycle a bagful of cans and buy yourself a penguin classic. There needs to be at least one cheap Thrift store in Bend. Lord knows the Goodwill has higher prices than its formaldehyde smelling neighbor; Wal Mart. Discovery Thrift store: Keeping it cute and cheap. Check it.

While the blossoms still cling to the vine

Today we were the inseparable, an Aristophanian creature; two-headed, eight awkward limbs forged together by the heated smithing tools of Hephaestus spreading out limbs like reptiles on river stones in the sun. But neither of us would allow to be forged together forever, even if myth holds those that truly love one another would commit without hesitation to be clasped for eternity. Not our style.
After an early morning grocery run of exciting new foodstuffs (I believe we were literally down to ice and pancake mix) Kevin made rice, tofurkey, and lightly steamed vegetables as I swung my legs from the counter top periodically turning on and off the streaming audio of an archived This American Life as conversation required. The sun curled its way into the kitchen and played on my shoulders as I shelled garlic for sauce and Kevin beat pans together, sliced vegetables, and whined about the shortcomings of tofurkey when compared to real chicken meat all the while drinking the cold morning coffee (it was past 12:00).
Eating, we smiled at one another and talked seriously and openly about what it is to be loved and love; me asking questions, him, doing the best his to exercise his tepid emotional language, a tragedy I attest to High School wrestling and too much time around pool tables. The five acts of love, I explained to him, is a theory about certain needs in relationships and how some people need more or less, some people show love differently. Impressing myself I recalled each by memory:

• Words of affirmation
• Physical touch
• Gifts
• Quality time
• Acts of service

Acts of service is the way I express my feelings for Kevin; doing little things for him here and there and we both agreed we are big fans of Quality time. It's the basis of our foundation I believe; long unending conversations over beer, playing games, sitting together on the couch reading, walks downtown with little planning or direction, spending time in the kitchen arm deep in dough, sauces, tomatoes, spices, and fragrant boiling broth.

"I like when you call me from work. I like that you want to be with me right now, it's very flattering."

After lunch, the fiery tapestry draped across my bed was rolled up and we hummed our way to the park (the back way, where you walk across the bridge) him without shoes (breaking in summer feet, Kevin says) me in the same foam cheap flip-flops I wore in France several years ago- the ones perfectly tailored to my feet, the exact shape of my sole, stopping only to pet a pretty golden retriever and greet smiling faces on warm porches.

The park was expectantly busy, the way it should be, the way I missed it during the hurried winter walks when the park was a a way from here to there, not a destination like it was today. Sleeping, reading out loud the complicated prose of H.P. Lovecraft where I would spit out words like "carcassonne," "Samarcand," and "whithersoever" and found myself lacking in theatrical skills when it came time to spill a phonetically complex speech of one of Lovecraft's strange and dark characters:

"The full moon-damn ye-ye... ye yelping dogs-ye called 'em, and they've come for me! Moccasined feet-dead men- Gad sink ye, ye red devils, but I poisoned no rum o' yours-han't I kept your pox-rotted magic safe? -ye swilled yourselves sick, curse ye, and ye must needs blame the squire-let go, you! Unhand that latch-I've naught for ye here-" I cried, convincing no one. I was actually trying to read in my cutest, dead-pan Starlee Kine voice. H.P. Lovecraft, though we agreed isn't chilling macabre as the genre suggests, but a damn amazing writer. "...all the world is but the smoke of our intellects; past the bidding of the vulgar, but by the wise to be puffed out and drawn in like any cloud of prime Virginia tobacco."

And so sleeping ensued. For a bit. In and out. Clutching my purse, mistrusting even in sleep, a tightly wound mouse trap that looks harmless until you touch the CHEESE!! (my purse of course).

Walking home, the extended version, to Newport Market where we were greeted by the charming Josh (I have in my phone as Josh Tea regarding our social acquaintance being founded on my consistent love of tea) who was teamed with a crew of ice cream eaters, Josh himself eating a delightful vegan/lactose free ice cream that was something like coconut chocolate? Correct me if I am wrong.

Kevin and I bought ice cream and rushed home before it could melt. I cradled it in my purse like a baby and people stopped in cars with more urgency. We made cobbler, made from brabeaurn apples; me, skinning the apples as Kevin cut out the cores and then sliced them- then me massaging the ingredients of the dough as Kevin boiled the apples and prepared them with sugar and cinnamon.

25 minutes later, dishes, and Mom calling and neighbors walking too and fro- a smoking oven from sugar residues leaking to the bottom and patiently waiting for a hastened cooling we ate the first home-made pie of the year with vanilla bean ice cream. We both shamelessly ate two full bowls and reclined on the couch, lacking any other plan.

The evening has dissolved into private works. Me: filling out job applications and writing this and that, finally sending my contributions to Ian Haightred for his Eugene zine. Kevin: read, sleeping, reading, going for a walk, reading again the in between kisses and should rubs. But quiet. A perfect, quiet day. A sleepy sunny day with red shoulders, still wearing the colorful summer skirt I pulled out of the storage unit last week, Kevin sleepy from hours of direct sun and worryless incubation on his day off- caught up on nothingness, caught up on losing focus and forgetting the time- true treasures in his mind.

Winter Time

Today I feel like an old woman trapped inside a young womans body; it's too cold outside to walk or ride bikes, I'm afraid to drive. I'm not tired, just resigned to my resignation. I am an old woman in a young womans body. Some people feel the opposite.
My eye sight has been getting poor. All this winter I've been reading, writing, watching movies, and walking with my head down, my scarf wrapped many times around my neck and mouth. Rarely do I look distances beyond two arm lengths. I've stopped looking out the window, rarely looking into the horizon or into the distance. I've stopped meeting people.
It's too grey outside.
The rare and lonely winter fly has found her way into my kitchen and hovers under the grow lamp, smelling my tomato seedlings. She must feel like she discovered a magical island of summertime. But this would be an untrue thing.
This is why I don't look out the window. There is no magical island of summertime. Just the absense of it.
Last winter I almost joined the protestors on Friday to raise awareness for the underground guerilla anti-winter movement I had started, if only to let the people know there was someone out there who was doing more than whining about it. Now, this winter I am learning to cross stitch and acquiring a taste for bitter rose tea. Anything to keep my eyes and thoughts away from the outside where there is no grass to lay on in the sun, no mint in the alleyway to chew, no flowers to make bouquets.

My old cat Snowball is curled, inanimate, on the back of the couch. She is trying to stay alive until the summer when she can die in a sunspot. I, to, wait for my sunspot to die in.
I am an old lady trapped inside a young womans body.

I hate you OLCC

Dear OLCC,

I hate you.

If you were a cat I would make hissy sounds at you. I would splash water in your direction. If you were a cat you would be like Lucifer in Cinderella: making messes and laying around like a rotten jerk being stroked by an evil step mother.

For several reasons you are not on my Christmas greetings list. First and foremost, you enforce a law that sucks!

I spent time in France: once when I was 17 and again when I was 20 and an incredible privilege opened up to me; I could drink alkeehawl! Yee dog! Every night I drank myself sick, hung out with people of ill repute and drove recklessly home!! Alright!

Not really. But that's what you would expect, huh?

In Paris, friends and I would climb on the rooftop of our hotel to share beers, we drank wine with our dinner, Champagne under the Eifferl Tower on Fête Nationale, in Nice we drank Heinekens and passed a bottle of Rhône on the beaches until we were silly; danced, and walked on the promenade, we smoked and drank Kingfisher in the Indian restaurants and smoked and drank Rosé in seafood restaurants. We toasted everything and swatted one anothers heads when we burped (a German ritual). And then I went home to the dry country that is the U S of A. Like every young adult in American with stunted maturity compared to our European friends I was given coloring crayons and Shirley Temples with my dinner.

Now I am over 21 and I can't go out with my little sister because she is twenty.

Another reason I whisper curses when someone speaks your name is because you trick people! You solicit a bunch of corrupted minors to go around the state ordering alcohol the way an undercover prostitute wears short denim skirts when trying to seduce people into letting her crawl into their car and slap handcuffs on them. And when a busy server or bartender misses one step; doesn't check ID, doesn't check it thoroughly, pours the drink and then checks ID BOOM they lose their license (and any chance of a job in the restaurant industry) are freakin' FIRED, fined and then you beat their dog and make them watch. Really? REALLY? People under 21 can't even be set a foot in a bar without there being a violation. God forbid!

Why can't you just relax?!?! Just let the kids buy some beer, and give the servers, bartenders, grocery store cashiers, bouncers, etc. etc. a break! You really give people a complex! I feel like I should surgically implant my ID onto my forehead until I am eighty years old so I don't have to hand it to every person in the room when I step into a bar. Here I am at Ray's the other day and some smiling, god-fearing employee offers me a wine sample. "Oh, lovely! Yes, please!" "Can I see your ID?" "...never mind."

And a word to the minors working sting operations for OLCC; TRADERS!!!! I hope you garbage eaters have lonely evenings with pee in your beer when you turn 21 and realize you have no friends!

Okay, we shouldn't serve drunk people. That's probably a good idea. I spent hours in your required OLCC class at the Shiloh Inn years ago just to learn that you shouldn't serve drunk people. Thank you, i would have never known.

Because of your iron hand, neo-prohibistionist existance I hang around 7-11 parking lot and sell marked up cases of Busch Lights, PBR's, and Santana Champagne to children. TAKE THAT OLCC!! You can never stop me! HISSS! HISSSSSSS!

Cal-lee-for-nee-ay

I keep hearing these conversations, people wanting to move away.
"Where do you want to go?" I ask.
"Cal-lee-for-nee-way,"they say and I know why.
It's cold here and the job market isn't what is used to be. Jobs in real estate have tanked and those invested in the market are no doubt leaving their therapists, shopping at Grocery Outlet, and eating at Del Taco. I have seen them there in their faux fur and replica Louis Vuitton purses.
There's talk of leaving Oregon to find ye ole gold mines.
Has Bend already taken steps to go back to the pre-California days? Volo and Merenda closing... maybe? That stupid baller hat store on Minnesota going away is a sure sign.

A Snap shot

A snap shot of Bend

I am at the Downtowner where they consistantly make the greatest soup known to man (vegetarian as well) Spicy Tomato and I have this high seat which overlooks the courtyard where the gutter punks are loitering around listening to what sounds like Nickleback and I am sitting near (but not with) the guy with long hair that works at Ranch Records who is in that band Problem Stick the same guy I once gave a small bottle of sake after a sake tasting at Bo an Asian themed cocktail bar/restaurant on Franklin where I used to work with the kindest of all Thai women "Pick" who once gave me a silk notebook when I gave her a pair of feather earrings I had bought at Blue (but not the Ashley ones, sorry) and from stage left comes the Sluts-dreamboats with their iron pressed (or permed) perfectly coifed hair smoking cigarettes like nihilist gods and as they pass the boarded up (why is it boarded up?) window through the Breezeway and there is a table in the corner, two men, who are making jealous sounds saying something about how they are way cooler than those emos while someone unseen in the kitchen sings the words to that Counting Crows song "Around Here"and I am kind of singing because on my sixteenth birthday my friend Micheal burned this song for me, the same Michael who lives down the street from me and works with kids but wasn't affected by the Boys and Girls Club closing down but knows people who were; I am thinking of this car I saw, lost, trying to find downtown because they were driving slow and turned on their right signal when they saw the 1/2 mile exit sign for downtown and I don't remember being lost in a long while because I've been here so long now. And a part of me is fine with that because I have this soup and these odd connections and fearless familiarity. But, I'd like if you would tell me something I don't know.

Larry and His Flask

Southern Oregon University,

January 17th my friends, members of Larry and His Flask, were arrested as they prepared to play a set, opening for Reverend Payton's Big Damn Band at Southern Oregon University. They were kept in jail for three days.
When I heard the story, I couldn't believe it. I have been friends with Jamin, Jeshua and Dallin for many years; they have a considerable following in Central Oregon.
As a writer of a independently published magazine in Bend, Oregon which covers Larry and His Flask I have seen them do a benefit show in honor of Colby Smallwood (who passed at the beginning of '08). They've played sidewalks, pubs, venues, bars, prisons and amphitheaters. Their commitment to community and entertainment is meant to inspire togetherness. They often play off-stage to be closer to the crowd. The crowd at SOU missed a good show.
I am disappointed at the rash action taken by your security. While feeling they acted in protection of the campus they did the opposite when they attacked my friends who had legitimacy being there.
1. Jamin, Jeshua and Dallin weren't trespassing if they were intended to play a show at the campus.
2. If the Jamin, Jeshua, and Dallin were previously banned from the campus they should of been given more warning.
Now they face the possibility of going to jail for trespassing, disorderly conduct, and harassment.
I, as well as many others here in Bend, Redmond and beyond would like to see our friends not go to jail for a trivial misjudgment. The issues and the rights of Jeshua, Jamin, and Dallin need to be taken into greater consideration than they did that night.

Crentist

If you've ever been dumped on the phone you know the terrible silence between the "it's over" and the hysterical uncontrollable sob which comes from ones throat when the realization sets in that you, you who used to be "we," is painfully alone.
This is me, seven months ago with one exception. Rather than having my ass dumped by some boy, I'm on the phone with my dentist's secretary. She's telling me I have to drive to Redmond to sign some stupid waiver entitling my new dentist to my x-rays and I can't stop sobbing.
From the beginning: my teeth are as soft as marshmallows. My friend Patrick and I call it "Irish Catholic" teeth because we are both Irish Catholic and have cavity ridden mouths, occasional white spots on our front teeth, and a shocking sensitivity to cold foods (bite into a popsicle in front of us and watch us writhe). At the restaurant I work at I've asked people requesting no ice in their water if they are Irish Catholic and a surprising amount respond in the affirmative. Unless, of course, they have a thick East European accent (German or Russian), then I know it's just a culture thing.
Okay, so my teeth are an utter mess, but not really. They are beautiful. Perfect alignment, good color (no coffee or cigarettes), but truly a disaster waiting to happen. Cavity ridden and left untreated for years, the mouth of late night handfuls of chocolate chips and never, ever flossing. Comedian Dane Cook had it right when he said the anxiety of quitting smoking is matched by the anxiety of beginning to floss. Cut up and bloody gums. Gross.
So it's no surprise when all of a sudden I am laying on my couch tears rolling down my cheeks because it feels like I've been freshly punched in the face with a tooth ache. Yeah, I probably deserve it. Deserve it because I am poor as hell and living month by month with little more than rent money in my bank account. I deserve this pain because I have been a poor steward of annual check-ups, cleanings and flossing.
Day three: waiting for the pain to miraculously suppress itself I drink so much cold water my PH levels are off and I constantly feel drunk. Cold water, for whatever reason, is the ONLY thing that stops the pain. A sipful each time the pain surfaces takes it away, but only for about five minutes. With little choice, I start making phone calls. First I call my dentist, Coppertop Dental in Redmond, who I last visited in 2006 for a $100 new patient special (including x-rays, a check up and cleaning) begging for an emergency appointment that day for "unbearable pain." They turned me down. Okay, thanks a lot you guys.
From there, I look alphabetical in the phone book calling every dentist in Bend, standing in my kitchen, sipping cold water and pressing the heel of my palm into my right cheek.
"Hi (name of secretary), my name is Rachel. I am not a patient at this office but I have an unbearable tooth ache and need to come in for an emergency evaluation today."
I can't believe how many people just said, "no" straight up. "We're all booked for today," "there are no openings," "I'm sorry Dr. (name of dentist here) doesn't give fuckity fuck about your problems and you probably won't pay us anyway so suck on an ice cube and find yourself a clinic."
The dentist section of the Yellow Pages is looking like the writing on bathroom stalls; cuss words, harsh lines scratching out the least sympathetic offices, circles around the ones that can get me in later in the week (if it comes down to that). Some helpful secretaries open the phone book and make some recommendations for dentists more likely to take patients on short notice but even the dentists advertising "emergencies welcome" turn me down. Apparently unbearable pain doesn't qualify as an emergency, I need to be hemorrhaging from a gaping tooth wound (even then I have my doubts).
I called all the way to the K's until I decided to back track and call dentists I had reached the voicemail of.
This is how I met the office of Dr. Lisa Adams.
After explaining my situation to the secretary I was turned over to the dental assistant. I explained the situation to her; I was in unbearable pain and my regular dentist wouldn't schedule an emergency appointment.
"Well that's rude!" she exclaimed more like your favorite bartendar than a dental assistant. "Who is your dentist?"
"Dr. Fixott from Coppertop Dental in Redmond..." I admit, taking a sip of cold water.
"Oh, he's weird."
I can't stop smiling. I am scheduled for an appointment in an hour. "It will only take ten minutes," the dental assistant says, "anyone can do that." All I need to do is get my old dental office to send my x-rays and BANG! we're golden.

"You have to come into the office and sign to have your x-rays released."
I'm back on the phone with my old dentist. Let's get back to me crying. Crying because I don't have time to drive to Redmond to sign some goddamn waiver, crying because I am in so much pain, because I am poor, without dental insurance, no one seems to give a shit, gas is expensive, I have to work in a few hours, and because secretaries can be such jerks.
The secretary on the line is listening to me sob uncontrollably. She just dumped me, big time.
Phil Collins songs resound in my head, "I never wanted to say goodbye," "how can you just walk away from me?" 'I thought you'd always be there, I almost believed you," "I remember all the times I tried so hard and you laughed in my face cause you held all the cards. I don't care anymore. And I really ain't bothered what you think of me cause all I want of you is just a let me be. I don't care anymore d'you hear? I don't care no more."
"Are you still there?" she interrupts.
Between chokes and violent snuffles (aren't those embarrassing?) I explain the situation. I have an appointment with another dentist in an hour. I live in Bend. I can't drive to Redmond. And I hate your guts.
"Oh, well, we can fax the paper work to the dental office in Bend and you can sign it there."
"Oh, can I? Really? It's so helpful of you to mention that!"
I love my new dentist. We make dental love every month for my monthly fillings. My dentist calls me and badgers me to come in more often. She cleans my teeth. I give her lots and lots of money and she gives me lots and lots of Novocaine.
I'm not the kind of person who likes to broadcast flagrant discrepancies. I am fair minded, undramatic, polite, and traditionally diplomatic but
Coppertop Denstristry=bad, bad, bad
The office of Dr. Lisa Adams=good, good, good
My emergency appointment lasted ten minutes (not counting paperwork time) and I received pain killers (Vicodin, which gives me stomach cramps so I didn't take them) and an anti-biotic making the pain go away in a few days. My root canal (indeed, I needed a root canal*) was scheduled for the next week just like that.
Phil Collins says it best:"when this world makes you crazy and you've taken all you can bear you call me up because you know I'll be there."

*A root canal - by Jessica Judith Pickens-Prescher, CDA EFDA
When you need a root canal it is because your tooth has an abscess at the apex of your root.
So we open up your root and saw all of your canals with these little files. Sometimes pus and stink comes out**. Then, we fill your tooth with gutta percha and put a crown on it. The end.
Jessica says "I hate dentistry and dentists"

**My abscess smelled like a dead person left alone in a stuffy apartment with no windows! BAD!

Newport Avenue

I am waiting at the Newport Av. crosswalk, the one between Newport Market and Chow. This is to say I am waiting because no one is stopping.
Awhile ago, in High school, I had a friend who went to an alternative school, Brown - the school for "bad kids," but not really. The school for students that couldn't put up with the (watch my Holden Caulfield language) goddamn phonies of mainstream Redmond High School.
There was a woman, he told me, a motivational speaker, that came to the school and demonstrated an experiment by dressing grungy and approaching a nearby crosswalk of a fairly busy two way road.
She waited. And waited. Cars kept driving by. Returning to the students she changed her style and dressed in professional attire; black skirt, dress shoes, possibly a power jacket equipped with shoulder pads. Standing at the crosswalk once again time the cars came to a halt.
A truck full of fraternity "brahs" just passed by gawking at me. An SUV follows them, a woman with sunglasses, a set jaw and a McCain/Palin sticker cemented on her bumper. Four subarus at least choose to ignore me, but who's counting?
Is it my hair? Does it not have enough body? Are my bangs to stringy? My eyebrows untamed? Can the people in the cars actually see the zits on my forehead?
In the restaurant I work a very intelligent server told me a sociology experiment she did as an assignment in college while she worked a waitress job.
She told me how for a sucession of 4 weeks she changed her style. One week she was blonde with lots of make-up, the next she had brown hair, the next black hair. The final week she was black hair with brooding dark make-up. Keeping track of her tips throughout the experiment as she worked she watched her tips shrink "drastically." "I never altered my service or personality but by the end of the month I was shocked."
Still at the crosswalk I feel I can no longer blame lava rocks for the reason no one is stopping. Who knew crossing a street could be so personal? Is it my stone-wash jeans? My paint splattered red hoodie you people don't like? Am I not wearing enough make-up? Do I not look happy?
And then it happens. A woman across the street in North Face winter work-out gear (the official uniform of Bend, Oregon I believe) steps up the crosswalk with a baby stroller. A BABY STROLLER.
No surprise, cars grind to a halt, the sound of grating of lava rock is heard beneath their tires I'm surprised smoke doesn't appear.
Passing eachother we smile at one another. *sigh*