Scatterbrain

And so begins another two years as the poster child for perfect teeth. My dentist, who is not prone to joke about such matters, asks every time: "are you seeing someone else?" It's never more than a ten minute appointment, x-rays and all. I'll have you know that I'm no more a dental hygiene fanatic than Mom's cousin Cheri, who brushes constantly, all day. She spits in whatever receptacle is handy. Imagine her daughter Angie's surprise when she took a sip from that soda can. Also, my sister has even more perfect teeth than I, if you consider that she didn't have to have braces on her perfectly regimented ivories, she didn't grind her teeth until the two in front have slightly wavy bottoms, and she didn't break off both her canines diving head-first into the shallow end of a hotel pool in Vegas when she was eight. She has positively ferocious canines behind that demure smile. (She was the one who pulled me out of the pool. She may have been the one who recommended the dive, too, I can't remember now. Even so, if Morgan told me to jump off a cliff tomorrow, I'd most likely do it, simply assuming she had good reason. And knowing her, she probably would. Have good reason, not tell me to jump.)

Ford or Chevy, Microsoft or Apple, mountains or seaside, Old Navy or Abercrombie, Pepsi or Coke, dog person vs. cat person. The world is so full of contrasts, and it's good to belong to my generation, who seem to get to have it all; there's no black and white anymore. There's grey, and then there's fuscia and aquamarine and flourescent yellow. I like my Country with a little Pop, and that's the way it's served. I like my cola with citrus and all the carbs, and I can have that, too. I can wear prints with stripes and white after Labor Day and knee-high polka-dot galoshes, and even though that's been done before, I can do it a little different and it's something completely new. I'm Republican because Dad is and a lady because Mom is, and somehow the two get along just fine, even when the 'rents don't. There are new diseases and new cures and new crimes and new punishments and I wouldn't miss a minute of it for anything. I just wish it would go a little slower.

The fact that Johnny Depp can go from Finding Neverland to Once Upon a Time in Mexico makes me less skeptical towards the people who say that aliens reside incognito among us.

My interview at the Water Treatment Plant is Friday; I foresee a new career in my future. If the City's water isn't already flouridated, I'll make sure it becomes so; that's the secret to my dental success. I don't care what it does to the rest of the body, so long as my teeth are awesome. I should brush up on my basic hydraulics before the interview, even though my position would be Operator in Training. I just want them to know what kind of person I am: the kind of person that likes to know things.

It would be heartbreaking to leave City Hall. There are definite perks and constant bustle and a general comeraderie that appeals to me. But I don't like the gossip, even though I frequently participate and occasionally even instigate, simply because the thrill of it eventually rubs off on you. I just really don't feel good about it later, while there are others who, sadly, thrive on it. I also don't like being on either side of the frequent secrets, 'in' or 'left out,' or on either side of the frequent civil wars. (Why do you suppose they called it the Civil War? There was nothing civil about it; there never is in war.) Plus I got off on the wrong foot in the beginning somehow, and now it's proving harder than I expected to break the mold. I'm no slouch in the brain department, but I've always played a bit dumb to seem less threatening. I've discovered that deceptive honesty is one of the most powerful social tools there is, but it's a double-barbed fish hook, and I'm caught.

Still, there's no question that I fit in at City Hall from day one, and I'm not so sure the three male operators at the Plant would be thrilled to get me, with my girly habits including a severe lip-product-addiction, monthly PMS, and constantly putting my hair up and taking it down again five minutes later. It would take considerable time and effort to show them I'm willing and able to pull my (considerable) weight. But that's a challenge I look forward to, along with all the learning and tests for certification, all those stairs, and remembering how to enjoy being dirty. Besides, a big change has never done me wrong. I guess in a way I can't wait for it. Maybe it'll jumpstart that novel or inspire more painting, or maybe the continuous quest for excellent water quality will consume me and I'll have found my calling. (Did you just snort?) For a person like me, everything's my calling. And honestly, this job would facilitate the reaching of several goals much earlier than planned, things I haven't talked to anybody about yet. Not just the slightly higher wage, but the schedule and environment, and the difference. Plus, as a career, a Water Treatment Plant Operator has way better prospects than Accounts Payable. As Mom pointed out, basic accounting and clerical workers are a dime a dozen, and if you're not bilingual, it's going to get harder and harder to stand out. But as a skilled and certified operator, you can get a job anywhere, or even do consulting.

Never fear, mes amies, that I'm becoming so realistic that I'm not still expecting to someday make a more-than-decent living at one of my three genuine skills: writing, art, and music. But the fact is I don't work very hard at any of them, and I'm afraid to. I did a while ago and burned myself out, which was a terrible and painful experience. Those are things that have to come naturally, you know, and they are now, more than ever. It's just a matter of patience, and learning to do them for the right reasons. And I might as well spend forty hours a week learning more useful and wonderful things until I can correctly focus. I'll tell you a secret, too: I'm getting distracted by my age. I'll be closer to thirty than to twenty this year and I'm starting to freak out a little. But it's been a long time since I was irrational, and I have it on very good authority that I'll probably get what I want in the end, anyway. I hate to tempt fate, but I always do. And maybe it's partly because I believe I will. Does wishing make it so?

This has become one long, spherical, circular post about ME; but then, that's why you come here, isn't it? If you don't know me, it's like fiction, and occasionally there's a gem that makes you want more, and if you do know me, you can catch up on my life without having to call and take the chance that I'm mad at my malfunctioning computer or can't find something important because I cleaned my house, which will make for a very unpleasant conversation. I'm a total beast when I can't find something; I'm really sorry if I've ever cussed repeatedly in your ear before. People say of my brother-in-law that there's no stranger in the world to him, which is a rather pleasant thought, and even though I'm less likely to strike up a conversation on a plane or invite two scroungy Germans on a record-breaking walk into my life and home and fridge for a week, I'd like to still think that I pretty much like everybody I meet. I frequently have two-hour conversations with total strangers on the phone at City Hall, to the chagrin of my coworkers, who are starting to rethink giving me the main line.

I wish I was clever enough to do an Internet poll on who's hotter: Vin Diesel or The Rock. My dad, sister and I once searched every 7-11 from here to Vegas (about 500 miles south) to find me the Slurpee cup with The Rock on it. We found one at midnight in some teensy town in rural Utah. Supposedly The Rock bakes out-of-this-world chocolate chip cookies and plays Willie Nelson songs like the melancholy Georgia on my Mind on an unamplified guitar, and I've read that Vin Diesel frequently bursts into songs from Rogers and Hammersteins' musicals and dreams up things like Riddick. Not that all men who do considerably unfashionable or unlikely things are inherantly attractive. These two just happen to be built like brick shithouses and have awesome growly voices. I also like that underneath all that fictional heroism, they have such common names and interests and cares as Dwayne and Mark and cooking and music and creativity and health and inevitable death.

Remind me and sometime I'll tell you the real live version of Once Upon a Time in Mexico. It involves an iguana and some cornstarch and the stars and a pigpen, and I have the photographs to prove it.