At 10:30 this morning, I was late to my dentist appointment. But really, it was just ten minutes added on to the year; I wasn't exactly dilligent last summer, and neglected to do many things, including a few duties in basic hygiene.

I was really looking forward to this cleaning. My last visit to the dentist had been so startingly pleasant ("well, heck! You've got room for those wisdom teeth. How do you feel about keeping 'em in?") and there's nothing more satisfying than the sleek, slippery feeling of freshly polished teeth. I love it.

And today I got some real happy-go-lucky dentists hovering over my mouth.

Part I. The X-Ray

My cleaner looked up from the pile of twenty papers that constituted my "chart." From the age of ten, Minnesotan Dentistry has been fascinated with my mouth and its possible manipulations. Teeth pulled: 12. Molds taken: 4. Panoramic X-Rays: 5. Braces: 2 years. Top retainer: 2 years, and a bottom retainer for the rest of my life. If it weren't for modern science, I would come pretty close to the term "terrifying" - with teeth jutting perpendicular to my gums and an overbite big enough to devour my own chin. "Hmm. You know what, actually. Let's take an X-ray."

She led me through a dizzying labyrinth of corridors and pointed at the cold linoleum chair. "It's a mite bit chilly in here," she admitted as she leaned over to grab the bit and slided it into a long, plastic holding device. I opened my mouth. "Oh ho! This might be a bit of a tight fit."

And we both struggled a bit, I gagged and lurched forward, and my eyes began to water.

"What a teeny, tiny mouth!" she exclaimed.

"Uh, do you have a smaller thing for that?" I asked, rubbing my jaw.

"Nope, hun. Here, this will be done in a second, just bite on that." And radioactive waves plummeted into my cheek. The X-ray was done.

"Now it's time for the other side," she said. "Man, that's one small mouth."

Part II. Problems

"You've got a bit of recession," my cleaner clucked as the metal tool scraped my front teeth. "Does that bother you at all?"

"No," I said, between scrapings. "Why, should it?"

"Should it? I don't know. Does it hurt when you eat sweets, breathe cold air, stuff like that?"

"Oh," I said. "I thought you meant emotionally."

My cleaner burst into loud guffaws.

Part III. The Capital-D Dentist

"Oooo!" my cleaner cried gleefully. "Here comes the Dentist! Pat! Pat, come here, take a look at this." She frantically waved over a woman with long, bleached blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail, who promptly shuffled into our cubicle. She looked about twenty-five, and was popping bubble gum.

"Uggghhhhhhh." Pat had a surprisingly low voice. "The gloves are all wrinkly! You know I hate wrinkly gloves."

"She thinks she's such a princess," my cleaner whispered confidingly.

"Straighten these!"

Loud guffaws subsided into titters. They patted eachother on the arms. Pat leaned over my X-rays.

"Just look at that tiny mouth!" my cleaner said. "See, see, a few years back, they used the baby bit!"

"HaHA!"

"Yeah, she's got a really, really small mouth. Do you really think she can keep those wisdom teeth?"

I stiffened.

"Well, I don't see how that's humanly possible. But let's take a look." And Pat chucked the chair backwards, until my feet were in the air and my head in her lap. Hello Pat.

"Hum dum dumm. Well I'll be darned, these are some gorgeous teeth! And there is room for those wisdom babies! Huh! Well, you better take care of them." Pat paused thoughtfully. "'Be good and you can keep 'em!' that's what I'll say to you, just as I'd tell a little boy with a couple of puppies. 'Be good and you can keep 'em!'"

And they both burst into long fits of laughter.

It was really weird.

It was a beautiful Sunday morning when my friend Maria called. Who's gonna drive, she said. I'll bring the music, she said. And an hour later, we were driving to Stillwater, for the best day in our young lives.

(Please pardon the disturbing quantity of space this post takes. Who knows how to do thumb prints these days, anyway? Nobody).



"But where were you going?" you might ask.




Stillwater is known mainly for its logging. The only bar is called "Logger's", their Main Street is permeated with absurdly themed gift shops, and they host the annual "Lumberjack Days." Oh, and this stop sign was funny.




Let the games begin! Here we see Tony Montana, Lumberjack Extraordinaire, race to the manly finish. I didn't take any pictures of the other guy; we were booing him because he was from Alaska.




"Ya see," cowed this oafy announcer sporting a questionable haircut, "originally, back in the old days, all d'ese lumberjacks would have to climb da trees, right to da top. In the winter, d'ere d'ayed be, hackin' off each and every branch, until da whole tree was bare, ya see." The members of the audience tilted their heads in confusion. "So dey could, ya know, just cut da thing in half, see, right into the river!" Oh. "Now, our lumberjacks of today, see, it's become a pretty serious competition (I know a lot of ya have seen this stuff on ESPN and all, right?) so nowadays these boys, they've got harnesses."

And before he'd finished his sentence, both lumberjacks had reached the top of their poles and jumped down - a blink of the eye.




He explained the reason for log rolling too, but I honestly can't remember what it was. "Trees getting trapped in the glargashborgu fumm dooooo . . ." Whenever my camera starts running out of batteries, I tend to lose focus. I don't even notice bad puns.

No, seriously. It's a problem.




All tuckered out, Maria and I woefully walked back up the San Francisco-esque hill to our car, put on an appropriate soundtrack, and attempted to leave Stillwater. Burly men, mini donuts, and thrift shops: the day had been quite the success, and we held no regrets.

Though we were lost for around an hour, we did find this really creepy house, and managed to trespass for a decent picture.

That's Maria, lurking.

I am so, so pumped about this.



"Becky wondered why
she'd never noticed dragonflies
her drag and click had never yielded anything as perfect
as a dragonfly."

We are poor college students. We cannot afford decent living. We just do what we can and try to ignore the rest.

But something about the heat lately has sharpened my observation skills. And it has come to my attention that each hallway in our apartment has its own pungent aroma, which itself changes not only by the day but also by the temperature. Take yesterday at high noon, for example; the voyage from third floor to parking lot went as follows: Chinese food, dirty laundry, body odor, odd concotion of perfumes, kitty litter. But earlier in the morning, I think most of the area was covered with a simple scent of stale air conditioning or Cheerios. And the day before, it seemed each level represented a brand of glue. Our building, constructed during the decade known for its disturbing popularity with hallucinogenic drugs, has finally snapped into schizophrenia, and we are the worse for it.

I've been bumbling along with the radical sensory changes, contorting my face and internally hurling. It was really kind of an adventure. Every day! Every door! Hurray!

But alas, all good things must come to an end, and it was today that all of that changed for us third-floor habitants. Today there was glorious consistency. None of this "open the door and 'woop de doo, I'm in another country'" business. No sir - the entire building smelled the same and at all hours of entrance and deptarture.

It smelled like a vagina.

Some day, someone will turn this into a really great story.

I have a confession to make. It's sad, but true . . . when I first heard that Radiohead had come out with a new album, I was completely disgusted.

"Another one, eh?" I muttered, one eyebrow raised.

"Just crankin' those things out lately. Those $%^&ing sellout bastards," I'd rage alone in my car.

"Look's like someone's got the formula for his audience," was my half-assed attempt at intelligent critique.

But the fact of the matter is, I was mostly just pissed off that I hadn't heard about this first; I hadn't maintained my usual obsessive following of my alleged favorite band, and suddenly they had to go and spring this on me. I didn't even see it coming. I'm not entirely certain that I was expecting another album from Radiohead, ever, period. And what do you know, here I was driving to work in the middle of yuppie traffic, and the latest from Thom Yorke crackles from my broken radio.

Is that pathetic? I think maybe it's kind of pathetic.

I remember the very day that Kid A was released. I remember the two weeks before it, searching for bootlegs, plotting the most efficient course for purchase. In those days, I didn't just love Radiohead, I loved Radiohead: I knew every song from OK Computer by heart (break), I went for long drives at night with the acoustic version of "Creep" on loop, I plastered my room and diaries with breathtaking quotes and writhed with the agony of utter adoration. An hour after it hit stores, my high school entered its first lunch period and, accompanied by two friends, I bolted to Melissa's car for a run to Target. We couldn't bear to wait any longer. The fact that we'd made it through our last classes was one of the greatest mysteries of mankind.

I felt such a complete connection with every note on that CD. I can't even describe how it made me feel. I've never felt that way since.

I continued with this romance through their following album, Amnesiac (some said it was vastly inferior to Kid A. I make no comment regarding their intelligence) and it was about this time that I was heading off to college for my freshman year; a locale specifically ideal for loving Radiohead. That was nice for a while - everyone had at least one thing in common, and when Radiohead played in New York I had three concert buddies to help push the crowds from our rightful places in front.

But it was at Bard that my interest began to fade, perhaps as I noticed Radiohead's audience beginning to grow.

And I literally cannot remember the last time I listened to Kid A. I think it must have just made me very sad.

was you asleep and dreaming.

Ah, sweet suculent August; it is almost upon us. Can you believe it? I sure can't. I was going to read The Beak of the Finch and The Myth of Sisyphus by August. By the end of the summer, I planned on researching and acquiring a general understanding of the main philosophers. I was going to investigate Leaves of Grass and expand my quivering, nervous brain with real poetry. Boy o boy, this summer was bound to be a learning experience.

I tend to give myself over-ambitious goals when it comes to summer reading.

So, needless to say, I started a few of the aforementioned books; I just couldn't manage to bring them to the pool with me. So there's this pile of potential knowledge near my bed, while in actuality I'm having a grand old time - with none other than one of those kooky, ridiculous Italian authors - Italo Calvino.

Words cannot express my adoration of this man. I recall a love letter written to Antonio Tabucchi; my sentiments run along a similar line. From The Baron in the Trees (the tale of a youn Italian nobleman who rebels against parental authority by leaving supper and fleeing for a life spent in the branches of trees):

Cosimo saw the animal run out into the field. But could he fire at a fox raised by someone else's dog? Cosimo let it pass and did not shoot. The dachshund lifted his snout toward the boy, with the look of dogs when they do not understand and are not sure whether they should understand, and flung his nose down again, behind the fox.

'Eeayee, eeayee, eeayee!' The fox made a complete round. There, it was coming back. Could he fire or couldn't he? He didn't. The dachshund turned a sad eye up at him. He was not barking any more, his tongue was drooping more than his ears. He was exhausted, but he still went on running.

The dachshund's raising of the fox had baffled both hounds and hunters. Along the path was running an old man with a heavy arquebus. 'Hey,' called Cosimo, 'is that dachshund yours?'

'A plague on you and all your family!' shouted the old man, who must have been a bit cracked. 'Do we look like people who hunt with a dachshund?'

'Then whatever he puts up, I can shoot,' insisted Cosimo, who really wanted to do the right thing.

'Shoot at your guardian angel for all I care!' replied the other, as he hurried off.

The dachshund chased the fox back again to Cosimo's tree. Cosimo shot at it and hit it. The dachshund was his dog; he called him Ottimo Massimo.

While I wouldn't normally get sentimental over man-and-dog stories, this particular ragamuffin is an Italian. And everyone knows that foreign animals are inherently fascinating creatures.

Freaking adorable. So freaking cute. Come on, admit it.

1. There's something about Minnesota that forces nostalgia into me. Or memory. Or unwanted thoughts, something, I don't know; maybe it's due to the lack of academic thought which causes my brain to dwell on every moment of my past. Regardless, I've noticed that whenever I return to my home state after months "abroad," as it seems, I experience a vivid re-living of my past self.

Most particularly, my past self as she existed in relationships.

Let me state for the record that I partially blame the Volvo. I recognize that I'm a lucky girl, to be handed over a car for my personal use sans lease or hidden fees. It's damn convenient. But the crummy thing about the Volvo is that the tape deck doesn't work. Remember tape decks? My car sure does. But like me, it doesn't recognize the tape as a valid vehicle for music, and instead finds the magnetic tape as appetizing as you or I would find, say, gravy. Or fine, pureed steak.

So, I listen to the radio, and I hear the same songs I heard last summer and the summer before, and I think about that.

A lot.

2. I recently considered the notion that perhaps I store up a little too much regret. I mean, I go over things a lot, undoubtably twisting my own words against myself or exaggerating mistakes to comical degrees. It tells stories. In a way, it's a part of "being a writer," forcing this memory upon yourself and choosing the exact words to fit each situation: you're defining each emotion and action so that if another person were to read this imaginary book, they would experience life exactly as you had. But in another way, it's also kind of crazy. I'd like to learn how to just let go sometimes.

When I was little, I was terrified of forgetting anything. I knew that as I grew older, I wouldn't possibly be able to remember every detail of every day experienced at the age of seven, and if I couldn't remember it, it may as well not have happened. This is what inspired me to begin a journal. I wrote in it obsessively, details of going to the dentist, the park, Target . . . it was a pretty ambitious endeavor. And one hell of a boring read.

3. Around the age of nine or so, I made a promise to myself that I would never forget this certain thing. When I woke up each morning, I recited it to myself.

Naturally, today I have absolutely no clue, even as to the subject matter.

4. But it's in Minnesota, in particular. When I'm in college, everything is physically behind me. I don't pass the damn park where an ex and I made out, or attend Fourth of July fireworks where a boy and I watched the occasional baseball game. Everything is current. We don't even get a very good radio signal in the Hudson valley. When I'm at Bard, I'm not exactly a new person; I'm just myself in a more pure form, unadulterated by reiterated conversations.

I've been home for two months, and it's starting to get to me.

5. My sleep lately has been restless, permeated with vivid and often bizarre dreams. Insects all over the walls, blood on my hands, nudity, you name it, it's been quite the ride. But last night was the real kicker, I think. It was a series, for Christ's sake (like the kind they have on PBS, only without the fundraisers).

I dreamt of every boy I've every been with; it started with an early fling and progressed to more serious relationships. In each dream, I messed up. I made some horrible mistake and I hurt this person. Then, before I could apologize, they would leave, or stand there while I was unable to say a single word. The situation could really not get much worse.

I woke up three times last night, and before going back to sleep, I would think to myself "you're going to finish this. Go back and just tell him you're sorry." And I couldn't.

It was truly awful.

When I woke up for work, Adam was curled away from me, slumbering peacefully. I shimmied over to his side of the bed, and held on.

Sometimes my own nerdiness astounds me.



But then, I wasn't the one who photoshopped this.

It all started with "America's Next Top Model."

I went over to a friend's house and he was watching it on his television, so I suppose in a way it all started, in fact, with Matt Terry. I couldn't help myself. I was fascinated with UPN's next hit reality show.

But mostly, I was fascinated with Elyse.



Now, I don't read fashion magazines very often any more. In general, I try to avoid the television, and isolate myself from the media in order to preserve some self-respect. I go to a liberal arts college. Sometimes, I don't shave my legs. I'm concerned with positive images of self. And so, allegedly, I am aware of the flaws within our media culture and I strike against them as naturally as I breathe.

So what was I doing watching this show? Why did I anticipate the season finale as restlessly as, in tenth grade, I would await the next episode of "Buffy the Vampire Slayer"? Wasn't I better than this? Why did I look this Elyse girl up and down and devote her image to memory every time she entered the set? Who killed President Kennedy?

These were the questions that plagued not only myself, but America.

Naturally, the answer is simple: weakness. Lately I have been bored with my appearance, feeling stuck in a fashion purgatory of Adrianne. Every morning for the past three years I flip my wet head upside down and slowly blow-dry it into what I hope is a tumble of messy curls; something that says "I just rolled out of bed, but hell, don't I look great?" Such is the desire of every girl, I think. I proceed to work a bit of gel in, a spritz of hairspray around the top to smooth out fly-aways, and look into the mirror to see the same girl I've been seeing since my senior year in high school. If my life were a coming-of-age movie, I would probably stop for a moment in front of that mirror, make a few funny faces, and sigh.

So when I went to Matt Terry's house that day, I was looking for an answer. I was spiritually depraved when the Jehovah's Witnesses showed up, and they introduced me to my own personal savior.

And two days later I cut all my hair off. It's great. I'm excited.

One of the things I love about people is that they always stop for families of ducks. It's the middle of rush hour, everyone's cutting eachother off and caught up in survival of the fittest; it's mankind, one might say, at it's worst . . . but enter one large duck followed by several small ducks, and the cars universally stop. It's practically a law.

It makes me happy.

This morning, I was awakened by the sound of a telephone ring.

Now, this is a rare occurance in itself, as the ringer in my bedroom has the volume approximately comparable to the soothing sounds of ocean waves hitting a soft, sandy shore: five miles away. So I was vaguely aware of this sound for around a half an hour, coming and going, before it occured to me that this was a peice of electronics that required interaction. It was nine thirty in the morning.

"Hello?"
"Hi, Adrianne?" I was woozy and confused with former visions of a beach, and didn't recognize the voice for a few minutes. It was my manager at the cafe.
"Uh, yes, this is. Adrianne."
"Hello Adrianne. I'm calling regarding yesterday -"

Before she said another word, guilt began gnawing on a succulent portion of my heart. Crap. Crap, crap, crap.

"You know, I talked to John," she continued, "and the thing is, when an employee doesn't show up to a shift, it's immeadiate dismissal. No second chances . . ." She began talking quickly, strict policies I'd never been aware of. All I got in was a little squeak. It had been a little mix up, a moment of forgetfulness; I could have sworn I had Thursday off work, but at nine last night I looked at my calender and read Work, 4 - close. Crap. Crap, crap, crap. "So, I guess I don't need you here today any more."

"Wait, what?"

She never said the words "you're fired" and for that I was grateful. As it was, my voice wavered as we said goodbye and I burst into tears the minute the phone hit reciever. It was as though I had just been dumped; some part of me had been inadequate, had messed up beyond repair, and had lost something very important. Not only had I lost the cafe's love, but I had lost their sweet, sweet paycheck. My financial position was officially in a state of crisis.

"Have you ever been fired before?" My dad asked.
"No," I sobbed.
"Ah. I was wondering. Because, you know, you're reacting like someone who's been fired for the first time."

The day could only get better. I waited.