That's the Last Time I Go To Torrance

Yesterday I woke up extra early (which I assure all of you working stiffs is actually early) to get out of my comfy bed, meticulously clean my teeth, and eat a liquid breakfast. I then put a snack in my bag, grabbed my Google Map printout, and jumped in the ole Graham Bingum. I was on a mission, my darlings.

I was going to find out once and for all why my gums are bleeding.

See, some of you may recall how 2006 has been the "Year of the Tooth" for me. I am getting these puppies cleaned, straightened, and prepared for their ascent into the last two thirds of my life. Knock on wood. Anyway, the little pearlies are only doing "Fair to Good," and that is not okay with the girl who was known around her 'hood as Golden Mouth, aka Me.

A friend had told me about his dentist. Back in the day, his gums weren't doing so well, so they had done deep cleaning on his roots and even cut some of his gums out of his mouth (which isn't as uncommon as it might sound). Well, needless to say, shortly after these majorly painful events, his gums' health went south AGAIN. At the end of his rope, he went to see "Doc Torrance." Through alternative care, the Doc saved my friend's mouth from ruin.

I figured this was just the guy for me.

I drove and I drove, listening to morning shows on the radio and the White Stripes. Google Maps failed me, I got lost, I got found, and eventually I made it to the office to see the bright and shiny faces of his assistants.

Well, my darlings, let me warn you that this is the point at which my blog takes a sharp turn. I turned on the news this morning, like I do every morning, and I was treated to the sight of a black Nissan Maxima being followed by 11 police cars. The guy was a murder suspect, possibly having killed someone in that same area.

Then I noticed that I was watching the Nissan drive the same route as I went yesterday.

See, I got a funny feeling from Torrance, and now I know why. It turns out that murderers hang out there and clog up the freeways. As I was driving yesterday, I was thinking how many people get shot while driving on the 110. The voice kind of sounded like my mom, and I made sure to comfort my inner mom and tell her that everywhere is unsafe, really. With so many people in this city, you can't really hide from less-than-stellar encounters.

Anyway, I am still watching this on TV and thanking my guardian angel that this wasn't happening yesterday. My inner mom is going crazy with "I told you sos" because now they are exchanging shots. Things are getting crazy, and I am not excited about going back to the Doctor's office.

Maybe, in a truly magnificent LA move, I can get the Doc to come to me. Huh. Now there's an idea. We can hang out in the Treehouse and watch Greg The Bunny. I bet he'd like that, he seems like a Seth Green fan.

By the way, he took a look at my mouth chemistry under a microscope. He scraped off some plaque and then showed me what it looked like magnified many times. As luck would have it, I am a rare case that this semi-retired man has only seen once or twice at most...my mouth is not plagued with bad bacteria, but has an abundance of candida in it.

I am a Yeasty-Mouth. And if any of you ever call me that in person I will kick your ass from here to Timbuktu. I am going for truth in prose, here, so don't discourage my intimacy with you and some stranger who finds me on the internet.

They just shot the guy, by the way. It doesn't look fatal. But he'll probably wish it was eventually.

Whether it's being told you have killer yeast in your gums or getting shot, it seems like only bad things happen in Torrance. Also, the little Redrum kid in the Shining's last name was Torrance. See? Going back is going to take a lot of inner strength.

pray for me. g

Cruel Juice

I read somewhere that at some point in ancient times, two guys were sitting next to cranberry vines, sunning themselves and drying their loin cloths (it was laundry day). Their names were Stan and Garp, and the conversation was something like this:

Stan: I am so sick of other people being on the planet. Aren't you, Garp?
Garp: Garp.
S: Yeah, totally. Hey, check it out. Berries!
G: Garp.

They eat some berries.

S: Oh, Jesus! These taste horrible! These have got to be poisonous. Are you dead yet?
G: Garp.
S: Me neither. But they sure taste awful. Hey! That gives me a great idea.
G: Garp?
S: We should press these into a liquid and give it to people to drink. It will taste so terrible that they will kill themselves, and we'll have the whole planet to ourselves!!
G: Garp!

And so, cranberry juice was created. What Stan and Garp didn't know is that some people have a taste for horrendously bitter liquids and actually seek it out. Even people who don't care for it don't kill themselves, they just mix it with vodka and get wasted to wash away the bitter tincture left in their souls from ingesting that Devil Juice.

Unfortunately, it serves a useful purpose. The highly acidic quality of the juice creates an environment that is unpleasant for bacteria, which keeps it from adhering to urethral walls and causing trouble. So, for those people whose urethra is prone to such adhesion, cranberry juice is a necessary evil.

I am one of those people. And sadly, I am also one of those people Stan was counting on to want to kill themselves after drinking this nasty, nasty juice.

So, basically, Stan is a dick. I like Garp better, because he focused on the cranberries' medicinal properties but didn't want to punish people with lousy urethras for needing it. He created cranberry pills. Sadly, they are too slow-acting for a gal like me and I am forced to drink the juice. Every time I open my refrigerator door, I see that little bottle of juice sitting there, mocking me. "I'm one hundred percent PAIN, Grae...er, I mean juice. Drink me, you essentially have no choice!"

I am going to smash the bottle into tiny little bits when I'm better. Right now, I have to go take another swig. The only good thing about this is that all this bathroom time means that I have caught up on my Entertainment Weekly reading.

bright side. g

*editor's note: I would have made this more scathing, but I had to abandon it for the potty too many times. Seriously, mean it up a little in your head, and that's what I wanted to write.*

Rollin', Rollin', Rollin, Keep them Tee Shirts Rollin'

Like a stick-thin aspiring actress poised above a SkyBar toilet bowl on a Saturday night, the Treehouse is purging. Ridding itself of the clothes, papers, bills, shoes, and pointless knick-knacks that have fattened it up beyond the limits of superstardom. Now it sits, thinner and content, confident and ready to go on that next audition. What were we talking about again?

I woke up Wednesday and realized that my work was being affected by the bad feng-shui of things. The closets, filled to the brim with credit card applications and wedding announcements and endless jumbles of plastic hangers from the 99-cent store were beginning to take on a life of their own. I could swear that as I sat at my little table, clicking away on my laptop, I could hear my own shoes talking shit about me, while my photographs in boxes made fun of my fear of the dark. The things that my poorly-hung skirts said I can't even write in a public forum. It was getting bad.

So, I stuck my finger down the throat of the Treehouse and hit the gag reflex hard. Everything was in the center of the room, begging for my attention. I must tell you that it almost did me in. I jogged down Memory Lane, through grassy fields of what used to be, while occasionally stumbling into the briar patch of my own past. It wasn't always pretty.

But I made it. Now my drawers have organizers in them, and everything from undies to socks to jammies are rolled facing upward. That way, I don't have to sort through everything to get to what I want, disturbing it in the process. I can see everything I own now, and it is either rolled or hung.

And now, here I sit, in the middle of a sparkling clean apartment. I know that when I open the closet doors I will be met with neatly lined up drawers and filed papers, and that they will be polite and let me finish my work. No more interruptions to declare that I am unfit to exist on the planet next to people like Martha Stewart and Christopher Lowell. Only good things will come from this, and it was worth the blood that trickled out of my left ear at that one point (when I discovered that the closets were full but I hadn't done my laundry yet).

I encourage all of you to vomit out what is dragging you down. Get rid of those bank statements from '00, or the socks you've had since you were 13. Just do it. Because just like that starlet over on Sunset, it will rejuvenate you and allow you to sit with that guy who says he is a "producer" on the next Orlando Bloom flick and not hate the fact that his cock will be in your mouth at the end of the night.

What were we talking about again? g

We Mustn't Lose This

As the days pass, I find myself wishing I knew what I was in for. What triumphs and failures are going to make me into the person I will become? Who will I meet, what will I learn, what will I look like? But mostly, what ingredients will sprinkle themselves into my life that will make me into an Old Casserole?

How can I avoid making the mistake so many before me made? What thing happens that makes people forget how good rain feels, or how it isn't the end of the world if you miss a Christmas party to snuggle in front of a fire with the one you love? Why do sunsets become less impressive? Where does the magic go?

I have no idea. No one else seems to, either.

Today, my days are filled with inhaling deeply and loving sunshine. I cherish the feeling of crisp cotton against my skin. My man's beard provides calm and giddiness all at the same time when it brushes against my face...and laughter comes so easily. But I worry that it can't be like this forever.

The worst part is that one day we just wake up and it's gone. All of a sudden, we talk too much and kiss too little. There are things to be done, and your face in those old pictures seem like strangers. Is writing the secret? Can I keep a journal to remind me that life is too short to ever NOT walk in the park and play with flowers? Make a video? Paint?

Who knows. I just find myself sitting here wishing that I could avoid what I fear is inevitable.

concerned. g

You Get What You Pay For

I have spent a great deal of time lately on craigslist. I've got apartments to move into, jobs to apply for, Dodgers tix to buy, and pets to be trained. But the biggest thing I'm looking for while on the site? Laughs. And since I didn't find them in the "Computer services" category, I decided to look in the "Casual encounters" section.

That's where the funny was hiding.

Reading all of the posts from the city's finest can really gloss over the small glitches in my day. I now know that if I ever fall upon hard times, there are plenty of pre-op transsexuals out there, who, for a nominal fee, will keep me company. Also, there are lots of hot Latinos, well-hung black guys, and average-looking men on business trips who are eagerly awaiting my *vulgar phrase removed by BlogCensor.com*

The Casual Encounters section embodies everything about the internet that I love to hate. Since the beginning of time, every technological gift that has been bestowed upon humanity has been quickly turned into a new way for us to screw each other or see genitalia. Craigslist started as a cool way to find things going on in San Fran...and now, it's about cool ways to find things in people's pants.

But let's shift out of history and move into punctuation and grammar. The 'net is taking away our already-scant abilities to write properly. The smiley face is now a part of our English lexicon, for Pete's sake. And on top of this, do people honestly respond to ads that repeatedly misspell "sexual" as "sexaul," and request oral sex as "hot BJ luvvv cum over to my place?!"

This is a whole different kind of education here. I have learned that "Generou$$ men" are ones who pay for sex, and that people who ask for "discreet encounters" are married, not the sex they say they are, or people posting their friend's pic online as a joke.

Some people are "sexually fursturated," which I can only assume is some kind of botched circumcision. Others implore the reader to respond "only if you are a hot little slutty girl," which is silly because that kind of title is purely someone's opinion. And the rest are just expletive-filled cries for company. Animal instinct at it's finest.

Reading this section makes me glad that I have a nice boyfriend (but not TOO nice), and zero desire to participate in risky sexual behavior. But the laughs, my darlings, are a 100% DD-HIV free.

click. g

I Already Have a Long Distance Carrier, Thanks

While visually devouring the pages of my Entertainment Weekly, I stopped to look at an AT&T ad. A smug-looking woman with an afro and her arms crossed across her chest is standing looking directly into the camera. Standing next to her is a Benji dog on a leash. Based on her workout clothes, I am led to assume that this dynamic duo was out for a walk in the woods, but Mommy stopped because she had something important to tell America.

Her words are written in childlike cursive in a big pink heart to the left of her no-nonsense face. And I quote:

"The World According to Toni:
Before I get serious with a guy, I like to make him watch Hollywood movies from the 50s and 60s. In those flicks men were suave and knew how to treat a woman like a lady. So this is my test: if he falls asleep, I dump him. If he shows some interest, he might get a second date. If he wants to watch it again, well then I know that's my man!"

I'm not going to beat around the bush with you, my darlings. Toni is a fucking idiot. Here's the thing: this is just an ad, but you and I both know that there are real women out there that do this kind of shit. Is it a mystery to them why the only intimate relationship in their life is between them and frozen dairy products?

First of all, just because a man needs a nap during your shitty Frankie and Annette popcorn flick has nothing to do with his likeliness to open doors and throw his jacket over mud puddles for you. People need sleep, for chrissakes, and it's creepier for him to try and stay awake than it is for him to get some shut eye. Have you ever seen someone fighting to stay up? It's only cute when 3-year-olds do it. For the rest of us, it's lame and kind of sad. Apparently Toni is willing to pass up what could have been one of the greatest relationships of her life because her beau needed a nap.

"If he shows some interest, he might get a second date." This is exactly the kind of calculating, judgemental bullshit that keeps us from finding happiness and gives chicks a bad name. It would have been more accurate for her to say, "If he passes my brilliantly scientific test and I deem him worthy of my AMAZING company, I MIGHT decide to let him bask in my own personal brand of magic." Toni can be as superficial as she wants, but her man had better be ready to treat her with genuine TLC, or else. What an arrogant way to look at life.

The last thing this daft cow has to say is that her perfect man is an obessive-compulsive whack job moviegoer. If I just finished a flick and MY man wanted to watch it again immediately, I would wrinkle my nose and furrow my brow in confusion. If that flick was Roman Holiday or Barefoot in the Park, you can multiply that frown/furrow times three. Essentially, with this step, Toni has narrowed her partnership options down to exactly what she said she didn't want in the first place. Crazy men who watch movies over and over again are probably not going to be the best ones to fulfill all her deeply spiritual Relationship Requirements like looking good in a suit and being good kissers.

I bet Benji strains on his leash. I wonder if Toni realizes that the minute that thing comes off, Benji is running as fast as his furry legs will carry him to the Land of No Crazy Women Owners. Not even an animal could withstand the pain from seeing the effects of Toni's Rules for Successful Mating.

So AT&T, you have successfully made me glad YET AGAIN that I no longer depend on either you or SBC for any type of phone services. I'm glad I cancelled my cell phone contract back in '02, and I am ecstatic that I use Vonage for all my home phone needs. I'm also glad Vonage sued you in 2004. And as for Toni? Somebody find her reset button, because her wires are crossed.

growl. g

Survival Lesson #54a: What To Do During Another Power Outage in the Middle of your SECOND Colonic

Get a new Colon Hydrotherapist that pays their bills and/or doesn't work in a shoddily powered area.

nuff said. g