by David Garber of Notes on a Cocktail Napkin

The Dentist

Ever since I tore a crown off at work while chewing gum, I've realized that it's about time for my triennial trip to the dentist. There was intense pain in the back right side of my mouth anytime I consumed something too hot or too cold. I looked online and saw that it cost as much as a grand to replace the crown. All of a sudden, it didn't hurt to eat ice cream. It's amazing what a pain killer high costs can be. A few weeks ago, I was at lunch with my colleagues, when Nicole suggested, "Why don't you just get INsurance?" Pronunciation aside, I realized that Nicole is a genius.

When I worked for MGM, I had the greatest health and dental insurance through my union. When I was in school at UCLA, there were tons of medical resources at my disposal. After graduating, I went for a few months without any insurance. A friend of mine pointed out that since my family practically perfected cancer, maybe I should have a policy, just in case. Let me tell you, it's not easy getting insurance as a cigarette and pot smoker. Let me rephrase that: it's not easy getting insurance as an honest, cigarette and pot smoker. A piece of advice: if you ever apply for health insurance, lie. One day Jango told me that as an executive member of Costco, one could get insurance. Now I've never been to a Costco. It's not that I have anything against it, like Wal-Mart, it's just that I don't have a real need for a gross of paper towels or a side of beef. Also, I'd probably have to rent a car just to bring home everything I buy there. But for a hundred bucks a year to be able to purchase insurance, call me Costco executive member.

Heeding Nicole's advice, I went online to and found out that I could get dental insurance for eighty-nine bucks a year, plus a ten dollar sign up fee, through Costco. Now I'm a value shopper, but even I realize that price is too good to be true. As part of the sign-up, I had to choose my dentist from a list of possibilities. I picked Dr. Nguyen because she's Vietnamese and I was in Vietnam a few years ago. Also, I had some massage parlor fantasies of my new dentist. Alas, happy endings cost far less than dental bills, even with insurance. Don't ask me how I know, I just do. I arrived for my two o' clock appointment early. There was no one to be seen so I sat down and worked on my crossword. I guess I could've shouted out, "Who you gotta fuck to get your teeth cleaned up in this bitch?!" But I save that kind of behavior for restaurants, which is probably why I have a higher percentage of loogie in my meals compared to other customers.

A few minutes later Dr. Nguyen walked in. She was soon followed by her tiny dental assistant and the large, but sweet looking, receptionist. I was taken back for x-rays, which anyone knows is an unpleasant experience. I can't believe with all the technology available they haven't figured out a way to take an x-ray of your mouth without having to open wide enough to deep throat a mason jar. After the x-rays, Dr. Nguyen came in and told me that I needed: a deep cleaning, to replace my crown, and to repair a couple of fillings. Oh, yeah, I, also, have leuco abrasion, which is some sort of pre-cancerous cells. Hey, it's better than post-cancerous cells. I guess smoking isn't as salubrious as I thought. It wasn't just the smoking, but a tooth that needs to be filed down so it doesn't continue to cause trauma. Damn you, cancer-causing, sharp tooth! I agreed to all the treatments and was moved to another room for the deep cleaning. Before any treatment took place, I was presented with a bill of sale by the receptionist. Something about the nine hundred and seventeen spondoolicks, this was all gonna cost, made her corpulence seem threatening. Nine hundred bucks? "How long do I get to pay this?" "It's three-hundred and twelve for the deep cleaning today." "I only brought sixty (for co-pay.)" "We take credit cards." "Of course, you do." I signed. Having not had ghetto insurance at my previous job, I don't recall paying for anything, except that which wasn't covered: blow and viagra; much less, being presented with a bill I had to sign prior to treatment. Hey, you get what you pay for. I got my deep cleaning and scheduled an appointment for the rest of it in two weeks time. I first did it for a week, but realized I might need two in order to save up some cash money, lest I get a beat down Santa Monica Fats, the receptionist, for failure to pay.

Walking home, I decided to do some comparison (post) shopping. I called my former dentist, who never presented me with a bill prior to service; but, then again, I never had a happy ending fantasy about him. Well, once, but that's a story for another blog.
Turns out he charges eight hundred and eighty for a deep cleaning. I guess three hundred with skanky insurance isn't so bad. Since I've quit smoking, I've developed a money saving equation called the cigarette multiplier. I multiply five dollars (a pack a day) times the number of days I have to refrain from smoking in order to afford something. It cost two months to quit (hypnosis), four months for my recent automobile raping, and now six months to have a purty mouth. Mathematically, I have to quit smoking for a year to pay off the previous three weeks of my life.

Turns out, even with insurance, it isn't cheap to go to the dentist.
notes on a cocktail napkin can be found here.

by anonymous

I was driving in my car today thinking about the first time I heard "I love you" from my recent exes.

Here's how it went:

Darren told me he loved me outside an airport terminal when I was dropping him off to go to PA for 6 weeks. Totally worked -- after that I pined for him the whole time.

David first told me those three magic words after our fourth date. That was followed by, "I think you should move in with me." Yes, it was as crazy as it sounds and the relationship didn't last long. I loved that house though.

Andrew said it after it one night as we were falling asleep. I had given him 'oral sex' for the first time and as we were spooning, he whispered to me that he loved me. And you would be completely correct in assessing that he did not know the difference between real love and really good head.

The last ex told me at Guy's bar after we had just finished yet another martini and were outside smoking in a noisy crowd of people. I was so tipsy that I started crying and screaming at him, "I'm supposed to tell our children that you first told me you loved me when we were wasted one night at a bar?!" He ended up being an alcoholic and thank goodness those sloppy nights are behind me!

Gee, and why am I single now?!

by eerie designs

10 things not to do while guest-blogging for Dear Greer

1. Use the blog as a vehicle to trash all my crappy-ass ex-boyfriends.

2. Use the blog as a vehicle to trash all the ex-Army guys and old men I meet on match.com.

3. Get trashed and confess my love for Air Supply and Bob Seeger.

4. Post the lyrics to I'm All Out of Love and Night Moves.

5. Go on a rant about how gay the ending of Slumdog Millionaire is! (Whatever, it was gay.)

6. Post "25 Things About Me".

7. Write about this really weird dream I had recently where my shoebox of studio apartment suddenly had all these cool hidden rooms and manly neighbors kept coming over and hitting on me.

8. Post links to my own blog eeriedesigns.blogspot.com, which only has, like, 5 posts on it.

9. Tell knock-knock jokes.

10. Befriend a random Eastern-Euro dude with broken English and post our communications (only because that's already been done).

by bird

Three true stories about crazy homeless people in SF

#1: I was walking back from lunch last week and stepped over a man lying down in the middle of the sidewalk with his shirt up over his head, rubbing his enormous, food-covered belly and singing, "Mary had a Little Lamb" (yes, the children's song). We made eye contact, which was sort of like accidentally making eye contact with someone naked at the gym (or so I've heard). A couple of tourists walked by and freaked out on the guy -- his response was to sort of scream / sing at a higher decibel and continue rubbing his belly, like he was exhibiting a special version for the tourists. I think they were DUTCH.

#2: I was going out to grab cigs during work and walked by this nasty toothless guy (who was also drunk like me, incidentally at 9:30AM on a Tuesday) who first spare changed and then started sleazily chatting up this attractive business woman nearby. He smelled like the Scottish side of my family and she seemed super into it.

#3: About a month ago, I saw a guy spraying down one of the most foul bus stops in San Francisco (Bay and Stockton – you know the one) and had the look (and the jacket) that screamed forced community service, as it was the bright color of orange only worn by tweakers and…well, community service workers. He was whistling (quite happily) "If I Only Had a Brain".

The tie-in for the three stories is that they all looked like different varieties of fat Val Kilmer (minus the veneers). Not kidding.