Thursday, April 3, 2014

Annoying Things About the Dentist

So clearly no one likes going to the dentist (unless you're five years old and have hopes and dreams of never being banned from that treasure chest), but after having gone to the dentist a total of 6 times (yes, 6 times, count them) in the past year, I realized that there are things about the dentist that make you want to rip your teeth out (#irony).

And yes, this will be one of those full fledged RANTS, complete with all caps and curse words, and general torment. You have been warned.

The first thing about dentist that really kills me is the fact that they're completely silent while they're prepping the chairs, the sinks, the big scary whirly machines, but as soon as they ram that little poky guy and water in your mouth, that's the time they choose to be enraptured by your current grade in school, if you have any siblings, and who your husband is, apparently (Fun fact: having a hyphenated last name will make the dentist assume you're married, which is both terrifying and flattering that he thinks you're not twelve years old).

I mean, you'd think that after those "20 some years of professional dentistry" they all brag about, they'd learn that it is impossible to talk with a bunch of metal shoved up your mouth. Maybe 4 out of 5 dentists don't have adequate social skills.

However, the alternative to yakking at you like you're besties, is when the dentist gets an assistant to come into the office, and all of a sudden, instead of telling you what's about to me jammed up into your gums, they're suddenly bonding over delicious Spring rolls at that great new restaurant. First of all, I'm already sallivating all over your chair, dentist. Do you want me to just get it over with, and hurl my food-talk induced spit all over your face, too? Like, I'm glad you like your assistants and all, but when you are putting a NEW FREAKING TOOTH IN MY MOUTH, I would really love to know like, what's going on. I'm only paying you for your fifth born's new yacht, no big deal.

And hey, if you really want to piss me off, why don't you shove a goop-filled tray in my mouth, tell me you'll be right back, and then disappear for ten minutes? Oh, great. Now I can have my deepest thoughts while I'm choking on my own spit. I mean, how very considerate of you to finish your discussion on spring rolls in my absence, but would it kill you to be like "hey, I'm gonna grab some more [insert overly priced equipment here]"?

I'm not paying for a suspense movie, guys. I'm paying for the ability to chew. Thanks.

The next thing that always happens, no matter who's inspecting my teeth, is they'll poke their heads in my mouth, get all wide-eyed, and say "gee, you have a really tiny mouth!" No shit. Like, out of context, that's just really rude. It's not like you're saying "you have a really tiny mouth, so here, have some mouth enhancer," you're just making, I don't know, small talk? What the hell kind of small talk is that? Like, I'm not about to walk up to you, stare at your chest, and go all "gee, you have really tiny tits!" And even if my ob/gyn did that, I'd smack her. I'm aware I have a small mouth. None of you have offered any solutions to this observation, so until you can physically grow my mouth, please shut up about it.

And for the last time, giving those tools cutesy names like "Mr. Sandy" will not make them hurt any less.

Namaste.

Tuesday, March 25, 2014

Dead Puppies, Drowning Twins, and Other Tales from My Eight-Year-Old Brain

So, when I went home to cry over a mass pile of dirty clothes do laundry, I found a box of old notebooks and sketchbooks entitled "Groovy Moments!" (don't ask). Most of the notebooks contained stories of a young girl who set out to New York to become a famous actress (hmmm, projection anyone?), but there was one book in particular that caught my attention:

Basically, it was just a notebook that gave prompts like "write about something that inspires you!", but, being an eight year old with a psychotic slightly disturbing sense of humor, I took my inspiration to an...interesting level.

So, I present to you, some of the gems a much younger Kira conjured up:

"Math I don't get. I hate it when I feel stupid. There's a lot I hate, but I really hate it when I have to go to bed early."

"Interesting things to write about:
Aliens in the swimming pool
Cars in the sky
Planes in a parking lot
A half lion half monkey
A silent storm
Flowers that dance
Edible plants
Characters that come alive
Houses that float
Dogs that talk
Stores that run
Icky Sticky Chicken Parts
A pile of gasoline
A planet called 'the chair'
No stars at night
A TV show called 'Hey Dummy'
A dog that holds a circus."

"Sarah's birthday was soon, so Lulu decided to get two cats. She went to the store and got the cats named Sunrise and Sunset.
The owner said, "be careful because they're opposites and you know what that means."
Lulu didn't listen. She put them in the box and drove to Sarah's house and Sarah eagerly opened it. When she saw what it was, she started to cry. The cats are dead. And nobody spoke ever since."

"Once upon a time a mother dog was giving birth. Seven of the pups were so cute, but the 8th one was disgusting. After a couple of weeks, the pups were for sale. A blind woman took the ugly one. She was going to give it to her daughter for her birthday. So the blind woman named Lulu wrapped up the present and gave it to her. Anna the girl screamed but had to take care of the dog anyway. And they never ever lived happily ever after."

"Once upon a time there were two people. They were twins. Their names were Ira and Ira. The Ira who was born first was smart and clever. The Ira who was born after the first was very dumb. They were invited to their friend's house for a sleepover. So they went. When they got there, they played Tic-Tac-Toe, Library [what?], Shoots and Ladders and cats. When the were done, they had a plan. But before they could do it they had to go to bed. The next day, when the parents weren't looking, they rushed outside. They ran into the pool and jumped in. Then they drowned. The mother and father wept."

"Once upon a time there were some people. They were very very poor. They lived in a one room cabin. When Christmas came, the kids' grandparents had just enough money to buy a bed. So they got the kids a bed for Christmas. When it was bedtime, the kids asked if they could stay up till midnight. The parents said yes. The kids danced and twirled until it was time for bed. It was a Halloween night and it was a full moon. So when the kids climbed into bed, the bed opened its mouth wide and ate the kids."

"Sometimes I try ending a story 4 different ways:
1) The person sneezes and the house blows up.
2) The house sneezes and the person blows up.
3) They both sneeze and blow up.
4) They don't sneeze and don't blow up."

"Once there was a dog
who met a crazy hog.
They tried to pick up a log
but they couldn't see in the fog.
So they met Nog
who had a pet Zog."

...I'm starting to wonder if my parents were concerned for their safety. My father's reaction to this was "what drugs did we have you on?"

Eh. Normalcy is overrated, anyways.

Namaste.

Monday, March 17, 2014

You're a Wizard, Harry: How to Get Your Parents to Think You're a Technological Wizard

So, contrary to popular belief, '90's kids do not pop out of the womb knowing how to fix computers, televisions, and that weird, screen thing that captures moments (that's called a camera). You could just be an average, "just-let-me-facebook-and-tumblr" kid, who has no wish to learn about HTML codes.

That's just fine. Hey, I've gone twenty years knowing how to limp through word docs and iTunes and I'm not dead yet.

But there is a way to make your parents think you have all the technological answers, and that you can make things work with the force of your mind. It won't be easy, and there will be moments when you want to blow your cover and be all "hey, Mom and Dad, that whole wizard thing? Yeah, I'm not one."

Be cool. Ice cold, even.


The easiest source of trickery is the power of Google. If your parents have that all-too-familiar squinty eyed look at the computer, and they have a problem such as "I need to drag this table to the second page, but the text isn't coming with it!", first off, gently guide their hand off the kitchen table they're dragging. And even if you've never encountered this problem ever before, simply refer to Google, read the steps, then report back to your parents. Trust me, they won't suspect a thing. This is a generation that still refers to phone books. Your secret is safe with me.

The next step is to pull up a picture (preferably of someone's face) on your iPhone, then zoom in on it. To the untrained eye, this looks like you are pinching their face and making their nose enlarge. You can also perform the magical act of "I'm making people disappear with the flick of a finger" by flipping through your phone's photo album.

Use any transition on powerpoint.

A more advanced version of "I'm making people disappear with my finger" is to download snapchat on your parents' phones. This is for the semi-trained older generation, so be aware.

Namaste.

Sunday, March 16, 2014

A Little Like Advertising, But With More Shiny Things

I'm gonna be honest here. I don't have any grand revelations, or parody song lyrics here. I have some things brewing in my brain (see, there's the teaser part of the advertising), but I've been a little wrapped up in reading Esther Earl's book trudging through homework to actually execute those ideas. So really, I'm just here to tell you that my friend/roommate/cohort in crazy random happenstances have a new blog called 642 Things To Write About: Two Writers, One Book. You can read about dog dreams, astronauts on surfboards, and things you wouldn't touch with a ten foot pole (hint: the Grinch). Everything is explained over there, so why are you still here? Seriously. I don't have anything else left to say. I don't even have any food to offer you. Like, want some sour milk? That's all I have. Just...click, damnit!

Okay. I lied before. I do have some chocolate. May I bribe you with some robin eggs? No? You're a tough customer, I give you that. Maybe I can convince you that you will be a wise, learned individual after reading this blog. Or, at the very least, it won't kill you. Hey, you can't say we don't advertise honestly here at Coffee, Yoga and Life's Other Necessities.

Namaste.

Wednesday, February 26, 2014

The 12 Days of Yoga: A Song

On the first day of yoga, my teacher gave me...some hope and some spirituality

On the second day of yoga, my teacher gave me...really sore hips and some hope and some spirituality

On the third day of yoga, my teacher gave me...shit for not coming, really sore hips and some hope and some spirituality

On the fourth day of yoga, my teacher gave me...20 hundred chants, shit for not coming, really sore hips and some hope and some spirituality

On the fifth day of yoga, my teacher gave me...A LEVELLLL TWOOO PASSSS, 20 hundred chants, shit for not coming, really sore hips and some hope and some spirituality

On the sixth day of yoga, my teacher gave me...extra savasana, A LEVELLL TWOO PASSS, 20 hundred chants, shit for not coming, really sore hips and some hope and spirituality

On the seventh day of yoga, my teacher gave me...a no makeup challenge, extra savasana, A LEVELL TWOO PASS, 20 hundred chants, shit for not coming, really sore hips and some hope and spirituality.

On the eight day of yoga, my teacher gave me...organic kale, a no makeup challenge, extra savasna, A LEVELLL TWOO PASS, 20 hundred chants, shit for not coming, really sore hips and some hope and spirituality.

On the ninth day of yoga, my teacher gave me...too many arm balances, organic kale, a no makeup challenge, extra savasna, A LEVELL TWOO PASS, 20 hundred chants, shit for not coming, really sore hips and some hope and spirituality.

On the tenth day of yoga, my teacher gave me...pressure to start teaching, too many arm balances, organic kale, a no makeup challenge, extra savasna, A LEVELL TWO PASS, 20 hundred chants, shit for not coming, really sore hips and some hope and spirituality.

On the eleventh day of yoga, my teacher gave me...instructions to open up my sex chakras (what?), pressure to start teaching, too many arm balances, organic kale, a no makeup challenge, extra savasna, A LEVELL TWOO PASS, 20 hundred chants, shit for not coming, really sore hips and some hope and spirituality.

On the twelfth day of yoga, my teacher gave me....OMMMMMMMMMMM
instructions to open up my sex chakras (what?), pressure to start teaching, too many arm balances, organic kale, a no makeup challenge, extra savasana, A LEVELL TWOO PASS, 20 hundred chants, shit for not coming, really sore hips and some hope and spirituality.

Namste.

Tuesday, February 25, 2014

College: Elementary School, Except With More Tears

When I was in elementary school, I pictured college students as majestical creatures who knew everything about the world. To me, the dark circles under their eyes was the source of all their powers, and they could drink secret brew that made everyone laugh. They were superheros--and one day, I would grow up to be just like them.

Fast forward 10 years later. Scene: A college dorm, cluttered with stacks of paper, a hairbrush that hasn't been used in a month, and a disheveled looking pillow pet.

It turns out that in some ways, I already was just like them. Because, in more ways than not, college is a lot like elementary school. Except for, y'know, that whole future being at stake thing.

In about fourth grade, my mom let my brother and I choose what we wanted to eat for dinner. Having a bit of a uncontrollable obsession with taste for desserts, my journey to the pantry was something like trekking through gold. Forbidden peanut butter cups were everywhere. Chocolate chips were calling my name. The cake that was only for "special occasions" suddenly became the salad course. All of which, obviously, came before dessert.

The next week's sugar coma was well worth it.

Since than, I've realized that in order to avoid that whole diabetes thing, I should level out and eat real salads for dinner. It's easy when your parents do the grocery shopping.

Then college happens. And you're walking down the aisles of Giant, and you realize that, oh my goodness, there's a sale on Turkey Hill ice cream. Better get 50. And some Hello Kitty popsicles while we're at it. And who needs lunch when you can eat Lindor truffles for the next week?
Don't mind me, I'm just dinner


Let's just ignore the fact that last year's sugar coma is this week's muffin top.

Elementary school kids are pro at the "I don't need you Mom and Dad, I got this--no wait, where I are you...Mommy!!" By the time high school rolled around, I was convinced I couldn't wait until I didn't have anybody around to tell me what to do, or that back in their day, nobody smashed pigs with angry birds. I'd even stay out just a few minutes later than I said I would be back, just to show how independent I was, la dee da.

Once I actually got to the point where nobody was around to tell me what to do, the number of frantic phone calls my parents got became a little ridiculous. "HOW LONG AM I SUPPOSED TO MICROWAVE CHICKEN NUGGETS???" is not a thing a mature, independent adult cries to their parents.

Even the lesson plans are shockingly similar. Somehow, jumping from elementary school to college, we're still learning the differences between their, there, and they're.

Some things never change.

Namaste. 

Monday, February 24, 2014

The Product of Academia, Part Two

So, for people who have read my Product of Academia post, you know that both of my parents are English professors. As the Spring semester hits full swing, I've noticed a few trends about how to behave towards parents in academia, and how they will behave towards you during certain points in the semester. For the most part, don't ask them for anything once flu season rolls around, during midterms, finals, when they have "another goddamn essay" to grade, when it's right before class, right after class, or when a student just asked them for an A because their father promised her a teeth whitening if she got all A's (true story).

For the most part, if you walk into your parents' house with coffee, you will instantly become their best friend. Same goes for an extra supply of red pens.

It's helpful to gauge how advanced your parents' classes are. This 1) gives them an outlet to complain about how that guy didn't show up for the fifth week in a row, and is expecting to pass the class, but it will also directly affect your parents' expectations for you. If they're teaching a bunch of freshmen who can't even write a sentence, getting a "nice work, but make sure you tighten up the thesis statement" suddenly equals "oh my god, she can write! She must be a genius!" However, if they're lecturing a bunch of graduate level geniuses, you might want to re-think showcasing that B+ like it's made out of gold. It might just constitute failure. B is for bums, clearly.

Once grading/research/"impress your colleagues" time is in session, your parents' brains are going to look something like:
Because of this, your story about how you and your friends just had the best time going ice skating, and you have an upcoming test, but the professor is so lazy it'll be like two questions long, and oh my god you need to get your hair cut, these split ends are just so horrible--chances are--they won't remember that story in the morning. This isn't because they don't care. But the professor's brain has perfected selective learning. If it's not going to show up in their lecture, it'll be stored in that dusty section of the brain that awakens in the summer.

Note: Many professor parents can also accomplish short term memorization, otherwise known as grown up metamorphosis. They remember your stories, ask follow up questions the next day, then when they're in front of their students, BAM! Every personal anecdote, every parenting thought is out the window.

Because, folks, in professor world, it's not survival of the fittest. It's survival of the "I can be more intellectual than you, la la la." 

Never talk to your parents about your professors. They will use that as an opportunity to make lunch plans with your professor and gossip about you. And vice versa--if your professors know your parents work in the same department, they will tell your parents about everything you've written, said, and thought about in class.

Sometimes, your friends will have your parents as a professor. All of a sudden, you will know every time your parent's fly is down, every time they sneezed awkwardly, and every time they made a pun in class. Try not to melt into a puddle every time you receive one of these texts.

And finally, never try to sound impressive and talk about what you learned in class that day--unless you want an hour long lecture that is scarily similar to the lecture you just had in class.

Side note: No parents were harmed in the making of this blog. My parents are still the sweetest, kindest, funniest people I know. And another Foucault lecture never hurt anybody.  :)

Namaste.