My Dead Tooth.

In another life-pondering moment the other day I concluded that my "Totally Rational Worst Fears" list keeps growing. I'm not talking about fears like becoming a cat lady, going to work naked, falling into a manhole. Standard. I'm talking a very specific list that details occurrences that will inevitably result in my demise and/or complete humiliation.

I'll highlight a few of the biggies:

- Death by icicle. I just have this feeling that I'm that girl strolling down the street who gets pierced in the noggin by an icicle falling, most likely, from the overhang outside Nordstroms.

- Decapitation via bus mirror. Seriously, the 156 drives by me and do I see a side-mirror? No. I see a giant machete waiting to chop off the heads of 6'1" tall females.

- Lake shark attack...in Lake Michigan...at North Avenue Beach...Jaws XII style. Enough said.

But the fear that's resulted in hate filled glares targeting Rob Lowe and Julia Roberts, is the horror of developing and losing a dead tooth...

You see, I once had an impacted tooth. And this tooth remained impacted for the first 18 years of my life until it was extracted from it's comfy little home in my upper left gum and forced to live with the rest of my teeth. It's been violated by coffee and jolly ranchers ever since. The whole surgical process was creepy anyway, blood spewing everywhere, the dental hygienist "ooo-ing" and "uh oh-ing." But what will forever haunt me is the Oral Surgeon's sheepishly inserted comment while I was drooling and high on nitrous oxide... "Okay, so there may or may not have been some nerve damage. Significant nerve damage. Maybe, I don't know. It's too early to tell. Probably not a big deal though. So there's a 90 percent chance you may lose that tooth some day. Good job in there. See ya later!" Oh you're damn right you'll see me later sir. I now have to live with the fear of biting into a caramel apple only to find my dead tooth stuck in it. Or worse yet, what if I have so much nerve damage I don't even know it's gone and I'm giving a presentation to thousands of people and it's just hanging there or I'm on a date and find it stuck in a roll of sushi. You can bet your bottom dollar I'll be back at Granville Family Dentistry faster than you can say "ew you've got something on your...oh."

In all fairness to my tooth, it still has some life left in it. But it could probably go at any second and then who will want me? I googled "dead tooth" to try and ease my anxiety and find solutions to prevent it from turning revolting but this was an awful idea. I saw some things.

I suppose I should enjoy this time I have left with my tooth. My upper left incisor has had a great run, as far as upper left incisors go, so I should just let the natural tooth cycle take it's course. Let's face it, I made it through my prime years with two sets of railroad tracks securely fastened to my teeth, what's another dead tooth.

A love (of bud) note.

Normally, I hate notes. They tend to be uber-patronizing and cause flashbacks to my mom's chore lists wall-papered to the refrigerator (my fine tuned hidden talent: ignoring these notes). But this emotionally charged plea strategically placed above the button at the elevator in my new apartment building commands way too much respect to ignore, so I thought I'd share it with you.



First of all, I like that the writer started off the note intending to create a sense of community. It really succeeds in establishing a receptive audience, not putting the reader on the defensive, and setting the tone for the rest of the note. Hello AP English.

Secondly, this is definitely a seasoned smoker. Offering up THREE alternatives to letting that distinctive earthy odor seep under the door? THREE?! In my opinion, that's totally above and beyond the call of duty. This dude/chick loves the bud and is taking extra steps to ensure that you and I do NOT compromise that freedom. Also, who knew a vaporizer could take care of the smell, but I guess it makes sense seeing as it vaporizes and all. See? Maybe it's not a note at all, it's an informative essay.

Lastly, the writer packs a final punch and totally legitimizes him or herself in the sign off. You see, this isn't just another resident asshole, this is a 3YR 14TH FLOOR RESIDENT STONER...so listen damnit. And I think if my high school English teacher took a stab at grading this stellar piece of literature, no doubt the only ding against the author would be the ironic near-misspelling of dumbass.

Street Vom.

Not to toot my own horn, but I'm pretty sure I recently made one of the most enthralling observations of my quarter century existence. nbd.

"Think about how much of your life you spend dodging street vomit."

And no, that's not even a metaphor.

Street vomit would most likely be defined by our boy Webster as "any substance regurgitated by a homo sapien splattered on the street in an easily identifiable pattern." Street vomit is unique to city life so I apologize if you're reading this from a barn and are thinking "oh ok, it's like dodging cow shit. I can totally relate." It's not and you can't.

Please don't let your repulsion keep you in the dark on my epiphane. Street vomit is just another part of your routine. Like the pigeon poop you swerve to avoid when getting off the train, so is the street vomit you take a longer stride to jump at the corner of Southport and Belmont. You have to embrace it and after reading this, you're going to have a hard time ignoring it (just thank me later).

In fact, I've started to make a fun little game called "Hey-Is-That-Street-Vom? Nope-It's-Nacho-Cheese." The rules of the game are simple, take a walk around the city with your opponent and see who can spot the most street vomit. You lose points for confusing spilled food with street vomit and receive bonus points if you can identify what the perpetrator ate or drank. Some neighborhoods are prime for this game. If you want to catch some Suburban Street Vomit head over to any concrete surface within a two block radius of Wrigley Field between the months of April and September and you will not be disappointed. If you want to see some Bro-sef Street Vomit, mosey on over to the block between Boston Market and Benchmark on Wells St. in Old Town. If you're just a snob and Rich People Street Vomit is more your thing, the Viagra Triangle downtown is a gold mine. I would put money on finding both Jay Cutler AND Kristen Cavalari street vomit over there.

If you're looking for a useful "meaning of life message" in this post, you won't find it (not that you'll ever find it in these posts). Just stretch those quads and hammies and keep dodging the street vomit.

One of Life's Great Mysteries

There are several notorious unsolved American mysteries we've all spent a ton of time toiling over. Who killed Biggie? Were there, in fact, weapons of mass destruction in Iraq? Did OJ really do it? When are Stabler and Olivia going to hook up?

But what I really want to know is this-

Where the $*%& did all my bobby pins go?

Anyone knows that solving this mystery would be life altering. You buy a pack of 75,000 bobby pins and in one week they've managed to end up anywhere except your head. To me, this question holds the same gravity as it's sister mysteries "Where the *$%^ is that other sock?" and "Does anyone have a *&%$ing hair tie?"

The thing that really makes me think this is probably a government conspiracy to drive all of us long haired chicks with bangs nuts is that when you don't need a bobby pin you find one in your sock drawer, in the fridge, on the stoop. Hell, you can probably find one or two tucked away in your hair, courtesy of the Bobby Pin Phantom.

I just pray that someone finds out why this is happening so that one day, yes one day, my children's children may be able to securely fasten their hair without having to make weekly runs to CVS.

caution: you and the moving walkway are about to end

What is it about the moving walkway in airports that makes people act like they've never used those two long stick-like things protruding from their pelvis?

The name of this contraption alone suggests that on it one may want to, oh I don't know, walk and/or move. There's a reason its not called the "no really, you go ahead and relax those gams while I do all the work walkway."

I mean come on, some of us have to build two hours of travel time into our schedule to bank on the fact that we'll mistakenly end up at the end of Concourse B when our gate was all the way back at A3.

But I suppose my frustration isn't only with the moose-like creatures who stand there completely oblivious to everything that's going on around them. It's relatively easy to dodge those guys as they tend to be solitary travelers. But throw into the mix those weasels who could turn moving walkway-ing into an olympic sport (but think women's figure skating intense) and you're done.

Might as well make some theatrical gesture and throw yourself over the side railing. Trust me, I've seen it happen and even after a near spinal fracture, that guy STILL got to his gate faster.