Nebulous Mooch

Tiki Kiki Painted Lady died on October 23, 2006. She lived a quiet life. She enjoyed hunting, eating, sitting in the corner of her terrarium, sitting beneath a large piece of bark, and sinking her fangs into anything that was placed in front of her.

The first time I met Tiki Kiki, she was hunting grasshoppers named after political figures–Donald Rumsfeld, Condoleezza Rice, etc.. She was not as interested in politics as she was the sport of the hunt. Sometimes she didn’t even consume her prey, but kept their bodies as trophies.

Her love for the kill was taken to extremes when she killed and consumed her mate, Dada. I never met Dada, but I hear that he didn’t deserve to be eaten. Needless to say, Tiki Kiki was survived by no relatives. She had no offspring, if she did she might have eaten them too.

I remember the time I transported Tiki Kiki in my car to our new home. She chose this time to demonstrate her ability to walk up the glass walls of her terrarium–previously I didn’t know she could do that. At every red light, I twisted around to check on her in the back. The last thing I needed was for her to get loose in my car.

Tiki Kiki enjoyed a meal of crickets and a drink of possibly tainted water before shrivelling up beneath a piece of bark and taking her final breaths. While there were initial suspicions of foul play, those have been put to rest.

Yesterday morning I went to the dentist to get my teeth cleaned. I always have a good attitude when I arrive at the dentist’s office, but a few minutes after sitting in the dental chair everything changes. My oral hygiene is very good. At least, I think it’s good. The problem is that the dental hygienist never agrees with me.

The hygienist busied herself around getting her instruments together while she made small talk with me about my job and such. She seemed nice enough, until she stuck that metal hook in my mouth. As she poked my gums she said, “So you don’t get around to flossing very much, huh?”

I floss everyday, and brush after every meal. I would’ve told her that if she didn’t have that hook in my mouth at the time she asked the question. I could only grunt in response.

“I can tell because your gums are bleeding,” she continued scraping my teeth all the while. “I bet you see a lot of bleeding when you brush.”

I never see bleeding when I brush. I’m sure her gums would bleed too if I poked them repeatedly with a sharp object. I grunted again.

“You should consider buying an electric toothbrush from the front. They really help clean up that soft plaque.”

She’s supposed to push those electric toothbrushes because they cost $109. I grunted and tried to shake my head.

My previous dentist used to have me rinse with a purple liquid that was supposed to stick to the plaque in my mouth, to let me know where I don’t brush well enough. When I rinsed, all of my teeth would be purple like I never brushed at all. Then I would get a lecture about careful brushing. If I didn’t brush more carefully they would have to give me a deep cleaning, which is, of course, twice as much as a regular cleaning. I thought of it as a kind of parlor trick. I bet the purple dye stuck to everyone’s teeth. It’s all such a scam.

When the hygienist was done cleaning my teeth, my gums were swollen and hurt. They hurt for the rest of the day and when I brushed my teeth they bled. I complained bitterly about the experience for the rest of the day. I think I even told my husband at one point that I wanted to go back to the office and punch her in the face. I would never do anything like that of course.

My husband loves going to the dentist. Last night he told me that he feels so sorry that I don’t love it too. “Maybe you’re just extra sensitive,” he suggested.

“I don’t think that I am, Mr. Dentist Pants,” I said. I think that the dentist’s office is a torture chamber. Some people just enjoy torture.

I’ve decided that watching television is a big waste of time and I’m not going to do it anymore. I’m just going to watch one last episode of Lost tonight and after that I’m through. I’m quitting cold turkey. Where did that phrase come from? What do turkeys have to do with quitting and why do they have to be cold?

On the nights I apartment run, I’m going to watch television because it makes the time go by so much faster. I don’t know if I could successfully do a twenty minute apartment run if the television wasn’t on. The whole time I’d have to look at the timer, and you know what that does to time–makes it drag. So I’ll only watch television every other day because that’s when I run.

I’m going to keep watching news programs because news doesn’t count as television watching. We all need to be informed. I listen to NPR during the day to get most of my news, but seeing pictures as I listen helps me process it better.

So that’s it. I’m giving up television cold turkey, except for on apartment running days and watching the news. I’ve already started watching Amazing Race this season so I need to finish the season to see who wins, but other than that I’m not going to watch any television at all.

A couple of weeks ago my husband had the opportunity to audition for a recording session. The guy came to our apartment for the audition, so I had the opportunity to hide in the bedroom and listen to the goings on.

I didn’t see the guy because my stepson and I scurried to our bedrooms like roaches as soon as his car pulled up. If I remember correctly, his name was Rob. According to my husband, Rob was a straggly man with a beaten up car that looked like he hadn’t bathed in weeks. He brought his guitar and amp with him so they could play together. He was making a blues album. I should say CD because they don’t make albums anymore, but album sounds so much better to me. You know what I mean? I write album, but when you read it, you think CD. Okay?

Anyway, this is what I overheard and it was all very interesting–dubious but interesting. Rob was from the other coast of Florida but came over here to record his album because their are no decent recording studios on the east coast. He had four days booked in the most expensive studio in the area. Maybe he had money. Some people with money like to dress down. Maybe he was planning on recording and running without paying the musicians he hired. I mean come on now, there must be good recording studios on the east coast of Florida.

The first problem was that Rob couldn’t tune his guitar. When this became apparent, my husband said he was thinking, “Oh no! What can I do to get out of this?”

My husband played an E repeatedly on the piano and Rob said, “Now play an E.” So my husband played the E again for him. Finally, after he was as tuned up as he was going to get, he said, “Play a B blues progression.”

My husband asked, “What feel?”

“You know, a B blues progression,” Rob said.

“Okay but what kind of tempo do you want?” my husband asked.

Then Rob did the strangest thing. To demonstrate the tempo it sounded like he just vaguely rubbed the strings. I could hear the sound of strings being scratched or something, but no pulse. So my husband started playing and Rob launched into a solo that, surprisingly, sounded pretty good.

“Now lets do something with a different feel,” Rob said. Again he vaguely rubbed the strings to demonstrate the kind of feel he wanted. I wondered where he had learned this technique and came to the conclusion that he must have made it up. My husband started playing a bass line and Rob didn’t play anything. He just sat there, watching him play. “Do you listen to any John Lee Hooker?”

“No,” my husband answered.

“This isn’t going to work out,” Rob said, and he packed up his stuff and left. Everyone in the house exhaled when he walked out of the house.

My stepson and I emerged from our rooms and tried to get a full report of what had happened. “I felt like he was going to kill me,” my husband said. “I was waiting for him to put down his guitar and start punching me in the face over and over. I’m glad he left.”

We were all glad he left. We went back to our normal lives–talking about politics, writing about magic boxes and recording accordions–and tried to forget about Rob.