Nicknamesies

Nicknames are bizarre. They're rarely ever thought through but rather appear one day on the tongue for no apparent reason and stick from that day forward. It happens regarding humans, furry creatures, babies, automobiles, etc.

I've known since the day I moved in that my labrador roommates' names were Boomer and Scout respectively. Yet somehow, and I'm not even sure when it began, I've taken to calling them Boomsy-pop and Scoutness. It sounds like a throwback band from the eighties, for crying out loud, but one day, there it was, and now forever after, that's what pops into my head when graced with their limpid brown eyes and abnormally large wagging tails. "Boomsy-pop!" "Scoutness!" It's like we were all born with a gene which, about the fifth time we lay eyes on something, causes a random descriptive word to emerge in our thoughts and burst forth in speech. For those of us with unfortunate nicknames from high school, this is a phenomenon with which we are overly familiar. I believe it began with Adam, chilling in the Garden of Eden, when all of the sudden, a small, feathered creature came shooting out of the trees, fluttering its wings in flight and Adam shouted, "Bird!" (or whatever the Hebrew/Aramaic equivalent). It's a good thing I wasn't tasked with naming the creatures roaming the planet, otherwise children the nation over would be learning about Wingednesses and Elepops. What? I think it gives them character.

Brusha Brusha Brusha

I had the pleasure of going to the dentist Monday. I’m pretty sure it’s been about 7 years since my last visit. That’s a lot of plaque and tartar, so much so that it felt like the hygienist was using an ice pick on my teeth to scrape off all the build up. I had no idea I had such a dhur-tee mouth. Suppose I need to start chewing more Orbit. I never minded the dentist as a kid since it was another excuse to get out of school and I was one of those wonder children who never got cavities. I loved having someone else brush my teeth for me and then hand me a sticker and a free toothbrush like I’d done them a favor.

This time, however, it was rather uncomfortable as she poked and prodded my gums with her sharp metal implement, and, as expected, when I spit into the whirring paper cone, my saliva was tinged with pink. “Your gums are really inflamed.” No kidding. Which is why they’re throbbing in pain right now. Thank you. I was also gifted with a take home image of how my bottom two wisdom teeth are basically taking a nap on my jawbone. Doctor’s diagnosis? Rip ‘em out. Oh, and while we’re back there, we should take the top two as well since they’ll no longer have an antagonist. What is this, a novel? Who cares? Why are you just willy-nilly suggesting that I get all my teeth ripped out? Obviously, although the black and white proof of my X-ray is a little hard to ignore, I’m a bit skeptical when dentists just throw around recommendations for what to me sounds like no good reason.

Since my diagnosis, several of my friends have felt the need to share their own horror stories regarding wisdom teeth removal. I love how it usually starts with “Oh well then I shouldn’t tell you what happened to me,” and then they proceed to do just that. Thanks friends. Thanks for the encouragement and putting my mind at ease. During one recounting I had my hands over my mouth as my eyes bulged out in horror. Needless to say, I am NOT looking forward to this experience. There had better be Wendy’s chocolate Frostys in abundance for the days after.