Identity Crisis

In this portion of Stillie's diary, she's going to make fun of yet another student and, most probably, real adult regular people too. She's going to talk smack about others in an attempt to make herself feel better about her life. Let's see if it works!

There was this kid put out of the classroom next to me today, and I almost tripped over my feet because I was staring at him, trying to figure out what the HELL was going on with this kid.

Let me first say that I am so sick of these thug-ass pieces of shit sagging skinny jeans and wearing studded belts with Jordans and an Ecko Unlimited t-shirt. But this...this was weird.

Let's go over this one, top to bottom.

For starters, this douche-in-training was sporting a fauxhawk, just like this guy's. Just look at his smugness.

I absolutely hate this atrocity of the scalp. I don't give a shit how hot you are or how many promises of a big dick you make, there is no amount of words that can right the wrong of a fauxhawk. I mean, really. Are you hardcore, or not? If you use any kind of wax in your hair to push your hair up into a nipple, then no...you are most certainly NOT.

Even I had the balls to SHAVE my head into a mohawk. For Christ's sake...they're men! I'm not. GRAB A RAZOR. Let me guess...you also like My Chemical Romance and Good Charlotte and get all your 'underground gear' at Hot Topic, right?! *gags*

Next in line on the slow descent downhill, we come across a classic Affliction t-shirt. This is almost as bad as seeing some fat-ass drunk driving around in his 1996 Chevy Silverado with a "Tap-Out" sticker on the back window. What I really want to know is how this Title I, Free & Reduced Lunch kid decided that buying a $50 t-shirt was a good use of what was probably my tax dollars anyway, considering most of them are on welfare.

Yeah, your Affliction is bad judgment and shitty fashion sense and an even worse nose for value...

So, now he's a double-douche because of the fauxhawk and UFC-endorsed, overpriced tee. What else can we see here?

Seeing as how we're in the ghetto, there is NO WAY we could get away without him throwing his little gang-banger spin on this. The workpant of choice for all the non-working Cholos in the 'hood: sagging Dickies!

Black or tan ONLY, otherwise you just look like a UPS driver...

If I could have that split-screen thing like they did on...what was it...Sesame Street? "One of these things is not like the other...one of these things just isn't the same..." or whatever the fuck...that's what I'd do here. Because in the realm of douchiness, Dickies don't factor in. Unless, I guess, you're a Cholo Douche. The worst part: I actually liked Dickies, until I saw what our little gangstas did to them

And, to round off the Identity Crisis Fashion Show, we have the FOOTWEAR CATEGORY!

 

 And yes, I actually liked these too. Oops. Another thing ruined by the shitasses at my school. Along with, like, every NAME I've ever wanted for a child of my own - or even a DOG.

Yes. Uber-Preppy Ralph Lauren Polo duck boots. Nothing says octagon fighting like a pair of Ralph Lauren boots! You'll look good at your arraignment for running a train on a Chola who wanted to be sexed in when you're sporting your Polo duck boots!

I should probably stop while I'm behind. I'm sure I'm offending someone, somewhere, and they're getting all ruffled because some totally anonymous woman on the Internet with a blog that only 3 people read said something derogatory about Hot Topic. Or Good Charlotte. Or Cholos.

Today, when I left work, there was a white guy walking down the street wearing tan Dickies, sagging, of course, with a wifebeater on, walking a bulldog on a chain and carrying a fucking live chicken in the other arm. Your guess is as good as mine, as it was truly a chicken and not a rooster. You can't really cockfight with a chicken.

I have quite a bit more stupidity from my job today, but I just don't have the energy to post it. I don't really want to relive it, seeing as how it was so painful the first time around...

Why I'm Going to Be Toofless

(Holy crap - I have another new follower! I'm up to 2 now! Thank you ladies, both of you, for the validation! Because, like, I'm pathetic in that way.)

Yesterday, I tried out a new dentist. I haven't seen one since the week before I got married. I know, I know, that's not only disgusting, but pretty fucking sad, all at the same time. But, y'all know my financial situation, and until now, there was just no way.

Well, apparently, I still am not going to get clean teeth.

The office looked way too modern and expensive but, like a fool, I thought: "Well, they take my insurance, so how expensive can it be? My co-pay's the same no matter which office I use." Ha, ha, you silly little fool!

X-rays were taken, tongue studs and 15-bajillion tiny hoop earrings were removed. Toofes were poked at by long-handled pokey things. Many grunts and "mmmm-hmmm"s were heard by hygienist. I got to see my whole effing mouth in panorama on a Dell flat-screen above my head in the faux-suede chair.

And then, I got an estimate for the cleaning.

It was over $1300. For MY out-of-pocket costs. The cleaning itself was only about $20 for each row of teeth which, somehow, they factored out at 4.

So, where does the rest come in, you ask? Well, that would have to be the $300 per 'row of teeth' they charge for some cockamamie laser bacteria reduction bullshit. Now, I don't know about you, but I know that all the years I've ever had my teeth cleaned, if I had waited a little bit too long and needed a deep cleaning and the dentist was worried about bacteria, he would write me a script for antibiotics about a week ahead of the procedure. Then, *BAM*, no illness. Besides, I'm already living with that shit in my mouth now, and they suck most of it out when they scrape it off! So, seriously. WTF?

When they gave that to me, I literally laughed out loud, told them there was no way in Hell that this estimate was do-able for me and that it was time for me to leave. They told me to wait, that they have financial experts available to help me make some decisions.

Okay. Fine. Send in the hot dentist so he can figure out what the fuck else is wrong with me, mmm-kay?

So Hot Dentist comes in (love the v-neck scrubs with nakedness underneath, btw), and pokes around some more and informs me that I have two old fillings from adolescence that need to be replaced, and I have two new cavities that need to be filled. Whoo-hoo! So you're, like, what? Going to want one full ovary? Can do. Trust me.

Well, they come back with another estimate, this time adding in the 4 filling information. Guess how much extra THAT added on?

Only $224. Yep. You read that right. A regular cleaning was going to set me back the same amount as if I were going to buy a clean-condition 1991 Geo Storm wagon with high mileage, but the FILLINGS are only going to cost me as much I would save with only 30K miles on said Geo Storm?

So, what they were telling me was that I needed somewhere around $1600 to get my teeth worked on. They also made this into an emergency status type deal where my teeth would likely fall out in the next 48 hours if I didn't cut them a check right that very moment.

At this point, I was beyond tears and starting to get angry. They sensed my volatility and sent in the relief pitcher, a very calming woman with a low voice and a habit of calling me "luv," which is, like, THE most annoying thing on God's green Earth. But still, she made it nearly impossible for me to chop her head off with my sharp, pokey words.

Instead, I plainly told her that if they weren't going to do just the cleaning, without the fancy "lasers," (hee!) then I wasn't going to have them do any work on me at all. I also mentioned that I knew damned well they didn't need my business, but that I would be plenty happy to talk smack about this dentist's office  in SUGAR LAND, TEXAS any time I got a chance, since they were being ridiculously inflexible and refusing to do what the patient wanted, even though millions of offices do it across the country. I guaran-fucking-tee my mom doesn't pay $1300 for her fucking cleanings, and her dentist is awesome. And I know she doesn't let them stick lasers in her mouth.

Here's the part that really pisses me off: I went to a very expensive, private university. I went to that very expensive, private university with this dentist's daughter, Heather. We were in education classes together. I liked her. She was as cute as a bug, smart, funny and, obviously, had nice teeth. I know NOW why the Daddy Dentist (not to be confused with Hot Dentist!) had no problem with his precious darling becoming a scummy old teacher with a pittance of an allowance as a salary: because he's too busy lasering people's gums for fun and profit. He'll always be there to bail her out of financial distress.

Of course, with Heather being as awesome as she is, she probably won a full-ride scholarship to my university, and probably married some fantastic, insanely gorgeous man with equally as gorgeous teeth who makes just oodles and oodles of money and she'd never HAVE to work a day in her life because they're rich, but she does it anyway because she just truly loves kids and helping people. Don't perfect women like that just make you sick?! LOL!

After my near-reaming of the relief pitcher finance lady, I left with my "goodie bag," (are you fucking kidding me?) with toothpaste, floss, and a toothbrush. They were probably saying, "Good luck, bitch...you'll need this shit if you want any hope or prayer at all! LOL!" And I went home. And cried the whole way there.

I called The Boy as soon as I got in the car. He was already at home. When I tried to tell him what had happened, he was short and snippy and wouldn't let me finish my sentences because he kept asking questions that would have been answered if he would just shut the fuck up. But he didn't, and I ended up hanging up on him in a rage.

And called Scott instead.

Oh, like you didn't know.

But it's okay. I've decided he's probably the one I'll end up with. See, he's from deep East Texas, so he's totally used to hot, young people with no teeth. And banjos. And cousins who also double as spouses. So I guess it can't be true love with us, since we're not related, but at least I know he won't cringe at the sight of my inflamed, toothless gums. Yee-haw.

Like Tonight

The clink of the bottle as I slid it back into the sixer case indicated what I had been afraid of: we were out of beer. So he pulled over at the next convenience store and bought another six pack of our lifeblood. If it hadn't been for Shiner Bock, I'm sure we would have starved to death.

He got back in and off we went, into the hazy darkness. I was sitting in the bitch seat and his arm was around me. I looked over at Scott. His face was illuminated by the blue lights on the dash and I could see him squinting just a tad bit to make out the faded yellow lines of the road through the fog. We were headed to the beach, and it was just after midnight.

We drove south from Galveston, down the Blue Water Highway to 18-Mile Beach, almost to Christmas Bay. There was one last turn-off before the toll bridge, but you really had to know it was there. The unmarked road showed itself at the very last possible moment and we had to swing wide to make it, sand kicked up by the truck's tires as we fishtailed a bit.

The headlights played off the fog and the sand, causing the road to have a heavenly aura that seemed to undulate with the wind that swirled between the dunes. Fiddler crabs scattered wildly, dashing sideways left and right, some waving that one gigantic claw in the air.

And then, it seemed like we hit the edge of the world. In a sense, I suppose, we had. The closer we got to the exact line where ocean meets beach, we could begin to make out whitecaps and waves licking the edge of our little stretch of paradise. The sand became flatter, darker, and we turned right as we emerged from the dunes and drove south down the beach.

"How far down do you want to go?" he asked me.

"I don't care. About halfway between the access road and the end of the beach, I guess." I considered the amount of traffic we'd be likely to encounter, which would be next to nothing. It was a weeknight, it was late, and there were no other vehicles or tents on the beach. It was deserted.

"Okay. Then I'll go down here a ways and back up to the water."

The time passed slowly, the dunes creeping by on my right, everything pretty much looking the same to my left: dark. The headlights painted an eerie scene on the landscape as we went along the coast. And, finally, we found our favorite place: a secluded area far away from the last house on the island. We'd been here before.

I yanked off my shoes and immediately threw open the passenger door and jumped out of the truck. The air was a bit colder than I was expecting and I let out a yelp of surprise. It was also significantly more humid than further inland, where we got into the truck, and I knew my hair was beginning to frizz up in way that would rival Gilda Radner's 'do.

The best thing about Galveston Island sand is its texture. It's fine, and ground up into tiny, tiny pieces. When it's wet, it's smooth and hard. When it's dry, it's delicate, airy, and usually lightly-packed. The worst thing about Galveston Island sand (well, okay, the TWO worst things) is that it gets everywhere you can imagine, and, since vehicles are allowed to drive on almost all of our beaches, most of the shells are crushed up. Which also means many of them are merely broken, leaving pointy, sharp, and dangerous shards all over the beach for an unsuspecting, amorous girl to step on in the complete blackness of night.

But, I was lucky this time, because it didn't happen. I did, however, pull down the carefully-pinstriped tailgate of the truck, climb up into the bed, reach through the rear window and grab the old, faded comforter I'd yanked out of the closet as I ran out to meet him. I spread it as best I could, which is a mammoth task when you're fighting the wind, and sat down facing the ocean.

Scott came around the driver's side of the truck with the beer in one hand and his jacket in the other. He handed me the beer over the fender and walked around, vaulting himself up into the truckbed. He sat down beside me and we fell back in unison, faces turned towards the sky. And that's when I noticed it: the moon.

It was a light lemon yellow, full, and dangerously close to the horizon. It's bluish-white glow cast shadows where we could not have noticed until our eyes adjusted to the darkness. The stars were twinkly and bright, obscured only slightly by the low-hanging fog that was steady moving across the beach. I turned my head to face his, and was taken aback all over again by his handsome appearance. His profile was perfect in every way to suit my tastes. Instinctively, he reached over and put his hand on my thigh, turned his head, and opened his eyes.

"It's beautiful out here. Are you cold? I brought my jacket," he offered.

"I'm not cold. I'm perfectly fine." With that, I leaned in to him and gave him a long, deep kiss, as if to punctuate my last statement. And then, I did it again.

"You're getting me hard," he warned, as if that was something that wasn't supposed to happen.

"Good," I breathed, my voice almost a velvet whisper.

"We can't do that here. What if somebody drives by?"

"Who cares? Let them watch. Maybe they shouldn't be looking!"

The look on his face showed me he was considering my proposition. I knew he wasn't going to stop me when I pulled up my shirt, and I was right. He eyed my body hungrily as I began shedding my clothes. But, since he just sat there, he left it up to me to strip him down as well.

It wasn't particularly long, and the truth is that the ridges in the bed of the truck really didn't do much for my spine, but it was passionate and spontaneous and slightly risky; all the makings of a beloved memory. We laid there, hugged up together, cocooned in the comforter. Scott leaned over, burying his nose in my hair. He took a deep whiff and sighed.

"I love you," he whispered. "I love you so much. I want to feel this way forever."

"Me too," I whispered back. My reply may have been lost in the wind.

It would have been idyllic to lay there and fall asleep in each other's arms, naked and tangled in each other, but that wasn't what happened. The mosquitoes were stalking us, the beach patrol or beach people could have come up on us at any moment, so we put our clothes back on.

It was picture-perfect. We walked up and down the beach, hand in hand, beers in our free hands. We chased each other back to the truck for a refill, sat on the tailgate and made plans for the future. I thought life couldn't get any better than that.

Eventually, we drove back to town, went into my house and went to sleep, and tried to enjoy the 3 hours of sleep we got before we had to be at work.