LMNT's approach to wooing would be suitors

Internets, have I gone off the deep end? I need some affirmation from you (or confirmation, I suppose, if I have indeed gone off said deep end).

As I told you yesterday, I've stepped back into the realm of Internet Dating (I really like imagining you just read that in your mind with a big booming announcer voice... I can still hear it echoing). Every time I enter this territory, I feel like I do so with such gusto, well, let's face it that's kind of how I do life. I believe that it's important to be me and get that out there, like a giant billboard that screams, "HEY, WORLD! IT'S LMNT. LOVE ME. NOW!" Sometimes I wonder if the billboard approach is a little much, like maybe what's needed is the tiny little warning on your coffee cup that subtly reminds you, "The beverage you are about to enjoy might be hot."

Yeah, maybe subtlety works, but come on. You know me, subtle is not really my thing. If it were up to me, disposable coffee cups would be imprinted with the following statement, "Hey, idiot. This overpriced mochaccinodeleche you just purchased is burn-your-tongue hot. Don't be fooled by the foam. Consider yourself warned. Oh and you can't sue us now. Neener neener." Because even if I were trying to be subtle with the first statement, "the beverage you're about to enjoy, la di da," what I'm really thinking is that second statement, "neener neener." So why waste any one's time, right? Right. So, billboard it is.

Only when you go all billboardy on your dating profile, you are taking HUGE risks. Risk number one: you scare people away. Some may argue that the right person won't be scared off, but first impressions are everything here and it's a game of numbers. In order to play the odds I need more than one person to not be turned off by the crazy I'm broadcasting. Risk number two: crazy attracts crazy. I don't really want a billboardy person myself--let's face it, too many billboards might clutter this freeway of love; I don't need competition. I just want someone who is intrigued by my billboard and wants to learn more--kind of like how I feel when I drive by the Abercrombie & Fitch boys on the side of the building on 4th Ave in the south end of downtown Seattle. You Seattlites know the one. First you're like, "Ho hum, billboard." And then you're like, "Whoa! Hello, billboard! Can you even put pictures like that on billboards? And I don't see any Abercrombie & Fitch clothing on there. Come to think of it, I don't see any clothing on there." And then you're like, "Psst, billboard, I need to see more than what you're showing me. Agh! Eyes on the road."

Wait. No. I'm not talking about naked Abercrombie & Fitch models. It's not really like that billboard at all. I mean it is, but it isn't. I'm not talking about putting scantily clad pictures of me on the Internets and exposing my flesh in order to make people want to get to know me--it has NOT come to down to that, yet. What I'm talking about is exposing my dorkiness as my hook. Enough with the similes and metaphors. Here's the deal: I put a slew of pictures on the site to try visually create the story of me, and then when I went in to caption them I had a stroke of genius (or madness) to write each caption as if it were a fascinating part of the story. So gather round little Internets and I'll read you the tale I like to call, "The Day LMNT Used Children's Literature to Snag Herself a Fellow."
Once upon a time there was a girl named LMNT.

Sometimes she has long hair...

... and sometimes she wears hats.

Sometimes she does crazy things like guest grounds keeping at Safeco Field (read: smile and hold the shovel)...

... or running Marathons like this one in Vancouver, BC in 2006. She sure makes it look fun, doesn't she?

LMNT likes wigs, stage makeup, and rocking on (or hooking 'em horns?).

She thinks margaritas in paradise are grand. Zihuatenejo works for her (as do infinity pools).

She looks forward to the day when she meets her match and they live happily ever after. The End.

There you have it, Internets, my billboard. I was particularly proud of the last picture and caption and how it really ties the whole fairy tale together with a nice little bow--sigh, some day my prince will come. And in the meanwhile, hopefully someone or sometwo or somemany good ones want to get in on that kind of crazy/pure creative genius--as I continually and consistently demonstrate, the line between the two is very very blurry.


Bring on the small talk and courtesy chuckles

Dearest Internets, this weekend I bit the bullet and I'm dating you again. I'm throwing my hat back in the ring and resubscribing to a dating website. Lucky you, because we all know there will be plenty-o-stories coming out of this adventure.

However, this time it's going to be different. I've spent the past few months doing some really good work on me--getting crystal clear on what my heart truly desires way deep down there. In the past when I've dated the Internet, I've been an equal opportunity dater, maybe even a bleeding heart dater. But this time, none of my time will be spent on those who aren't simpatico with what's going on deep down in my heart, or on those who can't complement my already full and rich life and add to that, or those who I just keep around because they are like the sad little puppy that I hesitate to turn away.

Who knows what will happen. I'm keeping my mind open--to a point. I'm just ready to have some fun, put some good energy out there and see what comes back. One, two, three. Here we go, again.


Uncomfortably Numb

Twice. Twice today I've been injected with Novocaine. And neither one of those times have I actually had real dental work done. And, that might not be the fault of the official dentist of the blankity blankhawks. As it turns out, Internets, it might be me.

On my first trip to the dentist today, first I was told that the factory that makes the porcelain for the crown I had has reported that the cement used to attach it to the tooth doesn't always adhere well and there have been reports of them falling off, then I was told that she couldn't affix my crown because my gums were too puffy and bleeding. Actually, there was something really weird going on with my gums, they were covered in white bumps. She even showed me in a mirror--definitely weird, definitely white bumps.

Here's how that visit went down. She asked me sternly, "When did this crown fall off."

I responded, "Friday."

"Are you sure it fell off on Friday?"

"Yes," I said, even though it actually fell off on Thursday night.

"And how did it fall off?"

"I was chewing gum," I said, even though it actually came out when I was devouring a hot tamale.

INTERNETS?! Why did I feel the need to tell not just one, but two lies to the dentist? I don't know, but that was my initial story and I'll be damned if I wasn't going to stick to it.

One more time she asked, "Are you sure?" Persistent dentist, that one.

"Yes, I'm sure," ridiculously stubborn patient for really no good reason, this one.

Okay, so I told a little fib--or two--to the dentist, but as it turns out, that didn't matter at all, but the Commish would have skewered me for not coming clean to you, so there you have it. I lied. And je ne regrette rien.

As I reclined there, silently saying my Hail Mary and Our Father as penance for the pair of sins I had just committed, she informed me of my fate: she was going to shoot me up with Novocaine to try and stop the bleeding and affix my crown. Only the bleeding didn't stop, because, hello?
Weird gums covered in white bumps. So there I am, laden with guilt for lying, freaking out that something bad was happening in my mouth, and starting to lose feeling in my face. I kept taking deep breaths to try and keep myself as calm as I could when I g0t hit with another whammy. She's going to need me to come back later in the afternoon, fill me up with even more Novocaine, cut the gum away, cauterize it, and then affix the crown. I'm sorry, did you just say CUT THE GUM AWAY AND CAUTERIZE IT? Oh, you did? Oh, okay.

I head back to work trying to play down the fact that she and her team of hygienists are basically going to have a civil-war era reenactment in my mouth, wherein I'm given a shot of whiskey and a stick to bite on as they burn the open wound to stop the bleeding. You can imagine my excitement to head back for that second appointment. Trying to occupy my mind during the three hours between appointments was difficult. Work was not distracting enough to keep me from going worst-case scenario, so of course I went there. It must be cancer.

Thankfully, both AP and Coach A reassured me that I didn't have cancer--I didn't even have to tell AP that I thought I had cancer, I must have had the "I hate to tell you this, friend, but I'm pretty sure I have cancer" look on my face, because before I said anything she said, "you don't have cancer!"

And sure enough, I don't (at least I don't think so). It's not cancer, it's the shingles! The shingles is definitely better than the cancer. I'll take the shingles. But, awh man, I thought I had beaten the shingles. I feel great, but apparently, the shingles have overtaken my mouth. And by overtaken my mouth I mean the gums in the very back of the mouth have become so inflamed and have grown so much, they have grown over half of my crownless tooth. Gah.

How do I know it's the shingles. Well, I get to my second appointment (on the verge of tears because are they really going to CUT MY GUM AWAY AND CAUTERIZE IT?), and the hygienist injects me with a high dose of Novocaine and then goes to town on cleaning out the gum. She's really hesitant to cut it away, and I am thanking every known deity because, we don't want to cut that gum, right? So I begin yammering on about all the things I can think about, like, my jaw hurt a couple weeks ago when I was on vacation, but then it went away and I didn't think anything more of it, maybe that's related? And that I swear the crown fell off on Friday (liar!) even though it looks like the gum has been growing out of control for a few months now. And how this has been such a crazy month--especially for the right side of my body. I mean it's like the right side of my body hates me. First the shingles and now this--

"Wait a minute. I know you're whole face is numb, and you have a couple of cotton wads jammed in there, too, but did you just say shingles?"

"Uh, yeah, I had shingles three weeks ago."

Before I knew it, "doctor" was at my station, chastising me, "Why didn't you say that earlier? I was prying to get any information out of you and you didn't say anything about shingles."

Well, yeah, because I'm awesome and I got over the shingles in record time, so how could that have anything to do with the crown that fell out of my mouth last Friday when I was chewing gum? Only, apparently I didn't (no, I didn't chew gum on Friday and I didn't get over the shingles). Because the weird gums covered in white bumps? Yeah, shingle blisters. In. My. Mouth. ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!

So today there was no operating. No cauterizing. No crown replacement (but there were several rounds of "Me and My Llama" playing in my brain). Instead I have to try and treat this new and oh-so-awesome "rash" (the one IN THE BACK OF MY MOUTH), and then come back in a few weeks and see if we can do this whole thing over again (minus the operating and the cauterizing).

Note to self: Shingles in the mouth definitely NOT making the the list of "Top 10 Hottest Things About The Shingles."


Now I can truly empathize with Vanessa Williams

I have no choice. The time has come and nothing can make me change my mind. I am breaking up with my dentist. Yes, the official dentist of the blankity blankhawks, who is the diva of all things molar, and who told me I have a low root-to-gum ratio which requires me to visit the office every four months. Yes, the very same dentist who left a wooden shim in my mouth.

The other day I was standing in an eternal line at the grocery store when I noticed a whole display of hot tamales (my favorite candy) on sale for a dollar a box. How could anyone say no to that? Don't ask me, because clearly I am not that person. I fell victim to the candy's excellent product placement and even better price point and bought myself a box. When I got back to my car, I had a fleeting thought of not tearing open the box immediately and waiting until I got home to enjoy my treat, but then I thought better of it and tore open the box immediately. Exercising some self-control, I poured a couple into my hand, even though my temptation was to just pour the whole box into my mouth. As I bit down on the first one, something strange happened: it pulled out a tooth. At least it seemed like a tooth. Suddenly there was a gaping hole in my grin, and something hard in my tamale.

Fortunately, it wasn't really a tooth, but it was a crown. The crown "doctor" had put in just a few short months ago. Some people might say, "LMNT, you're supposed to stay away from things like gum and sticky candies when you have dental work," but to those people I say, "pffffffffft." Fifteen years ago I had a crown installed from a dentist who is not the official dentist of the blankity blankhawsk. That's fifteen years of hot tamale eating and intermittent gum chewing, and never once has that puppy budged. But this new crown? Not so much. I've been stripped of my crown and I'm not blaming the tamale, or my affinity for chewy sugary treats; I'm blaming the dentist. But before I break up with her, I'm going to make sure she fixes this for free. And then I'm breaking up with her. Will I storm out of the office slamming the door in a righteous huff? Probably not, but I will be happy to tell her, "it's not me, it's you."