Thursday, January 11, 2007
I'm Gonna Knock You Out
Damn, family. I'm going through the 7 stages of grief over here with The West Wing. Somebody needs to come over to my house and slap the dvd remote out of my hand. I am now pushing up on season 5, and I have veered wildly from hysteria to denial to rage (I didn't say that I was doing the seven stages in order; nor did I say that my seven stages corresponded to those commonly accepted as part of the grieving process. For instance, I'm pretty sure that I spent a little time in both a red wine and a rolling skating stage. Not sure what that means) and I can not stop renting these dvds. For anyone paying attention, the dream team currently involves these players:
1. Dule Hill (Charlie Young). That chick on the right is not Athena, who is DEAD TO ME, by the way.
2. Janel Moloney (Donna Moss). I didn't give one half of a crap about this character before season 3. But I gotta give her some love, because I do not know how she managed to not punch Josh Lyman right in his mouth on a daily basis.
3. Richard Schiff (Toby Ziegler). I've heard people say that he looks like a hot rabbi. Ok, tell me that description ain't funny. Toby is my ace boon dude! At some point between seasons 2 and 3. Aaron Sorkin must have started burning that good booger sugar, because Toby started smiling and cracking wise a lot more. Probably because he and his ex-wife started doing it again. She is now pregnant with twins.
4. Martin Fucking Sheen (Jed Bartlet). Sometimes his dentures slip a little bit, and he looks like a deranged mouse. Congratulations, President Bartlet! You have moved up in the rankings, and have outpaced your wife, the lovely Abigail "I was 34 When I Played A High School Senior in Grease" Bartlet!
You'll notice that Allison Janney got bumped from the rankings. Sorry, C.J. I still like you, but I had to pull your card when you started to cry me a river about how your dad never got promoted because "there was always some unqualified black woman around..." I realize that there are Democrats of all stripes and bents, and I can manage to have a civil discussion with almost all of them, but someone with such a colosally self-serving understanding of affirmative action gets no love. The only reason I'm not writing off the show as a whole is because ol' Jed schooled another character on precisely this issue: to wit, there is a difference between affirmative action and quotas.
So anyway, I was supposed to be writing this post through a Vicodin haze, but I was not able to get my wisdom teeth yanked yesterday. They give you this information sheet before you come to your appointment that tells you not to eat after 7 in the morning if you have an afternoon surgery scheduled, but I had a handful of dry Cheerios at 10 am. I get sick if my blood sugar gets too low! So they wouldn't put me under. Apparently, your digestive tract has to have been empty for 6 hours before it's safe to knock someone out (if you won't be inserting a breathing tube, that is). Whatever. I'm having the work done next month now. But here's the thing, kids: this procedure is turning out to be a lot more involved than I had originally suspected.
You know that you got problems when your doctor/dentist calls in someone to consult on a diagnosis or course of treatment. Well, for my last two dental visits I've had 3-4 people looking in my mouth at once. Never a good sign. The oral surgeon who was going to work on me yesterday had to inform me of some risks associated with the removal of my jacked up wisdom teeth, with the absolutely stunning revelation that, during the removal of my lower right wisdom tooth, they were almost certainly going to break my jaw. Did you catch that? That's how messed up this shit is -- they aren't talking about "if" they break my jaw, they are talking about what they are going to do when it happens. It looks like I should be in some kind of Glass Jaw Hall of Fame, because two people I spoke to yesterday took pains to inform me that the bone on the right side of my jaw is "paper thin." Let me tell you at what point during the consultation when I really started to freak out, though: when I had to start processing the information on permanent nerve damage and a fucking titanium plate in my face. Apparently I've got some kind of perfect storm of bad nerve placement and bad tooth placement and bad motherfucking luck.