Friday Evening, 10:40 PM

Battlestar Galactica is over. I missed last week’s episode because I was giving a reading in Washington, DC. I thought I saw something on the screen, a brief glimpse of something that said “Season Finale.” Hubby said it was for the Doctor Who show that precedes Battlestar. But now I think this WAS the finale, and there won’t be another show until over a month from now, and things are at a dreadful pass again— how I love to be subjected to the thrill of such dreadful passes– because the Cylons and the humans are in a standoff on the Algae Planet over the Eye of Jupiter, and Commander Adama seems to be losing his mind because he’s about to press the “Nuke ’em” switch even though his son and Starbuck and Chief and Anders are stuck on algae planet …

Oh well, to be continued.

Parvati kicked off Survivor: Cook Islands last night. Good. Though it was amusing to watch her decide just how she was going to get ahead in the game– by slipping into a hot tub naked and flirting with Ozzie. This is how Cleopatra did it, oh eons and eons ago. And men and women have not changed one bit.

But it did not help her at all.

Come to think of it, Cleopatra offed herself with a snake.

Oh well.

Tonight hubby comes to where I am reading peacefully with a book (Paradise Alley, about 19th century New York, apparently there were roving bands of wild pigs attacking street urchins. Hard to imagine.), trying to forget that my whole mouth is one big massive ache (another four hours in the dentist’s office this afternoon). Hubby wants to know why the remote is not working.

I don’t know why it is, but the remotes always work fine with me, and then when they get into hubby’s hot little hands, all hell breaks loose and they never work. He is an engineer, with a degree in Materials Science from Stanford.

But I have learned how to dig holes for trees with a shovel taller than I am; and how to change toilet bowls armed with just a diagram and a determination to make it work; and how to paint doors and window frames because I did not want to pay someone a thousand dollars to do it for me; and how to lay down tile– and I am the one with the impractical major, Creative Writing.

I was three hours in the dentist’s chair this afternoon, and I have to tell ya– if at all possible, the best time to schedule major dental work is close to Christmas. Because you can listen to cheery Christmas music. “The Twelve Days of Christmas” came over the sound system just as dentist started to probe tender spot in my lower jaw, and it wasn’t so bad. By the time the song got to “On the twelfth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me—“, I had actually fallen asleep, then choked on the water spout and sat bolt upright and gave the dentist a scare. It took her a few minutes to calm down enough to resume, me reassuring her that I wouldn’t doze off again.

“Well,” she said after a bit. “It’s all right. You can doze. It would be different if I were to doze– ha ha ha!”

And I said, “Ha ha ha ha,” back, but I didn’t think her joke was very funny.

She sent me off home with a bag full of wicked looking gizmos– sharp pointy implements I’m supposed to apply to my teeth and gums so that I can avoid further excavation work. Do I look like I have an hour to spend cleaning my teeth every morning and night? Can’t I just go back to the dentist’s office in another six months and she can dredge up whatever? Knew better than to pipe up with such a stupid sentiment. Left dentist’s office with chipper attitude, promised her I would faithfully do as she instructed. On the way home, stopped by McWhorter’s and bought a little notebook so that I could write down everything she told me about Tooth # 19 and Tooth # 31. Traffic horrible. But son arrives tomorrow.

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