Monday, July 27, 2009
When most people get their wisdom teeth taken out they are around the age, oh, sixteen. To rival my "slow development" in other areas, I got mine taken out yesterday at the ripe age of twenty-four.
For weeks I thought of this as a no biggie deal, as I have had fourteen cavities and so going to the dentist and getting gassed and Novocained has been a yearly regularity.
My boss , however, referred to getting my bottom left tooth pulled as "oral surgery". The word "surgery" just sounds so serious and dangerous, even deadly. This wisdom tooth ordeal was quickly becoming something to perspire about. My mother called and told me to call my Minnesota dentist to talk about the side effects of such a procedure , something about jaw nerve damage (of course the first thing I thought of was how this would effect my lovemaking skills before my speech skills) . Paige let me know that the chances of me not remembering anything right after this surgery were pretty good. My other roomie told me she had gone home in a WHEELCHAIR.
The day of my surgery I was nervous to say the least. I was told to eat a big breakfast beforehand, and since I couldn't remember the last time I had had breakfast I just at a large bag of Cheetos. When I arrived at 34Th Street Dental I told my surgeon, Dr. Marty Markowitz, my concerns, and that it would be best to up the nitric oxide in my laughing gas. He told me that whoever made me scared about getting my wisdom teeth pulled were not my friends. I told him that I therefore had no more friends. Wamp wamp wah.
After surgery, were I performed, according to Marty, "beautifully" (I feel like "beautiful" performers would be synchronized swimmers or strippers, not young ladies who just lay nicely with their mouths open), I was a little drugged and contemplated a quickie Forever 21 run, but decided to get ice cream and go home. I got the the B train where I sat next to a girl reading Lauren Conrad's L.A. Candy. This girl was also wearing a velour track jacket. In pink. In July. Just saying. ..
So about 8 hours after my surgery, Paige and I both ate Thai food and ice cream, I took my painkillers with gusto, all while watching E!News clips of New Moon and The Real World Cancun simultaneously. This is after we watched the old 90210 on Soap Net where Jenny Garth's AIDS friend looked like our creative writing professor from college.
I may have a lost a tooth and some blood, but now, for some reason (possibly my "beautiful performance"), feel more prepared to go through childbirth, and at the very least, give some "so you are getting your wisdom tooth pulled" words of wisdom.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Let's get one thing straight, straightaway: the title of this blog is arguably incorrect. We are not “poor”, we just don't have the cash flow to treat ourselves to a latte everyday (they add up, and it's not like they are steaming milk and cocaine, why $5.94? What gives?).
We are hardly fabulous. Sometimes we speak in faux French/British accents, which is only faux fabulous. Or sometimes we treat our roommates to a round of overpriced Pisco Sours, which is fabulous, and also risky because we are drinking raw eggs. Sometimes we order in and this nice gentleman who should, and probably does, hate us brings steaming piles of Pad Thai to our door, which is, trust us, fabulous. So some aspects of our lives are fabulous, but only the type of fabulousness one can afford with sub-$1000 paychecks, and after New York City rent.
By dirt we mean dirty, because so many dirty things/people/places/hair/martinis are involved in our lives. Our personal favorite is a Craigslist ad that read "FREE: dirty white microwave". This dirty white microwave is behind an extraordinary amount of laughter and personal inspiration. Who knew?
The living part of the blog's title obviously doesn't apply on Fridays and Saturdays between the hours of 11:30 p.m.- about 3 p.m. the next day. This is because the state of inebriation/comatose we can usually be found in does not necessarily qualify as living. It is dirty and fabulous and so very age-appropriate, but it ain't "living". You know? You know.
So you may sweetly ask, "Why then, why? Why do you think can write a guide to...well...living fabulously dirt poor?"
The answer is that we do not have all the answers, just simply a good amount of genuine insight that you may or may not find useful. Also we have been told that we are funny. Or, wait, maybe that was us telling each other that the other one is funny, while we are alone, drunk, sharing Paige's bed together at night, and re-hashing the days events. We will let you decide if we are funny then.
So this is blogging about post-college, pre-living-with-a-man-for-the-rest-of-your-life-until-he's-dead weekly bit of tidbits. That's it.
This is for you who just wrote your last graduation "Thank You" that was for a Precious Moment wearing a cap and gown (they now make brunette Precious Moment's, in case you were curious). This is for those of you living in your high school bedroom eating your mother's goulash for dinner every night but wishing you weren't, or would rather be drinking alone, but alone in your own place. This is for you who can't figure out why it never seems to work with Affliction shirt-wearing men. This is for you who would give up your first and second born children to have James Franco wink at you.
We can't promise the advice we give to lead to any sort of great success, or a six pack, or a rich and interesting bedtime buddy, or even a living room furniture arrangement that ensures Feng-Shui. This is just how we choose to spend our time and money, treat our boyfriends and more importantly girlfriends, respect our elders, NOT eat our feelings, and cherish the joy's of life before you get fat (pregnant) and end up cherishing your babies (stretch mark-givers).
While in the process of writing this little beauty, we, despite watching Millionaire Matchmaker instead of CNN, couldn't help but to influenced by what was happening around us. Although we probably aren't able to but the word DOW into a sentence without fumbling a little, we saw that even Botox couldn't keep the anchorwomen from looking concerned, and thus we knew we were in trouble.
All of our family members, coworkers, and ex-lovers were talking about the economy, and how they are personally affected by it. Holly’s mom didn't get a new car last year, Paige’s family vacations turned stay-cations and apparently P. Diddy sold his jet plane. As for us, business was slow, and we got sick of reading blogs about fashion shows being cancelled, and looking at the Barney's sale online that we still couldn't afford. So we decided to do what we actually got college diplomas for: write about it.
The female-post grad, pre-preggers American: With now-fat Mischa Barton aside, we have generally firm asses, we have wrinkle-free foreheads, we don't have post-babe stretch marks, mortgages, or husbands. Not to mention we are living at a time when our first-lady wears J.Crew sweaters (and yes, sometimes Lanvin sneakers) and has killer biceps.
Anyways please take everything we say with a grain of salt from our (unlimited) Margarita glasses and understand that we are writing this for YOU, our fab, broke-ass, hilarious, Forever 21-clad, Vogue-reading and cheap-vodka swilling comrades. We hope you find some humor here, maybe some good ideas, and solace in knowing you aren’t alone.
Yours in Dirtiness,
Hollyn and Paige