I don't know how you go about celebrating something, but here in the Nothing But Bonfires house, our celebrations look a little something like this:
Awwwww yeah, champagne and pizza, baby! Keeping it real!
What are we celebrating, you ask? We're celebrating Sean's new job---excuse me, SEAN'S! NEW! JOB!---which was a long time coming and which we are both thrilled to bits about. Why are we thrilled? Because the new job is better. It's a better position within a better company, with a better commute, and better compensation. (Do you like how I was all PC there, using "compensation" when really what I meant was MORE MONEY? Oh Internet, I am not the daughter of an HR manager for nothing.) The new job starts on March 10, and when it does, Sean and I will be working a scant four blocks from one another (although he will be the only one working in an office that has a Wii. No, seriously. And also Free Friday Lunches. AND PET INSURANCE. Oh, that crazy San Francisco!) He will also have the enviable title of Webmaster, which I shall henceforth refer to only as Webmaster! because when you are the master of anything, I think, you sort of deserve to have an exclamation point after your name.
(As an aside, there is someone at my company who has the job title of Tzar.)
(As an aside to that aside, my brother Tom used to think---and we're talking until fairly recently, age 13 at least---that Ticketmaster wasn't a company but just ONE GUY, The Ticketmaster!, who was in charge of all the tickets in the country, and whom you contacted when you needed to go see Radiohead in Akron, Ohio, or two front row seats to The Police at Madison Square Garden. I am not even kidding. The Ticketmaster! One person! "What do you do for a living, Ken?" "Well, Bill, didn't you know? I'm The Ticketmaster! Can I interest you in a little Jon Bon Jovi on April 13th? Doors open at 7pm! No flash photography!")
Anyway, so yeah, we're very excited about that.
Changing subjects, I went to the dentist yesterday, and Internet, I think I must have the most hi-tech dentist in all of San Francisco. Everything in this dentist's office is electronic! They don't call you to remind you of an appointment, they email you. They don't give you paper forms to fill out when you arrive, they bring you a digital tablet! You don't sign a regular receipt when you pay with a credit card, you sign this....this sort of monitor kind of thing. It's like going to the dentists in an episode of The Jetsons!
And that's before they've even got to your teeth, which they photograph with a digital camera the size of a pencil and then beam on to a computer screen in front of your face (before sending you a CD of those photos in the mail.) Seriously, my dentist filled two of my cavities on Friday and then SHOWED ME BEFORE AND AFTER PICTURES. Of my back molars! And I was all "oh, yeah, I can totally see the difference," when REALLY? You put some fissure sealant in a tiny crack in the back of my mouth and now I'm supposed to be all Extreme Makeover about it?
Anyway, one of the other terribly hi-tech and wacky things they do at this dentist---and I've just realized that maybe they do this at all dentists in America, but forgive me, I grew up on the NHS---is they give you these earphones to wear so that you can't hear the noise of the drill (although of course you totally still can). But before you can put the headphones on, you have to choose which station you want to listen to, and at my dentist they had, like, four hundred stations. So when the dental technician handed me the binder and told me to flip through and pick a station, I panicked. It was a big decision: I had to commit to something for an hour and a half, and it had to be something that would take my mind off the fact that two men were hovering over my wide open mouth, sticking sharp pointy things in it. What if I slipped up and somehow picked a station that played straight Celine Dion? Would that convert the torture of being at the dentist anyway into straight-up hell?
Skipping over the station called Bootyshaker---which just didn't seem the best thing to listen to while strapped into a chair with a drill in my mouth---I rather self-consciously pointed to one called Uber Indie. "That one please, I guess," I said to the dental technician. "Hmmm," he said, silently judging me and my musical tastes. "What does uber mean anyway? I've always wondered that."
"Well," I said, full-on nerd reflex kicking into action. "Uber translates from the German into "over." So I'm not entirely sure, but I guess it's meant to describe something that's especially extreme or prominent. You know?"
"Hmmm," he said again. I got the strong feeling he didn't believe me.
In the end, Uber Indie was sadly not available; I had to settle for plain old Indie Rock instead---a second-tier Indie station name if ever there was one!---and even then I only knew about twenty percent of the songs. Imagine my shame if Uber Indie had been available! Then again, it probably was, but the dental technician took one look at me, decided my haircut just wasn't ironic and asymmetrical enough, and thought he'd better let me down easy. I bet it would have been a totally different story if I'd shown up in an American Apparel unitard and some skinny jeans.