My yummy vice

Hello, my name is Peter, and I'm a nail-biter. An avid, relentless nail-biter. For some, it's a nervous habit that they have long wished to kick. For me though, I really enjoy it most of the time. Of course there are times that it gets a little too close and hurts for a few days, but that's never outweighed the positives. When I get a "good one," I can find myself playing with it in my mouth for up to an hour - even kinda flossing with it. Yes, I know how disgusting that sounds.

As a kid, my parents wanted me to stop biting my nails. They bought some kind of polish that promised to taste so bad that kids wouldn't put their nails anywhere near their mouths again. It did taste bad, and so extremely bitter so that every time I tasted it I made that "Oh, that's really bitter" face. Even as a kid though, I realized I had two options: stop biting my nails or learn to live with the bitter polish. I chose the latter. Eventually it wasn't that bad and my parents gave up.

As a grown-up nail-biter, I must say I've gotten pretty good at it. I have different techniques that I've almost perfected over the years. Even my wife has sheepishly admitted that I do a good job of not leaving myself with sharp and uneven nails. Here's a tip: you can use your bottom teeth as a filing board and "sand" away any roughness. Go ahead, try it out.

The only problems that I've really had biting my nails aside from occasionally making them too short is that nails sometimes come in handy. We bought some tangerines (clementines, to be more accurate) and I simply could not start the peeling process. They even have stickers on them proclaiming how easy they are to peel. I couldn't do it though; it was like using the end of a baby carrot to peel a sticker off something. That was still worth the enjoyment and sense of fulfillment I got from biting my nails.

"Fulfillment" really is a part of the whole thing. I look at my fingers at times and see longer-than-normal nails as projects. The longer they get, the more I feel like I'm dropping the ball. That's why once it's gone, and a shorter and tidier version takes its place, I get the same sense of accomplishment that one might from balancing a checkbook. (I've heard that feels good, but have no first-hand knowledge of it.)

Then I hit rock bottom. My dentist was looking at my teeth, and he casually asked, "Do you bite your nails?" "Yeah," I said, hoping his response would be, "So do I! Let's form a club!" Instead, he told me that it looked like nail-biting was causing my teeth to wear a little more than they should, and I might want to think about giving that up. I told him that I had once given it up before when it was important to me, so maybe I could do it again. Before our wedding, I told my wife that I wouldn't bite my nails for two weeks ahead of time since we might have close-up pictures of our hands. And you know what? I did it - pretty easily too. I missed my hobby, but it was for a finite amount of time and for a good cause.

The dentist's advice was almost two weeks ago, and I was kicking some serious ass. My nails started growing very quickly, and they seemed to get stronger too. In the rare occasion that I found a finger in my mouth, I was able to extricate it before any biting occurred. I began to open things more easily, and I was much more effective at scratching itches (I actually scratched too hard the first time, unaware of how to handle my new powers). I was proud of myself, even though my nails kept looking better and better to me. My wife said that I could clip them regularly, but it was a battle of wills now, and I wanted to see how long I could go. I asked her what seemed to be a logical question, and she thought it was ridiculous and disgusting - you decide: Can I still eat my nails if I use a clipper instead of my teeth? I just want to salvage one enjoyable aspect of having nails.

Last weekend, I showed my hands to Dusty, who has known me and my nail-biting ways for about 17 years now. "What the fuck?!!?" he exclaimed. I agreed. I kept looking down, wondering how those could actually be my hands. They were long enough that I felt like everyone at the poker tables was staring at them and wondering if I was protesting something in my own unique way.

I decided that I would wait to show my parents at our Hanukkah dinner tomorrow night when I see them, then use the nail clipper and attempt to throw the clippings away. Then two days ago, I fell off the wagon. I had just had a half-hour long phone altercation with a client, and I found my right index finger in my mouth. I rushed to pull it out of there, but it was too late: my teeth had met. One little bite, and I knew what I had to do. I couldn't leave a partially bitten nail out there for a couple days, let alone a couple hours. It would catch on things, and honestly, the temptation would be too much. I finished the job that my demons started for me. On my way home, I told my wife that the stupid client cost me a nail, and she was understandably moved by the seriousness of my actions.

So here I sit, with nine Klein-record-length nails and one normal-Klein-looking one. I have less than 36 hours before I show my parents, and then they'll be gone. I'm not sure how yet, but they'll be gone. I'm having trouble ignoring some of them more than others (I'm talking to you, left ring finger), so time can't move quickly enough. Wish me luck, gentle readers.

But damn, that one nail was delicious.

Numb skull

And numb mouth to match. Not even Rick Monday could save me from this Monday (and he's good at saving things too). At 7:00 in the morning, I went back to the dentist this morning for my cleaning and filling. As I wrote to my wife, "I had a Russian woman dentist with the beside manner of...a Russian woman." She barked things out to me throughout the procedure as if she were in charge of this mission and she'd be damned if some kid from America was going to blow it for her. "Head down." "Bite!" "Open more!" "Floss better." Since she passed dental school, I'm pretty sure she has the ability to say more than two words at a time, but after an hour with her, I can't say for sure. I'm having some oatmeal now, but I still feel like I have three cheeks on top of each other on the right side of my face. Let's hope this wears off by the time I want to eat actual food.

So, we went to Twilight's birthday party with the karaoke aspects I'd been worrying about. As it turns out, the singing set up was different than I'd imagined, and we're all happier for it. Instead of one person with a mic up at the front of the room, there were three mics being passed around the seated guests. This led to a lot of group songs and less of the pressure I'd put on myself. "Piano Man" by Billy Joel was a big hit, with tipsy folk belting it out loud and proud. I sang along on a few, but only truly co-starred in one. First, allow me to set the scene a little more. I would estimate that 80% was gay. Therefore, almost the entire Rent soundtrack got played (including one duet twice in a row for some reason - there was almost a gay-off to decide who was better). So when time came for me to "straight it up", my fellow breeder Dusty and I performed a lovely duet of Dr. Dre's "Gin and Juice." Nothing changes the flow of a party quite like "We gonna smoke an ounce of this/G's up, ho's down while you muthafuckers bounce to this" and "So turn out the lights and close the door/But for what? We don't love them ho's." We yelled "Bee-otch" a few times when the screen told us to, and Dusty took the liberty of changing "Compton" to "Encino" in one of the lines.

After the applause died down, one of the party guests announced that there was too much misogyny in that song and that the party needed a change. Naturally, she opted for a Dixie Chicks song about killing a man who either abused or sexually assaulted the protagonist. I didn't hear all of the lyrics, but I'm sure it undid the ill will that the Straight Posse brought to the party. Final score: Murder 1, Bee-otch 0.

Wimpiest sentence I've written all month: I'm sore from playing Nintendo. Dave bought the Nintendo Wii, and after swinging the controller violently to mimic the motions in the tennis, golf, baseball, and bowling games, my body thinks I actually played them. On one hand, it's really cool to have the system work like that. I actually was doing front-hands and back-hands in the tennis game to hit the ball. On the other, when I play a video game, it's not because I want exercise. I want a system so I can sit and be mentally stimulated for a while, not stand and work out. It's a cool system, and I definitely want to see what it's like with other games, but it's not one I walked away from saying "I have to have that."

I just dug my fingernail into my gums, and I officially have some feeling back now. I probably should've tried that a different way that wouldn't result in pain. Live and learn, eh?

Time to do actual work now. Sucky. Good luck with the rest of the Monday, everyone.

Molar Imperatives

I have a dentist appointment in about an hour, and it's not my favorite thing in the world. It's always better than I remember though. I was reminded of this fact by myself a few years ago. Allow me to explain: I got a postcard in the mail from my dentist telling me that it had been six months and I needed to call to schedule another cleaning. On the postcard, in my handwriting, it read, "It's actually not that bad! Love, You." I was confused at first, but then remembered the dentist asking me to write my address on that postcard before I left the previous appointment. I guess I took that opportunity to tell Future Peter that he should just suck it up and go. And you know what? It worked; I set up another cleaning.

This time is different though. This time it's a new dentist, and it's been a lot longer between cleanings than it should. Like four times as long. Sorry Mom. But I'm a big boy, so I'm gonna go in there, act like a man, and take whatever the doc's got for me. My wife tells me that today will probably just be x-rays and a "consultation" and that I'll be scheduling a cleaning for later. That's good and bad news. On one hand, I won't be upset to get in and out with as little scraping and spitting as possible. On the other, that means I'll need to psych myself up for another one of these visits very soon.

As I'm sure is the case with almost everyone, going to the dentist reminds me Advance Placement U.S. Government in high school. What? I'm alone in this? Weird. Here's a long and unimportant story as to why:

I enjoyed certain aspects of high school. I was never one of those kids who celebrated like he won the World Series when the final bell rang on the last day of the year. I liked seeing my friends every day, and nerdy as it sounds, I enjoyed the learning process that took place in some of my classes. My classes though, even the ones I liked most, were often a little less stimulating than I needed. So my friend Dusty and I would often come up with ways to make things a little more interesting to us, and I know how lame this is going to sound even before I type it. We'd make little games up to occupy our minds.

One such game involved little gestures for everytime certain students' names were said aloud. (Sidenote: There's a wonderful, all-time great story about this in a Spanish class that I'll hopefully get to address at a later date. It deserves its own post because it's stuck with all of us to this day.) These actions weren't meant to be distractions or for anyone else to notice, but rather a way for Dusty and me to add a more interactive element to the class. For example, there was one student who would very haughtily take off his glasses with one hand before making a point, as if to emphasize how very intellingent he was. So everytime anyone said his name aloud in the class, Dusty and I would casually scratch one temple or loosely mimic his defining action. Our friend Scott was on the varsity basketball team, so his name made us lightly tap the desk in reference to dribbling a ball. Yes, I know, we were such bad asses. The most convoluted of these actions (and we probably got to about 20 of them in the class of 30ish) was for a quieter guy named Dennis. Dusty asked me what we should do for his name, and I glanced at my watch. Why? Because Dennis sounds a little like "dentist", and according to the old and stupid joke, one goes to the dentist at 2:30 since it sounds like "tooth-hurty." He agreed, and from that day on until the end of our illustrious high school careers, I checked the time every time Dennis' name was uttered.

I t0ld you it was a lame story. Regardless, I think of that whenever I'm going to the dentist. Maybe you will too now, memory stealer.

UPDATE: Some good news, some not-as-good. The dentist was very nice, and he not only complimented my oral hygeine and understanding of what one must do to have a healthy mouth, but he was very taken by my philosophy on golf ("Yes, it's frustrating, but it's a beautiful place to be frustrated."). The not-as-good news is that I have to go back Monday morning for the cleaning, so I wasn't able to get it all done at once. Also, I have a small cavity that needs a filling (insert sexual joke here). So, even though I have to go in again and will require some unenjoyable drilling, at least the people are nice.

I somehow forgot to mention it earlier, but my mom's been told by her dentist that she has "perfect home dental hygeine." I know this verbatim because she's very proud of that, and rightfully so. But has her dentist ever complimented her on how she perceives the game of golf? We'll call it a draw.