It's been a little quiet lately

Which is probably why I am considering doing something certifiably insane: buying a house.

I'm already totally caught up in all of the things you shouldn't get caught up in. I've looked at only three places, but I've already decided that I want the third one, which means I've spent the weekend mentally renovating and moving myself into the place. Did you know HGTV existed? I didn't, but I think I've single-handedly increased their market share by like 60% this weekend. In my mind, they can do no wrong--anything I'd ever need to know about decorating and landscaping, they will have an answer to. I've also trolled Craigslist for gently used bathroom vanities, hot tubs, and exterior doors. I've already determined the color of my new kitchen backsplash.

I know this can only mean that I am going to end up broken-hearted sometime in the next 72 hours, but I keep convincing myself that this is all worth it, because if not this house, then another one!

But it would be great if it was this house. I think.

What I Learned in Space

1) A plane full of journalists worrying about barfing in front of one another is funny.

2) M&Ms and water are amazing toys to play with when you're weightless.

3) M&Ms and water are disgusting, goopy things to lay down on when you're not weightless anymore and they've been smeared all over the plane.

Tele-phooey

Setting what must be some sort of consumer electronics record for epic failure, my third Treo 650 died yesterday. My IT department is ordering me a new phone—the Treo 750—and it will probably get here in a few days, but in the meantime, I don’t have a phone.

Yes, I recognize the absurdity of purchasing the next iteration of a product that has absolutely, definitively not worked, but among the options, I think it’s the best one. Either that, or I go back to paying for my own phone service, and since this is basically the one perk I get from this job, you will have to pry the phone from my cold, dead hands.

Although you might not want to bother, since it probably won’t be working.

Kristen Salvatore, MD

I take oral hygiene very seriously.

Nine years ago, during my first visit to the dentist in about three years, the attending doc leaned back and asked me, "So, are you interested in keeping your own teeth as you get older, or is your plan for dentures?" Because it's me, I was crushed that I'd let down this dentist I'd never met before, and as a result became a serial flosser/fluoride rinser. I haven't had a cavity since.

So imagine my surprise when a routine X-ray turned up what my dentist (different guy) described as "something bad." Then he asked me if I'd ever been in a car accident or been hit hard in the mouth. This seemed to embarrass me more than him, for some reason--I generally approach people's possible traumas gingerly--but luckily he didn't take that as cause to call health and human services. He just explained that it looked like the bottom of the root of one of my front teeth was infected and that I'd need a root canal. I thought this sounded crazy--I am a serial flosser!--but the X-ray did in fact show a big, black blotch on one of my front teeth.

I will spare you all the details of my root canal, except to say while it a) wasn't painful, it was b) absolutely disgusting, and it c) required several stitches. This is what they looked like:

I've had stitches before--many times, in fact--so four stitches at once wasn't new to me. Four stitches that looked like permanent shit in my front teeth was new (black thread? in my mouth? really?), but stitches, no, I'm old hat at those.

After a day spent on the couch with HRH Prince Vicodin (take a moment, bow to him), it was time to head em up, move em out, and head back to work. So I performed my morning ablutions--wash it, dry it, moisturize it--and got ready to head out. Before I did, I decided to rinse the coffee cup I'd been sipping from. Which was totally cool until it broke off in my hand and slice my thumb open something fierce.

This is what that looked like:

So me and my four existing stitches went off to the hospital (and I'd like to take a moment here to thank my ex for just dropping me off outside the emergency room and then heading out--what a sweetheart, folks!), where we met Dr. Matt:

got all shot up:

and added five stitches:


bringing the full stitch count to a total of nine, in two different places, for unrelated incidents.

I told Dr. Matt that had to be some sort of record. He rewarded me by telling me that if I was careful, I could take my own stitches out when they were ready.

And I did:




(Full disclosure: this happened two years ago, but I just stumbled upon the pictures/video.)

The Mad Milliner

I do this thing for Tracey every year on her birthday: I make her a hat. Sometimes, they're actually quite pretty (the newsboy cap made of fresh flowers). Sometimes, they're impractical but make for a funny joke (the hat made of hats). Sometimes, they're terrifically low-tech (the bubble-wrap hat). And sometimes
they're actually pretty involved.

Happy birthday to Captain Tracey of the Party Police.

We're Number 10! Go team!

This is my first-ever season as a fantasy baseball team manager, and I'm not in dead last! In fact, I am not even second-to-dead last: my team has been 10th out of 12th for weeks now, and that's with me even forgetting to play my starting pitchers for a couple of weeks. Imagine if that happened in the majors: if Bruce Bochy just forgot to put in Tim Lincecum for a couple of weeks. The Giants would be terrible!

Oh, wait...

Anyway, fantasy baseball turns out not to be as difficult as I thought it would (assuming you're not actually trying to be a contender, which I'm clearly not), but it has highlighted a fact that's dogged me through most of my career as a baseball fan, which is that when it comes to baseball fandom, I am a statistical outlier: I pay almost no attention to the statistics of the game.

As most people know, poring over minute statistical details--WHIP, ERA, OBP--is like mana to most baseball fans. In fact, it's a sweet treat for most announcers, too--that's why it's not out of the realm of possibility to hear one announce that a particular players is, say, leading his division for stolen bases among players whose last name includes at least three vowels.

While I'm all for crazy-ass math, I am just not this kind of fan. I couldn't tell you the ERA of my favorite pitcher or the batting average of my favorite slugger. In fact, I'm not even sure I could name the Oakland A's outfield right now, and they are my favorite team. I defy you to question my devotion to them: I cut open my hand last year severely enough to require multiple stitches and didn't so much as yelp. When the A's lost the ALDS to the Twins in 2002, I wept uncontrollably for an hour in the left-field bleachers.


Rollie Fingers: 114-188 career win/loss record; 341 career saves; 2.90 career ERA; leads Hall of Fame relievers with handlebar moustaches in delinquent Wisconsin tax payments

Hate to Vote? Don't Vote to Hate

When you consider this, this, this, and especially this, you have to wonder what kind of people have such a hard time with this, this, and this. That last photo is of a gay couple and the five children they've adopted.

Five.