saint-louise's Diaryland Diary


Shocking confessions! Toothbrushing secrets! OH's hidden identity: revealed!

I have a confession to make: I tend to wander around when I brush my teeth.

My mother would be horrified if she knew. In fact, if I were to say such a thing in front of Taylor, she would probably clamp her hands over her innocent granddaughterís ears and give me that look of half-lamentation, half-hopeless disapproval that she has raised to a level of tree-flattening impact. I suppose that would translate to a terror alert of amber. Or scarlet. UhmmÖmaroon. You know what Iím saying. Momela just looks at you like that and you start duct taping everything in sight.

And Mom does not approve of the toothbrush meander. There were five children in my family, including me (since all good families of our particular faith had a minimum requirement of four offspring - when we traveled around Europe and the Middle East together, people regularly mistook us for an entire tour group), and I suppose that the bathroom would probably look a little splattered and abused after all of us got done brushing for the night. So we were often gently reminded to ďlean over the basin when you brush.Ē This was Momís way to avoid toothpaste splashing and those ever-so-annoying spit speckles on the mirrors. When I stayed overnight at friendsí houses, I often wondered why they didnít brush with their faces crammed into the sink like I did. You know, to prevent the radioactive toothbrushing spittle fallout. Good gosh, people! Were you raised by communists?

Well, Iíd like to say Iím sorry to my mother, even though she doesnít read this (despite my best efforts to coax her to use a computer, including a step-by-step instruction guide in excruciating detail just telling how to turn it on). In addition to all of the other major insights and awakenings Iíve had over the course of my adult years that have probably kept her awake at night, I have also discovered that I donít need, and donít want, to brush with my head in the sink anymore. Iím tired of hitting my head on the faucet. And Ė to be completely honest Ė I get fucking bored when I brush. If I didnít allow myself to wander around the house, I would probably be so put off by the sheer monotony of the task that I might not brush at all.

Okay, yesÖI know. Letís not get into crazy talk here, Louise. But I donít know how to express it other than that. I find oral hygiene that dull. I cry a little each time I floss. But I get through it, twice a day. Somehow.

Iíd like to pause here and say to those of you who are surprised, disgusted, or perplexed by the fact that I think this long and hard about brushing and flossing, and that I can somehow develop difficulty with it because itís boring, of all things: Iím not sure how long youíve been reading this diary, so Iíll try to catch you up in 25 words or less. Ready?

I wallow in the most bizarre mixture of aversions and anxieties, so the rest of you donít have to. Itís my gift to the world.

(You just counted how many words that was, didnít you? Freak.)

Back to the toothbrushing:

So, yes, I wander as I brush. Into the living room, to see whatís on the TV. Into my bedroom, to pick something to wear for the day. Into the kitchen, to look out the window. And I think, too. Itís very productive thinking, like the kind people will often have while showering, or while theyíre on the toilet, or as theyíre waking up in the morning, or in the middle of the night when they canít sleep. Epiphany thinking.

My epiphany during this morningís toothbrush trek, just prior to psyching myself up for the floss, was this: When I started this diary five years ago, I gave everyone nicknames, cute little monikers to ďprotect their real-life identities.Ē As Iíve aged and become increasingly lazy, inattentive, and prone to making my fellow members of the PTA frown, I started to let names slip here and there. Soon, it just didnít seem as critical to protect identities, except in the most extreme cases, because Ė as I have said on many an occasion Ė this is the Internet, and I have chosen to place my writing in its grubby little hands. If I had any delusions of privacy before, they were short-lived and naÔve, to say the least.

OH was the last person to receive an Internet nickname from me. I did that because we worked at the same company, and he was a little sensitive about advertising our relationship at first, so that was my half-assed show of respect toward his feelings. I think a full ass of respect is a little much to ask of me, eh?

Oh, come on. Please donít think about it like that. For your own sake.

SoÖOH will henceforth be referred to by his real name: Thaddeus.


Okay, I guess that was less than half an ass of respect. Sorry.

His name is John. With an ďh.Ē And goddamn it, I like it that way.

The only person whose real name will not be revealed is me. This is not because I feel Iím pulling one last trick over on you all. Or because I like to have a superspecial alter ego that I can say Iíve been ďknown byĒ for over X number of years and thatís because Iíve been blogging longer than you have, you loser, neenerneenerneener GOD WHAT A WANNABE.

The reason that I will never allow my real name to appear on this site is becauseÖlisten, kids, I get enough hits off of bizarre, sometimes disturbing search engine results. (What does that SAY about my content? No wonder Mom avoids the Internet. Itís because of degenerates like her own daughter.)

So, I donít want to see what kind of results Iíd get from searches that would include my given name. I donít need to feel that kind of hostility right now.

Right? Right.

Toothbrushing fetishists: Go crazy with this one.

10:11 a.m. - 2005-03-11


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saint louise (b. land)