How to Have a Pleasurable Experience at the Dentist

I’d like to begin by stating that if you’re looking to have a pleasurable experience at the dentist, then I suggest you find yourself a dentist who, in addition to having a keen sense of empathy and a gentle touch with a tarter scraper, gives really great blowjobs.

Kidding! This isn’t that kind of blog post (and I’m not that kind of blogger; on Mondays, at least), and I apologize for being uncouth — dentists and blowjobs should never be mentioned in the same sentence, or within two sentences of each other, or even within the same paragraph for that matter, BECAUSE TEETH. Like, ow. Although I’ve heard some people are into that? I’m definitely not. Usually. Unless I’m in a mood and/or the dentist in question is actually Nick Jonas in pretend-dentist-scrubs, in which case he can do whatever he wants to me with his teeth, because he’s Nick Jonas in pretend-dentist-scrubs. You know what? This paragraph is getting weird and convoluted, not to mention fraught with too many commas. Let’s start over.

Last week I had an appointment for a routine teeth cleaning. I used to hate this type of thing, and I’ve only recently discovered that it’s because all my past dentists have been cold-hearted assholes who couldn’t even be bothered to lightly spray eucalyptus mist into the air or wrap my hands in a healing moisture treatment before sticking their tools in my mouth. (Dental tools, that is. I stand by the claim that my opening sentence was a joke!)

I can make all the diva-like demands I want to these days, though, because I now go to a dental spa. Mhm. A dental spa(hhh). This might make me a princess of sorts but I don’t give a shit because my dental spa is serene and majestic and yes, I’m using the Internet to write about a total first world problem right now that’s not actually a problem at all but is instead a first world solution (#blessed?), which probably makes it even more unhip to write about – but I don’t care because #YOLO (see image below) and I’m sensitive about my teeth.

dental spa checkinSo I was there, and everything was going great. Relaxing New Age music floated out of the speakers, my hands were luxuriously enveloped by the aforementioned moisture treatment (which, side note, feels a lot like having one’s hands licked by a fresh batch of angelic golden retriever puppies), and the massage chair pulsed in a soothing rhythm against my weary back as my dental hygienist poked and prodded her way around my gums without incident.

But then.

The massage chair went dead and I realized that its vibration was the main source of my Zen and so suddenly my Zen was gone and in an instant I became Brady Hobbes. That is to say, I became Miranda’s baby on Sex and the City when it was a total psycho (like all babies) and wouldn’t shut the fuck up until it was put into that weird vibrating baby-chair thing. (And then remember when Samantha babysat but the chair was broken or something and so she had to improvise with duct tape and a vibrator?) This was all a lot like that.

As I sat there painfully motionless, I asked myself, Who can live like this? Who can get their teeth cleaned without simultaneously being massaged by a chair? Might my dentist have a vibrator? WHY IS LIFE DOING THIS TO ME?

Within a few minutes, though, the dental hygienist stopped what she was doing and looked down at me.

“Oh!” she said. “Looks like your chair turned itself off. It does that every twenty minutes. Let me re-start it for you.”

I smiled and drooled onto my clip-on bib thing in response.

Once the chair was moving again and I had my essence back, I was able to return to my internal dialogue, which was mostly comprised of me writing this piece in my head and also mentally singing Lady GaGa’s “Do What U Want” while really meaning the lyrics – because as comfortable as I was, I still had to accept that there were sharp things in my mouth, and the line “you can’t have my heart, you won’t use my mind, but do what you want with my body” easily becomes a powerful affirmation in such a context.

The next song to get stuck in my head during this experience was City High’s 2001 anthem “What Would You Do?” in which a stripper has a defensive moment.

Why this throwback tune? Because at some point in the cleaning I decided to have the childlike epiphany that while I was only in the massage chair for an hour-long appointment, my dental hygienist was going to be in that office all day doing dental stuff, which of course made me imagine her taking me outside and sassily singing the lyric, “to you this is just a good time, but to me this is what I call LIFE, ooh-ooh,” at my face.

Next I asked myself, I wonder if  I’d be a good dental hygienist? and proceeded to get carried away ruminating on how the answer was so obviously LOL no because [if this blog post has taught us anything, it is that] I’m too self-involved.

Plus it takes me five minutes just to Windex my bathroom mirror because I have to go over the same spots thirty times each on account of my crippling fear of imperfection. So can you imagine how long I’d take per tooth? My patients would probably be like, “Hurry it the fuck up, Nic, you’ve had to reset my massage chair five times already and I’m getting restless,” to which I’d respond, “TO YOU THIS IS JUST A GOOD TIME BUT TO ME THIS IS WHAT I CALL LIFE!” and then they’d be like, “GET OVER YOURSELF, ASSHOLE,” and then someone’s gums would be stabbed and we’d all go to prison.

Or: I’d breeze through cleanings quickly and lose the ability to give a shit about perfection anymore because, “Hey, they’re not my teeth,” which I’m pretty sure would make me an even shittier person than I was in the above gum-stabbing scenario.

“Okay, Nicolas, you’re all set!” my dentist said, abruptly jolting me out of my imagination by giving me a delightfully steaming hot washcloth on a plate and removing my hands from their moisture gloves. “How do they feel?”

“Like they’ve been licked by a fresh batch of angelic golden retriever puppies,” I wanted to say. But then I realized she was probably talking about my teeth.

 

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I’m Going to Need Jonah Hill to Acknowledge That We Were Once Twins

This isn’t an actual post. Really, it’s a call to action. Because last week I posted a Throwback Thursday pic on Instagram and it looked like this…Yrbook…and I fucking KNOW, right? The Jonah Hill resemblance is uncanny and more than a little Sci-Fi-esque and separated-at-birth-y.

The weirdest thing is that I look absolutely nothing like him as an adult, so this whole situation truly is, as stated in the above Instagram caption, a mysterious riddle. A mysterious riddle that must be solved.

When I first noticed, I wondered if it was the universe pulling a hilarious switcheroo (I just wrote “switcheroo”), and that maybe Jonah’s childhood yearbook photo actually looks like adult me.

But I looked it up, and no. Instead it’s basically just a black and white variation of the one I posted above.

jonah2

Does anyone else think this is crazy? And that there has to be some kind of method to this madness? And that Jonah Hill probably knows something the rest of us do not?

Because I do.

I also need a new celebrity to harass on Twitter, because I’m fairly certain Celine Dion’s people are two tweets and a Facebook comment away from filing a restraining order against me on her behalf. We’re not adopting a cat together. It’s fine.

All of the above is to say that I’d like to propose a campaign to get Jonah to react to this obviously cosmic connection and also make me famous. If you’d like to participate, feel free to tweet this article at him using the hashtag #JonahNicMysteriousRiddle, because I clearly want to cock-block my chances of ever making it trend by making it a thousand letters. And if you’d rather not participate because you think it’s invasive and/or have a life, don’t worry — I’ll probably be nagging him enough for all of us anyway.

 

I Actually Wouldn’t Sleep with Justin Bieber, Probably

Earlier this week, I was IMing with my friend Steven.

  • Steven: I’m in a weird state of mind
  • Nic: Why??? Are you finding yourself sexually attracted to Justin Bieber BUT ONLY IN CERTAIN PICTURES? Because I might be
  • Steven: Haha, ew
In my defense, it was only one picture, which I will share below (complete with Paintbrush annotations that I’m pretty sure justify my controversial opinion):

I mean, look at that neck.

In light of Steven’s “ew,” though, I decided to survey other people via IM to gauge their opinions and find out whether or not I actually have a problem.

With my work-wife Mila:

  • Nic: Is it just me or is Bieber kind of hot in this pic?
  • Mila: NO
  • Mila: I will not let you go down this slippery slope
  • Mila: I love you, you’re better than this

With my work-wife Jenny:

  • Nic: Is it just me or is Bieber kind of hot in this pic?
  • Jenny: NO!
  • Jenny: it’s the tattoos, isn’t it?

With an anonymous friend of mine from grad school:

  • Nic: Is it just me or is Bieber kind of hot in this pic?
  • Anonymous: [long period of silence/on-and-off typing]
  • Anonymous: hot
  • Anonymous: just in that pic though
  • Anonymous: and you can never tell anyone i said that

I think this means that deep down everyone agrees with me and I win.

P.S. I just thought about it for a second, and actually? There are no winners in a blog post dedicated purely to whether or not Justin Bieber is hot.

P.P.S. Except for Bieber himself, maybe, because out of all the Bieber news coverage this week, this is probably the least likely to get him hate mail.

P.P.P.S. You’re fucking welcome, Justin. And no, I have no idea why I suddenly switched from calling you “Bieber” this whole time to calling you “Justin.” Maybe because the whole last name thing feels too impersonal and now that I’m addressing you directly I’m trying to make us all a little more comfortable?

P.P.P.P.S. By the way, did I really say “hate mail” before? Is this 1993? I meant to write “hate tweets.” And I’m sorry dude, but you kind of asked for them. Stop being such a jackass.

 

Am I the Only Person Who Gets Randomly Accosted by Crazy-Pants McGhees at Connecticut Bookstores?

One thing I really like to do with my life is watch Super Soul Sunday on the OWN Network every weekend and then immediately haul ass to the New Age section of my local Barnes and Noble in order to impulsively buy every book ever related to that day’s topic while telling myself that it doesn’t count as spending money because it’s food for my spirit, and spirit knows no money so I’m good. Or something.

Anyway. So this is what I was doing recently when, out of the fucking blue, some random dude tapped me on the shoulder and said, “I don’t much care for it.”

If you’re craving a little more context right now, here’s the set up:

  • Me: Wearing a dark gray hoodie-tee-shirt (yes, I dress like a tween on the weekends) and a Patriots hat. I have an open copy of The Seat of the Soul by Gary Zukav in my hand and, up until the aggressive shoulder-tap from the rando in aisle seven, am reading it with zeal.
  • The Shoulder-Tapper: White male. Appears to be in his forties or fifties. Kind of out of shape but not necessarily fat. Wearing a blue sweatshirt, jeans, and Nike running sneakers. Is kind of twitchy but has the general look of a normal person.

One might reasonably assume that by saying “I don’t much care for it,” the guy was informing me that he had read The Seat of the Soul and was not a fan. Which is what I assumed (and took major offense to, side note, because anybody who “doesn’t much care” for a book that Oprah credits as changing the very direction of her life back in 1989 is clearly a bad a person and probably a hazard to society) at first.

But then he was like, “I used to live in New Rochelle.” And then he paused and took a dramatic breath in, and I was like…?

My first thought was that maybe he was going to say something about my Patriots hat – something along the lines of “I used to live in New Rochelle… and I too am a Patriots fan, so it was rough being in New York during that time. But then I moved to Connecticut and now people are slightly more open to my New England affiliation, but we’re still close enough to the New York border that, well, I don’t much care for it.“

But no.

Instead he followed up with “…until my house got flooded.”

So then in my head I was all, Okay so either he’s going to ask me to make a donation to his cause, or he’s going to murder me.

Help

“And then after the house got flooded,” he continued, “I left and moved to a really nice place up in the Catskills. It was beautiful, new, and surrounded by nature. But then that house got flooded too. So I got another house right after that, but then that one went up in flames and I was put in jail for two weeks until they were able to prove that the fire actually started from the dryer and I had nothing to do with it – which is what I told them all along, but nobody believed me.”

What I might have said in my head if I was as enlightened as I hope to someday be:

  • Aw, I’m honored that this nice man is sharing such personal details of his history with me. We’re all one, and I see myself in him. I sincerely wish him luck in finding a living situation that doesn’t involve catastrophe and disaster. I shall hug and bless him now.

What I actually said in my head:

  • WHY IS NOBODY COMING TO MY RESCUE?! OMG, I feel like Sarah Michelle Gellar in I Know What You Did Last Summer when the killer is like, maiming her with a hook by the large stack of tires and nobody knows about it even though it’s all happening in the midst of a busy parade and you would THINK that one couldn’t get murdered during something as public as a fucking PARADE but somehow there was no one else there in that little area with all the tires at the time, much like how there’s no one else here in the NEW AGE BOOK SECTION OF AN OTHERWISE WELL-POPULATED BARNES AND NOBLE.

What I said out loud:

  • “Oof. That’s rough, man. Sorry to hear it.”

And then he was all, “Yeah—” and then I cut him off and said, “Okay, well, take it easy!” and I immediately darted to the bargain books because there were a solid four people in that section.

I managed to avoid him for the rest of my duration in the store until I left to go have pizza with two friends of mine, both of whom were as confused as I was when I gave a dramatic retelling of the event.

“Why does weird shit always happen to you?” they both asked.

“I don’t know…” I replied. “Maybe because the Universe knows I’m always running out of things to blog about?”

And then we all nodded in agreement.

 

The Best Advice I’ve Ever Received: “Be the Light”

Lately my spiritual journey has involved a lot of “Why am I here?”-ness.

Not the classic question of “Why am I here?” like, on the planet, though. Mine has been the other classic question of “Why am I here, ‘stuck’ in this place in life when I feel like I have a higher purpose and no matter how much action I take to try and fulfill that purpose NOTHING SEEMS TO BE HAPPENING, AND SO WHAT THE FUCK, UNIVERSE?

And then last week two of my awesome #SpiritJunkie friends and I had the honor of meeting the wonderful author/spiritual teacher/sassy guru Gabrielle Bernstein, whose new book Miracles Now is (a) like a big ol’ cup of chai tea for your soul, and (b) available here.

The energy in the theater during Gabby’s lecture was, in and of itself, a miracle. It was loving and open and just good and yes, I’m being sappy and trite right now because I can.

When the topic of feeling stuck in one’s current place in life came up, Gabby’s advice changed the game for me. She simply said, “Your job is not to be a [fill in the blank with your professional title]. Your job is to be the light.”

Be. The. Light.

gab1

Girlfriend is walking the walk.

I didn’t realize it until that moment, but this has been my mission statement in my writing (where I ultimately feel a higher calling) since day one. Whether it’s by sharing a funny story, opening up about something that really sucked for me, or simply making a weird/corny pun – the goal is always to inspire/heal/entertain/make someone’s day a little less shitty. In other words, the goal is to be the light.

While Gabby spoke, I realized that I’ve been saving so much of my light for some future moment that involves the title of “Published Author” that I’ve been missing out on opportunities to be the light in the present moment of my day-to-day professional life – because at some point I had declared the corporate/media world I work in to be totally void of meaning (which it kind of is, but that’s a whole other Oprah) and therefore decided that I didn’t need to show up with my best self every day.

But the problem there is that by sitting around thinking, Ugh. I’m destined for something greater than this, I was doing a few sabotage-y things to myself and those around me:

  1. Getting lost in anxiety over the future rather than cultivating gratitude for the present moment.
  2. Focusing on where I’m not rather than accepting where I am.
  3. Forgetting that every second is an opportunity to spread love.

In fewer words, I was basically an asshole.

I’ve learned that being discontented with the present moment is a sure sign that the ego is in control. Rather than setting aside personal concerns and doing whatever you can to enhance the lives of those around you (in other words, creating ripples of good energy, in other words, being the light), you’re focused on your own self-importance (in other words, creating ripples of crappy energy, in other words, being the darkness… and not the good kind).

So. I’ve been putting this whole “be the light” thing into practice since I heard Gabby speak, and I have to say that the change in my energy since has indeed been a miracle. Yes, I’m still working toward my long-term writing goals, but I’m also not tripping over the future anymore.

Instead I’m doing whatever I can to be a source of love and positivity for those around me right now. If that means addressing a work situation that I find to be ultimately purposeless in the grand scheme of life, I do it anyway purely because (a) it’s my job, and (b) not doing it would really make someone else’s day shittier – and do I want to be involved with making someone else’s day shitty? No. That’s not very light-y.

(Side note: I feel like normal people probably just stop at (a), which is a valid enough reason to do one’s job, really, but I’m obviously not normal. And if you’re reading my blog, chances are you aren’t, either. Which is a fantastically wonderful thing.)

In conclusion: BE THE LIGHT, NIC. BE THE DAMN LIGHT.

gab2

Gab + Nic = #Light.

 

26 Words to Live By for My 26th Birthday (AKA NicRiah Day)

Today is the anniversary of Mariah Carey’s and my respective births, and why this isn’t a federal holiday yet is beyond me.

But I mean, I’m sure it will be someday, because Catholic people are always in the midst of lent during this time and so they’re likely very irritable for having given something up that they love (unless they’re that guy who’s all “I give up Sprite!” when really his drink of choice is vodka and/or crack – can you drink crack? – but I digress) and so they kind of need a day off from work to help deal with all their Sprite vodka crack withdrawal fits, and so I’m sure a moment will eventually come when the Pope is all, “I have an idea! March 27th is the perfect day for a holiday and it shall be called NicRiah Day” (because why wouldn’t the Catholic church spontaneously create a new holiday in honor of a large-breasted pop diva who loves to be almost-naked on stage and a wacky tall dude from Connecticut who loves to be fully-naked…in beds with other dudes…?), and then before you know it the U.S. government will catch on to the trend and be like, “Well if all these damn Catholics are calling out of work for this new holiday anyways, then why the hell not just make it a thing?” (I think this is how Christmas happened.)

So basically when the future is here and it’s March 27, 2025 and your Jewish coworker is all, “Thanks for the freebie, Catholics!” I hope you’ll turn to the guy and say (in a stern voice), “Don’t thank the Catholics; thank Mariah Carey and Nicolas DiDomizio.”

You’re welcome.

NicRiahDay

That’s me perched upon Mariah Carey’s left ass-cheek. (Side note: That’s me perched upon Mariah Carey’s left ass-cheek — I think this is the sentence I was born to write.)

In totally unrelated and slightly more spiritual news, here’s an unabashedly redundant, cliché, and (seemingly) trite list of 26 words I plan to embody in my approach to life during my 26th year:

  1. Presence
  2. Awareness
  3. Gratitude
  4. Simplicity
  5. Peace
  6. Truth
  7. Stillness
  8. Serenity
  9. Laughter
  10. Ease
  11. Consciousness
  12. Meaning
  13. Energy
  14. Laughter again
  15. Healing
  16. Forgiveness
  17. Laughter again
  18. Absurdity
  19. Transparency
  20. Growth
  21. Trust
  22. Faith
  23. Love
  24. Sprite
  25. Vodka
  26. Crack

KIDDING ABOUT THE CRACK. I HAVE NEVER DONE CRACK.

(I don’t know why I felt the need to scream that. My apologies.)

…Okay, so this post is supposed to be over, but it felt weird to finish with a parenthetical just now. Especially a parenthetical that basically says, “I’m sorry for joking about crack and then screaming at you with caps lock afterward about how I was joking about crack.” That crack joke, really, was just a horrible idea. And now it seems to be holding me hostage. In my own blog. ON MY BIRTHDAY. WTF. Is this what they were warning me about in D.A.R.E. when I was too busy singing Mariah Carey songs in my head to pay attention? Ooh! Mariah. Full circle. Okay. Happy birthday to me. Byeee.

 

And Here’s the Douchiest OkCupid Profile EVER

In case you missed it, I recently wrote about how I advertise the fact that I’m a fast pedestrian on OkCupid because it seems like the least douche-y option for my “I’m Really Good At” section. But then just for ha-ha’s I went on this whole tangent about what I’d put in that section if I were a total douche canoe, and it was kind of the best thing ever.

I mean, this:

Screen shot 2014-03-03 at 8.24.16 PMBecame this:Screen shot 2014-03-03 at 9.04.04 PM

I don’t know what this says about me as a person, but coming up with that second one was actually the most fun I’ve had in about a fortnight. And so with that in mind, I thought it’d be awesome and probably a little revelatory to sarcastically remake my entire profile in the voice of the Biggest Dick Ever* as part of an imaginary game show I just made up in my head called If I Were a Douche.

Douche

Shit. I just realized I got so carried away with all the O’s that I forgot the U in “Douche.” I’d fix it, but lately I’ve been trying to do this thing where I embrace my imperfections. (Thank you, ekgo.)

So here we go.

Me:Screen shot 2014-03-16 at 11.57.34 AMMe as the Biggest Dick Ever*:

Screen shot 2014-03-16 at 11.59.42 AM

Me: Screen shot 2014-03-16 at 12.00.54 PMMe as the Biggest Dick Ever*:

Screen shot 2014-03-16 at 12.03.08 PM

Shit. Did I just learn something new about myself?

Me:Screen shot 2014-03-16 at 12.03.44 PMMe as the Biggest Dick Ever*:

Screen shot 2014-03-16 at 12.04.00 PM

Me:Screen shot 2014-03-16 at 12.05.03 PMMe as the Biggest Dick Ever*:

Screen shot 2014-03-16 at 12.06.23 PM

Wow. I’m never starting a sentence with the word “also” in a dating profile ever again.

Me:Screen shot 2014-03-16 at 12.06.54 PMMe as the Biggest Dick Ever*:

Screen shot 2014-03-16 at 12.07.55 PM

Okay, Me as the Biggest Dick Ever* is getting kind of annoying – and also a little nonsensical. Chimneys? WTF?

Me:Screen shot 2014-03-16 at 12.08.47 PM

Me as the Biggest Dick Ever*:Screen shot 2014-03-16 at 12.09.02 PM

Me:Screen shot 2014-03-16 at 12.09.28 PMMe as the Biggest Dick Ever*:

Screen shot 2014-03-16 at 12.09.48 PM

Me:Screen shot 2014-03-16 at 12.11.01 PMMe as the Biggest Dick Ever*:

Screen shot 2014-03-16 at 12.13.49 PMListen, Me as the Biggest Dick Ever,* you can stop filling out this profile at any time. No one is forcing you to carry this task out to completion. Also, did you just ridicule my entire career as a blogger?

Me:Screen shot 2014-03-16 at 12.16.54 PMMe as the Biggest Dick Ever*:

Screen shot 2014-03-16 at 12.18.46 PM

OMG but seriously, remember the AOL-butt?

*I realize that, if taken out of context, the name “Biggest Dick Ever” takes on a whole other meaning. So I thought that I should asterisk it every single time it came up in this post. Just so you know that I know.

 

“Clown-Related Crimes Soar in Parts of England” is a Real-Life Headline, but Here are Three Better Ones

Yesterday there was an actual article on New York Daily News with a headline of “Clown-Related Crimes Soar in Parts of England” and I was naturally like “WTF?” and then clicked it and learned that this is a legit problem. (But only in parts of England, because apparently clowns suck at mobilizing.)

The idea of It-like clowns wreaking havoc on small children overseas is mostly frightening but also a little hilarious (kind of like the idea of me having access to a Twitter account), but either way it’s not something I want to focus too much of my energy on.

So with that in mind, here are three headlines that are NOT real, but are similar. And a lot better.

1. Leprechaun-Related Beatings Skyrocket in Certain Rural Turkish Neighborhoods, Sources Believe Jennifer Aniston is Involved

Because let’s be honest, she was in that leprechaun movie many years ago where one of them almost killed her and so you know it’s feasible that girlfriend might hold a grudge. I mean, did you notice how she didn’t even tweet yesterday? BECAUSE IT WAS ST. PATRICK’S DAY AND SHE WAS TOO BUSY ORCHESTRATING A LEPRECHAUN-ABUSE SCHEME IN ONLY CERTAIN RURAL NEIGHBORHOODS IN TURKEY.

(Side note: I just checked Twitter and realized that my claim is ridiculous because Jennifer Aniston doesn’t even have a Twitter in the first place… or is her lack of a Twitter altogether because of leprechauns? Those fuckers do tweet like crazy, I hear. #PotOGold #TheRumorsArentTrueMyDickIsHuge #WhatElseWouldALeprechaunTweet?)

2. Weird Batch of Dunkin Donuts Munchkins in Central Connecticut Grows Wings, Violently Attacks Nuns and Strippers and Children with Gluten Allergies

I imagine these nefarious munchkins would also have really sharp, vicious-looking teeth. Kind of like Angry Birds, I guess, except munchkins?

(Side note: I just Googled Angry Birds and realized that, in spite of my mental image of them, they don’t even have teeth. Wow. I suck at offhand pop culture references today.)

Munchkins

Because these three types of humans are basically one and the same. (Side note: Did I just steal the concept for the children’s movie Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs? I’ve never seen it, but I just realized that this looks a lot like certain advertisements I’ve seen.)

3. Croatian Mermaid Sparks Syphilis Outbreak in Adriatic Sea

Because we all know from last week that mermaids are sea-sluts.

 

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