Yea, I'm still on that Sims kick. Gosh, aren't you thrilled?
I was kind of in a Sims rut, so I evicted Marge and Ted from their old house, moved them into a bigger place, and put Mike Bachelor (the oh-so-inventively named preset Sims character) in their old digs.
Marge and Ted invited themselves over for dinner pretty quickly. Which hardly seems fair -- they've got way more money than the poor guy does. (I've decided not to use the money cheat with Mike, since doing so renders a good part of the game pretty much moot.)
Elsewhere, Bob Newbie still can't keep his hands to himself.
He hit on Melissa, and her girlfriend Chris gave him quite the bitchsmacking. Instead of just giving him one pop in the face, she smacked him several times with that quick wrist-flipping action. Wow!
(He cried again. Even I'm starting to feel bad for the guy.)
Something stupid I noticed: Even the biggest, most ostentatious mansions in Simville only have one dinky room on the second floor, and no upstairs bathroom unless you want to build one yourself.
Something else I noticed that means I really need to get a life:
Sims start off with these chaste little kisses with their palms touching up in the air. After a few days, they start wrapping their arms around each other.
And now they're grabbing each other's butts. That must be "third base" in Simville. I don't think we get to see the home run.
(Some enterprising little hacker has already created something that erases the "censor blur" you get when Sims strip for the shower or a bath:
I'm not gonna go get that. I'm just not. Nope. Uh uh.)
... All content copyright 1999-2000 by Nicole Willson. No ripping me off.
2/22 -- Bleeding Gums Willson.
So ... I went to the dentist on Wednesday morning.
Boy oh boy -- if there's a better way to start off your day than by having somebody sticking sharp objects into your gums until they bleed, I'd like to know what it is!
(Smashing your fingers with a hammer? Shoving red-hot coals up your nostrils, perhaps?)
It really needed to be done, though. I haven't been to the dentist in a long time. A very long time. I admitted to six years when the hygienist kept pushing me for a specific answer. It's actually been much longer than that.
For a long time, I worked in jobs with no dental insurance and low pay, and I didn't see any point in going to the dentist because I couldn't have afforded to do anything about any serious problems anyhow.
Even after I went to my current company and got better benefits and pay, I just kept putting it off because ... well, it's the dentist. Who the hell wants to go to the dentist? It means lots of pain and discomfort, neither of which is going to replace backrubs on my list of turn-ons.
Bill's really happy with his current dentist, and he finally nagged me into agreeing to an appointment. Considering how long it's been, things went amazingly well. No cavities; no wisdom teeth; no imminent root canals. He wants to redo my childhood fillings. No big deal.
The people at the office like Bill and already knew all about our marriage last year. They were very nice to me. Really, unceasingly, in-yer-face nice. The hygienist was downright perky. Bill and I laughed about that on the way home from work; if I went into a retail store and encountered people this relentlessly upbeat and cheery about helping me, I'd be out the door like a shot. I don't handle perky well. But at the dentist's, it's okay. I definitely don't want any sullen, grumpy folks wielding a drill around my face.
I don't know how anyone manages to smile in that job, anyhow. The hygienist chattered and chortled away while she was "debriding" my teeth. I gotta tell you; if I made my living by scraping crud off of strangers' teeth all day long, I'd be ramming my instruments into people's eyeballs for looking at me funny.
My mouth was pretty sore by the time they got through with me, and people at work were suprisingly sympathetic as I sat at my desk and rubbed my jaw and whimpered.
But I went to the dentist. Like a big girl. Mommy's gonna be so proud of me.
Random Rants: I really hate the fact that I know so much about the fucking morons from that "Who Wants To Marry A Millionaire?" show a couple of weeks ago. (If by some chance you don't know what I'm talking about, consider yourself very, very lucky. You're where I'd have liked to be.)
I didn't watch this show; I didn't want to watch this show; sticking splinters under my fingernails probably couldn't have gotten me to watch this show.
It's not that my taste in TV is so sophisticated; my enjoyment of things like the WWF, "Married with Children," and "World's Most Horrifying Accident Footage" is too well-documented on various message boards. But I don't get into stuff where real people go on TV to humiliate themselves, whether it be Jerry Springer or this rubbish. (Yeah, I know a lot of the people on trashy talk shows are actors. It's the ones who aren't that frighten me.)
I can't believe that every last move these people have made since that show aired has been considered national news worthy of regular reports on CNN. We're in a fucking election year, for God's sake.
I can't believe anyone's surprised that gosh -- the marriage just isn't working out. Um, was anyone expecting that somehow, despite the embarassing and degrading spectacle, this guy would somehow find his soulmate, right there on Fox? If these two dorks had actually managed to live happily ever after, maybe that would be news.
I wish Tonya Harding would go hurl a hubcap at these people.
Meta: So, in the very first entry of this journal (August 14, 1999 -- *snif*), I ranted and raved about how much I hated the 9:30 club in DC, and how I was never going to go there again if I could help it.
I kept my word for -- wow, almost 7 months! We're going there Friday night to see Yo La Tengo. And we're already dreading the experience that's certain to come. "The show's sold out," Bill noted glumly last night.
Great. People hanging from the rafters again. I predict lots of stepped-on toes and 7-foot-tall basketball players standing in front of me before the night's over.
And you can probably count on an extremely grouchy entry on Saturday morning.