this site, where you can get the ringtone in mp3, wav, midi, and RTTTL format. I downloaded the wav, and then spent a long, long time trying to figure out how to get the damn ringtone from my computer to my phone.
I signed up for T-Zones unlimited (and made a note to cancel it in three weeks, because $4.95 a month is too damn much to pay for something I probably won’t use again), I set up an email account, I set up the email account through T-Mobile, and then I emailed the wav to myself.
The wav arrived, but when I tried to save it, my phone looked at me, sneered and said “Are you kidding me?”
I uploaded the ringtone to my website and used the browser on my phone to download it. When it was downloaded, I selected “open”, and my phone raised one eyebrow at me and said “Dude. Are you kidding me?”
After an hour and a half of this sort of thing, Fred wandered into the room. “You know,” he said, “I think you actually need an mp3, not a wav.” This, despite the fact that he’d told me earlier that I needed a wav.
“Ugh!” I said. “I give up!”
Except that I didn’t give up, because I WANTED THAT FUCKING RINGTONE ON MY PHONE. So I downloaded the mp3, uploaded it to my site, and used the browser on my phone to download the ringtone.
And this time it worked!
I am the coolest of the cool. When my cellphone rings, it rings just like the CTU internal phone calls!
Yeah, I know. I need a life.
(I also set up the mp3 in Eudora so that it plays when I get email. Shuh-weet!)
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So I had a dentist appointment this morning at 11. I walked into the office and started signing in on the sign-in sheet. Suddenly, I heard it.
Boop-boop-BUH-doop.
“Hey!” I said to the receptionist. “What kind of phones do you have?”
“Uh…” she glanced to the side. “Something something something.”
Boop-boop-BUH-doop.
“That is so awesome!” I said.
“It is?” she said.
Boop-boop-BUH-doop.
“Yeah, that’s the same ring that they have on 24! I love that ring!” I said like the dork I am.
“Um,” she smiled uncertainly and glanced to the side again.
Boop-boop-BUH-doop.
“Our phones aren’t ringing,” she said.
Which is when I realized that I was hearing my cell phone.
Talk about embarrassing.
“Oh,” I said in a small voice, and slunk off to the waiting room.
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It’s been something like four years since I’ve been to the dentist. YES, I know that’s bad. Don’t yell at me. Anyway, Fred switched dentists sometime last year and really likes his new dentist.
Lately, Fred’s been saying “God, you need to go to the dentist and get a new bite guard, because you were grinding your teeth so hard last night I thought you were going to break a tooth!” He’s been saying it almost every day, and finally I sent in the paperwork to his dentist – they require that you send in the paperwork so they can verify your insurance and all that good stuff before they make an appointment for you. Monday, the spud and I were leaving the grocery store when someone from the dentist’s office called, told me she was going to call in a prescription and where did I want them to call it in?
“A prescription for what?” I asked.
“Oh, for the preventative antibiotic,” she said. “For your heart murmur.”
“Oh, right.”
“You don’t usually have premeds?” she asked worriedly.
“I was just diagnosed with the heart murmur a few months ago,” I said. (This is the Tricuspid Regurgitation I’m talking about, by the way. In case you were confused.)
“Oh, okay. Well, I’m going to call in a prescription for amoxicillin. You’ll need to take four one hour before your appointment. I’ll call in 12, just in case you need them in the future.”
“Okay, great!” I said, and hung up the phone. I think I don’t have to tell you that visions of great fortune were dancing through my head. Because I was going to have eight extra amoxicillin pills, and believe you me, those babies were going STRAIGHT to the black market.
Heh. Just kidding!
Know how much 12 amoxicillin pills cost? Three dollars. What a bargain, those antibiotics.
Anyway, this morning I took my antibiotics and with a heart full of dread I headed out to see the dentist.
I swear, when I am reincarnated, I’m going to become a dentist/ opthamologist/ gynecologist so that anyone who wants to get the horrible stuff over and done with will only have to make one trip. Hit ’em with the gum scraping, blast of air in the eyeball and pap smear all at once and get it over with. I’ll change my last name to Pain (you can call me Doctor Pain), and wherever I go, people will cringe in fear.
“Louella, what’s the matter?” a husband will say to his wife while they’re dining out on the finest Sonic has to offer.
Louella will point a shaky finger at me and whisper “Doctor Pain!”
Anyway. The building that houses my new dentist’s office is really cool. The ceilings are high, there are lots of windows, and each examining room is situated so that you sit in the chair, and there’s a TV to the right and a window directly ahead. I don’t know what the view is like in other rooms, but I had a view of a nice green lawn, a couple of small trees, and birds frolicking about.
So the chick who showed me back to the examining room went over my history, discussed my teeth-grinding, and poked at various teeth with her Sharp Instrument of Dental Torture. She went away for a little while, and then came back to do a full set of mouth X-rays. I hate the full mouth x-rays, because when they do my front teeth and stick that long thing in my mouth (shut up, perverts) it always makes me want to gag.
The X-rays done, the woman (I never did catch her name) handed me the TV remote and told me she’d be back in a while. I flipped through the channels for a few minutes, left it on the country music station, and watched the birds frolic.
Ten minutes or so later, the woman came back, followed by the dentist. Who looked at my teeth for all of about thirty seconds before he declared them perfect and healthy and ran off again. The woman introduced me to Wendy, the dental hygienist, who made herself comfy and began scraping my teeth with the FUCKING dental hook thing.
Jesus god in heaven I hate that fucking hook thing.
“Hmm,” she said a few minutes in. “Your gums are bleeding.”
“Hmm,” I said. “Could it at all be because you’re jamming a metal hook thing into my gums?”
(No, not really.)
We had quite a discussion about teeth grinding and the long-term effects of teeth grinding, how I’d ground my teeth flat, and if I didn’t have a night guard, I’d keep grinding down my teeth until I needed a full mouth replacement, and so forth.
(By “discussion”, I mean she said all that stuff, and I said “Hmm” and made faces to react to what she’d said. For instance, she said “..might need a full mouth replacement!” and I made a face of horrification.)
So the cleaning was over NOT NEARLY FAST ENOUGH, and they sent in Carrie, whose job was to tell me about the night guard and how it was done and what it was going to cost (answer: an arm, a leg, and possibly my left breast as well). Since my entire reason for coming to the dentist was to get a mouth guard (and also, you’re supposed to go to the dentist every six months and I have slacked in a horrible way; I’m lucky all my teeth didn’t fall out!) I smiled, nodded, and said “Let’s do it!”
So next week I go back for the first of three visits. At the end, I’ll have an acrylic mouth guard that will stop the horrible squeaking sounds that disturb Fred so much. Oh yeah, and it’ll stop that pesky wearing-away-of-enamel.
(And before you suggest it, please know that I’ve tried mouth guards that you can buy over the counter and online, and none of them have worked for me. Yes, I tried that one. That one, too. I need a professional one that will fit my teeth correctly and won’t fall out in the middle of the night, or slip halfway down my throat and make me gag.)
Also, I have inflamed gums, and the dental hygienist showed me how to brush my teeth to get the bacteria out of the pocket of space between my gums and teeth (ugh). I have to go back in three months, and if my gums have not improved, I have to start gum therapy.
My gums haven’t decided how they feel about that yet, but they don’t really like to talk about themselves so they’re going to be tough nuts to crack.
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Oh, how I laughed when I first saw this picture… I like the pictures of the cats where they look cute, but I LOVE the pictures where they look freaky or goofy.
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