“Please don’t worry about it, I’ve seen far worse,” explained the dentist. “We treat a lot of people from the World Bank.”
I had fretted that my first time with a dentist here in the States would result in him bolting in terror once he saw my British teeth, but it turned out I had nothing to fear as my teeth are in fairly good nick, if a little wonky. Thus the dentist encouraged me to see his colleague to judge if I would be a good candidate for invisible braces. I duly did. And was duly rejected.
Apparently I would need a few teeth moved about in a slightly more invasive way than I had anticipated before the braces could go on. I had foolishly got quite excited about finally having perfect teeth (and naturally the resulting hot boyfriend/better job/bigger boobs), so to be informed “Sorry, you’re just not a good candidate unless you want your jaw sawn in half” was like being told to fuck off by a nun. I shuffled home after the appointment, miserable to my core, and went to bed early in a massive huff.
This shattering episode in my life is no doubt on a par with the utter dejection Rick Santorum must have felt as he exited the fun game of pick-the-crazy. He threw in the towel earlier this week after realising that he would lose the primary election in his home state of Pennsylvania, which is sort of like having your boyfriend tell you he’s dumping you for another girl while you’re still in bed with him.
So, farewell Rick. You were the light that bathed that shining city on the hill. Your determination, passionate oratory, and ability to articulate and manipulate the basic fears of hard-core conservatives kept you in the race far longer than anyone imagined. You will be remembered for your sweater-vests and your love of bowling. Please don’t come back in 2016.
Newt Gingrich and Ron Paul are still in the race for the nomination – hurrah! – but they increasingly remind me of those crap mascots you see at lower league football games, there to be mocked and to give the game some colour. Newt is threatening to tattoo his forehead with the words ‘All The Way to Tampa’, because clearly that will look so professional when, as President, he hosts the G7.
It will be fascinating to see what role, if any, Rick plays to support Mittens in his campaign for the presidency, for the campaign has indeed started in earnest. And if this week is anything to go by, the fight for the White House will be as mucky as that between the Republican candidates.
A few days ago we witnessed the undignified spectacle of Mrs. Mittens joining Twitter purely to engage in a fatuous argument about stay-at-home mums. It has always been open season on anyone in the public arena who is linked to a political party – however tenuous that link – and who makes a vaguely contentious or clumsy comment, but with the increasing use of social media in campaigning, political roadkill has never tasted so good.
Twitter has become the kindling of choice for political arsonists, and stories that would have previously merited a small paragraph in a newspaper article now rocket up the news agenda, powered with the kind of hysteria not seen since those girls in Salem all got their period at the same time, because of the sheer deluge of instant, on-the-record comments from the protagonists themselves and those closest to them.
Admittedly it’s a delight for me as an obsessive, political nerd to watch from the sidelines, but I don’t envy those who no doubt spend valuable time fire-fighting what are ultimately distractions from the key messages they are trying to promote.
The next seven months are going to be so much fun. It almost makes up for being rejected by a dentist (a fucking dentist! pff).