I have problematic teeth. When I go to the dentist, which I do every few minutes, they look at me like I’ve been sleeping with hard candy in my mouth, and waking to a hearty breakfast of dried apricots dipped in marshmallow fluff.

So many hygienists have given me flossing demonstrations that I’ve begun to carry a photo of our medicine cabinet in my wallet:

That’s eleven containers of floss, y’all, not counting the two in my nightstand drawer and the one I keep in my dopp kit. So you see, I’ve become “vigilant” about this issue. I’m the fucking Rainman of flossing.

Anyway, this round of oral surgery was to place two implants, one to replace a baby tooth that I never lost, and one to replace a botched root canal done by a dentist I no longer visit — except in particularly graphic nightmares.

After the surgeon made four unsuccessful attempts at placing an IV to knock me out, we decided it might be preferable to go with the laughing gas. Because I was in fetal position crying at the time, this sounded good to me.

They applied the Vader mask, and I immediately recalled how much I dislike laughing gas. I lost the bit of composure I’d managed to summon, and tears began to pool in my ears. When the Novocain took effect, I freaked, albeit in a very subdued, distant manner. A peek into my gas-addled mind:

It is clear I have no teeth. I am an ancient person whose toothless face is weathered with knowledge.

No! Wait! I am uncomfortably high.

To test the latter theory, I tried to lift my arm. Fail. Accordingly, I began to panic.

I am too high to lift my arm. I am entirely too high!! How can I possibly be of use? How can I help the periodontist complete this task? I am useless like this! USELESS!

Then I began to laugh uncontrollably, and my arm floated into view. I tapped the mask and said, “I. Hate. This. Shit.”

And that’s how I ended up having the surgery with a pint of Novocain and very little dignity. I can recall all the details of why my mouth feels like this, which is why I hope to drink heavily this weekend.

Tomorrow, do you want to talk about bone grafting? No? Aw. Let’s do it anyway.

Love,
Maggie

Best screencap on record. In retrospect, I should have just worn the pasties and wig as we filmed this one. Next time.

I’m headed to Houston this weekend to moderate a panel at Mom 2.0.

Is it possible I’ll still be on pain meds from my mouth surgery? It’s possible. What’s certain is that I’ll be talking around a couple of retainers. So we’ll see how that goes.

The panel is about whether product placement is evil. What’s the subtle difference between paying your rent and whoring yourself? Is it cool to wear a bikini while you’re holding up the Coke can?

There’s still time to sign up to attend the conference, so hopefully I’ll see you there. I’ll be signing copies of my book before the panel. Also, Laura promised to teach me how to spit while I’m in Texas, so the Flickr stream should be worthwhile.

If I miss you this time, future plans include SxSW in Austin and Blogher in Chicago, though I’m not sure I’ll be speaking at either. Hopefully I’ll see you around.

As you may recall, last summer I was bitching about uncomfortable underwear. I was feeling globally homicidal at the time, but was unable to stop pulling at my drawers long enough to pull a trigger. So G-strings are useful for something besides sex after all.

Anyway, you guys came to the rescue with a range of good suggestions, which I proceeded to try out.

A while later I saw this gem of an article in Domino (available online courtesy of DesignMom). It’s about organizing your underwear so it looks all fancy. After reading it, my disheveled pile of aging cotton made me feel even more pathetic.

I finally threw out all my ill-fitting drawers and bought a couple of these on sale:

That’s the Old Navy Women’s Mesh Hipster, and just as you promised, it’s a towering achievement in undergarments — cute, flattering, reasonably priced, comfy, no panty line, good at math. Once I’d tried them out, I went online and ordered enough to outfit the Rockettes.

The drawer organizers I found were overpriced, so I bought some ornament storage trays on clearance at the Container Store, because I am a genius.

Anyway, behold!

Are you atremble at the glory of it all? For the record, that glass full of weed is actually verbena leaves. I thought it would make the drawer smell nice, but it didn’t really, so feh.

I redid my sock drawer too:

I can’t tell you how chick-excited I am. It’s like a new-issue-of-People-and-box-of-rainbow-macaroons-from-Miette-while-I-watch-Gossip-Girl excited.

Anyway, do this for yourself. I’m surprised at how calming it is to wake up knowing I won’t have to paw through a tangle of withered elastic and granny wear.

Tomorrow, oral surgery! Enjoy my pain-killer enhanced posts for the next week or so.

Hank is two years old today.

When he’s feeling affectionate, he asks to be lifted up, and then drives his matchbook car tenderly on your shoulders and head.

I like him.