Filling out the paperwork for my oral surgery, I noticed I was signing a consent form for bone grafting. I had some questions for the person at the desk.

-Uh. Are you taking some of my jaw and putting it somewhere else in my jaw?
-Excuse me?
-Where do you get the bone for the bone grafting?
-Oh, it’s a pre-treated crushed bone. Sort of like sand we use to fill the space.
-Is it human bone?
-It’s cadaver.
-So, human.
-No, it’s cadaver. It’s animal bone.
-… Doesn’t cadaver mean “dead human body?”
-No, I’m pretty sure cadaver is a kind of animal.
-…

In the end, she asked the doctor, who confirmed that it was dead-person sand they were packing in my jaw. This made me feel uncomfortable, and then deeply grateful. Signing that donor card is such an act of grace. I never anticipated needing anything quite so personal from a stranger, but here I am. Since the surgery, I’m carrying something sacred around with me — a little thimbleful of someone else.

Also, my jaw is now certifiably haunted. So if I say something insulting the next time I see you, you can’t necessarily prove it was me. Stupid.

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

So, I bought a video by Gwyneth Paltrow’s trainer, Tracy Anderson. I did this as part of my efforts to optimize, but also because I am over thirty. When you turn thirty, the mind-police arrive, flash this thing in your eyes, and suddenly you feel compelled to do anything Gwyneth Paltrow recommends.

(Related aside: I cannot stop talking about the things I saw on Oprah. As I will myself to shut up, I can hear my mouth charging ahead with enthralling anecdotes about the Olsen twins’ business philosophies (shut up!), extending your passion to the world (shut! up!), and S-shaped bowel movements (ohmydeargod, shut up!). It’s gotten so bad that I decided I had to stop mentioning Oprah’s name in conversation. So now I say, “I saw this thing on… TV about how your poop is supposed to be S-shaped?” And all the women around me nod knowingly.)

Anyway, I got the post-partum workout video even though I have a two year old, because the stuff I want to change about my body is mostly related to pregnancy. Also, I am weak as a hairless kitten. I have trouble summoning the muscle power to type this, and I try to reserve what little strength I have for lifting forkfuls of cheesy pasta to my lips. Taxing, that.

So I decided to start off slowly and build my workout confidence! I watched the video on fast forward, and Tracy barely seemed to move. Nearly all the exercises are on the mat, and supine is my preferred exercise position. Let’s do this thing!

I unrolled my mat, grabbed my weights, turned the video on, and ten minutes later I felt a grave uncertainty settle in. Holy mother of Mallowmar, people. I couldn’t safely complete the first section, let alone the whole video. Fifteen minutes in I was doing that crazed heyena whimper-laugh, closely followed by the rabbit death keen.

I had resolved to try it for seven straight days, but by the second day I couldn’t rise from a reclined position. I also couldn’t hold my head upright, and my tongue felt all achy. I stopped after the second workout in self defense, but a strange thing happened, dear reader. As my stomach fibers began to recongeal, I could see a difference! After two workouts! Bryan concurs that I am not hallucinating.

And so I’ve decided, again, to go at it for a week. Let’s see how this turns out. Please wave if you see me crawling on the sidewalk.

The Fanta Girls Are My Hip-Hop Posse
Say I’m too busy working on my streetwear line to find a posse. Enter the Fantanas, a pre-cast set of hot multi-ethnic chicks, ready to follow me around to parties. They’re never too exhausted to dance on the bar in my stead, and I’m pretty sure they never need to be fed or use the bathroom. That being the case, you may wonder why I wouldn’t call on the arguably more talented and media-savvy Pussycat Dolls. But I think someone is forgetting about the bottomless supply of second-rate mixers.

Control a Woman Remote Control

Control Your Man Talking Remote Control

Or, you know, you could just break up.