The Mom 2.0 Summit was a very good time.

At the conference party I ran into a group of startlingly fashionable guys:

-Are you from Argentina?
-No.
-Europe?
-No.
-Musicians?
-No.
-Wait. Does Houston have a gay scene?
-YES!

Ahhhh. Texas shorts my gaydar.

Anyway, my new friends (who do work with the Osito Foundation), told us where we could find some good dancing in town, which is how Lisa, Gwen, and I ended up at a gay bar.

I set my coat on a bench, and the bench eventually became a “stage,” which is how a dancing transvestite accidentally crushed my phone. I’m pretty sure there’s a fetish site for this somewhere, so I expect my stats to reflect that shortly.

The phone still works, so props to Apple, because those were some seriously menacing platforms. Still, I prefer it when my iPhone isn’t shedding glass shards into my ear. Le sigh.

In other news, Gwen was wearing Wonder Woman panties, and so it turns out that like her very much.

(Photo from Gillat)

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

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.

Rich people in the United States all have the same teeth. It kind of creeps me out. It’s like a plastic surgeon deciding that everyone needs a particular type of nose for optimal breathing, and then we fit our adolescents with nose shapers to re-orient nose growth.

Anyway, emergency oral surgery has been punted because the periodontist discovered that I need some serious antibiotic action before they can get to work. Which means the above thought is not courtesy of Vicodin.

Later man, I’m eating a celery stick. This is hard exercise.