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 a baby with a round, toothless face, seeing every detail for the first time.
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.
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.
Uh. Put a hold on that whole exercise thing. My tooth just exploded because I have been pretending I don’t need oral surgery. Turns out the only thing less pleasant than oral surgery is emergency oral surgery. Maybe that’s why they don’t have emergency-oral-surgery mixers, or emergency-oral-surgery ice cream socials. Simple logic, people.
Also, my comments no longer work. I think it’s database corruption or something, but I’m having trouble getting definitive answers, and I have no idea how to fix this kind of thing. The silence is somewhat deafening on this end.
Aw. I miss you.
Have you heard about Plinky yet? It launched yesterday, and you might want to go grab your preferred user name before it’s gone.
Plinky gives you a new question to answer every day, and lets you friend people and compare answers with them, sort of like you can on Facebook or Twitter. You can favorite other people’s answers, and publish your own answers to your blog (or your Twitter feed), and so forth. If you’re already blogging, it’s a nice way to supplement and to help your readership grow. If you’re not, it’s a less work-intensive way to connect with friends. I’m an advisor to the company, and I’m excited about it, so I’ll be posting my answers to Plinky prompts here in the next few weeks. Go have a look, and let me know what you think.
In an effort to eliminate my mystery hives, which are apparently not allergic reactions, I am off to have a very nice acupuncturist stick needles in me. These are tiny needles. Hair thin needles, I am told. Needles so small they hardly even qualify as needles, you see. So why call them needles then? Why not call them something less panic-inducing? Stupids.
Fun Fact! Tongue goo is a part of the diagnosis process in Chinese medicine. Therefore, I was not supposed to brush my tongue this morning, which is counter-intuitive when you wake up and it tastes like something died in your mouth.
(Photo by Valerie Macon)
What’s that you say? You’re an Obama speech writer? Come here. The nation would like to kiss you on the mouth.