Monday, March 8, 2010
I'm on drugs!
The roller coaster of my adult life never ceases to amuse me.
After a FANTASTIC time at the Muse concert this past weekend, my attentions turned to more vital (and painful) subjects; namely, my teeth, and all of their decaying glory.
Ew. Gross. Ick. Blech. Yeah, tell me about it. Enduring chronic back pain for the past few years (thanks Sciatica, you're a real pal!) and having a handful of teeth already extracted, a little toothache should be no biggie. But I've found that there is nothing quite like the stinging, shooting pain of an exposed nerve in the tender cavity of your mouth to reduce even the most gallant and brave to dithering idiots.
Idiot supremo (that's me) found that not one, not two, but THREE teeth needed to be extracted post-haste. Which brings me to today's gorgeous sunny day and gauze, blood, and sweet sweet Vicodin.
I have to give it to the Oral Surgeon - he was a trooper, jimmying that stubborn molar with a zest and vigor that belied his age. I've had difficult extractions before, so it was no surprise to me when I found myself pressed cheek down to the sticky vinyl chair, staring wearily and frightened into the bright fluorescents. It may be small consolation that I think I bled on his pressed grey pants. Aren't I wicked?
The redeeming part of the ordeal was the uber cool assistant, with his greyed ponytail and genuine smile. He looked more the part of Biker Dude than Dental Assistant, and while the Novacaine was working its magic, asked me if I'd done anything cool this weekend. Why yes, yes I did... and so ensued a brief but soothing conversation about some pretty kickass bands.
20 minutes later, sans teeth, I was back in the sunshine, drooling piteously on myself through thick wads of gauze. Mercifully, the pharmacist took a good look at me, and skipped the verbal confirmation of my identity. Pretty clear by the crusted blood and dazed gleam in my eye that this was no time for idle chit chat.
And now, home. The drugs have stopped my face from pounding, and I've been pretty productive considering. Dinner is a-cookin, laundry is a-folded, and all is right in the world.
Or, it could just be the drugs.
Posted by Anti-Stepford at 6:16 PM