Guess Who's Heading Back to the Dentist's Chair?

Or, should I say, guess who's heading back to the maxillofacial surgeon's chair, then back again after about six weeks, and THEN goes to the dentist's chair?

This guuuuuy! (Waggles thumbs at chest.)

Yeah, baby. My two-time-crown loser, Tooth #30*, is just a wee decayed nub at this point. Think Shane McGowan. Better yet, don't. I'm not that bad. But I do have to have the carcass of this root-canaled mess yanked out of my face. From what they tell me, the jaw bone needs to grow in where the tooth's root used to be, then they implant a post, and stick a fake tooth on top of that. Sounds delightful, no?

I go in on Friday for the extraction. Good way to start the weekend, I think. Or, it'll at least be a good way to start the debates, especially if I'm looped on painkillers.

*Did anyone else think of that joke, Question: What time is the best time to go the dentist? Answer: Two-thirty. Tooth-hurty, get it? No? Just me? Man, it's always just me.

I Was Only a B+ Student in Math, But I'm Pretty Sure that...

Criticizing a woman's politics ≠ sexism.
Criticizing an African-American's politics ≠ racism.
Criticizing a septaugenarian's politics ≠ ageism.
Criticizing a Delawarian's politics ≠ Delawarianism.

Okay, that last one is a stretch. But the others are true. You can legitimately call someone into question without it being all about their composite parts. Kind of like the political version of synechdoche. Maybe. Look, I'm on my second glass of white wine, so even thought I think the use of a five-dollar lit class word is apt, my judgment could be clouded by a sweet riesling with pear notes. Whatever. But I hope you get the point: I can call someone's politics into question without it being about their DNA. Or the age of it. To assume otherwise is an ism in itself. To quote Ferris Bueller, "A person should not believe in an ism, he should just believe in himself."

Ugh. I just remembered that one of Super Ninja's co-workers didn't know who or what Ferris Bueller was. Now THAT is depressing.

P.S.: I just saw the opening sketch of Saturday Night Live. I have a mad girl crush on Tina Fey. THERE. I said it.

Another Thing I'm Not So Fond Of?

The fact that every chick who chooses to wear glasses, has brunette-ish hair, and kind of a snappy personal style will now be compared to Sarah Palin. I'm not saying I'm Tina Fey or anything, but let's just say all I'd need is a jumbo hair clip and a strand of pearls, and I've got my Halloween costume all set...

I Hate People

Not really, but I'm in a hotel room in Mississippi with CNN on in the background, and they're doing a feature on Sarah Palin's glasses.

Yep. Not Sarah Palin. But Sarah Palin's glassess.

So.

Here's why I hate people:

1) CNN is covering the appeal someone's glasses. Unless these glasses saved someone's life, they are not newsworthy. We're not hearing about Biden's ties, are we?

2) Her style of glasses are selling at quadruple the rate they were before Sarah Palin was nominated for Veep. This means women around the country saw the glasses and decided owning them would make them powerful, intelligent women (who also, once upon a time, were beauty queens). Why do I think this is what these women are thinking? Because Peggy Hill has the same glasses, and there wasn't a stampede for Kawasakis when "King of the Hill" premiered eleventy years ago.

3) I watched the segment on Sarah Palin's glasses, so I have to hate me now, too. Thanks a lot, CNN. Thanks a lot.

Things (Like Me) Fall Apart

No, this is not an homage to Chinua Achebe. I need to check my horoscope from yesterday because things, literally, fell apart. And no, this isn't a metaphorical falling apart, so please don't fret that my marriage is in trouble.

I was home with the kiddies yesterday because daycare was closed. We had a lovely time frolicking at the indoor playground at the mall. Don't wince -- I'm not exposing my children to wanton consumerism, well, wantonly. The Boy and the Girl must sound like a dinner bell to mosquitoes of the world, because every time we play outside during balmy months they come home with at least three new bug bites. Have you ever told a four-year-old to stop scratching? Doesn't work.

But here's what happened... Sunday evening, I developed a bit of a headache. Monday morning, the headache turned into a throbbing lower jaw. Tuesday morning, it turned into a blind headache. Canny health expert that I am, I deduced that I had an abscess. My crown, which was the subject of several posts in 2006, fell out a few months ago. A visit to my dentis revealed that the remaining tooth was too nubby for another crown, and that, in fact, I now need an implant in yon gap. And that walking around with a crater in your gum exposes you to awesome possibilities, like abscesses. I'm on antibiotics to kill the infection in the root of the nub. Thus starts the arduous process of glamming up my smile again.

So, what else fell apart? At one point the Girl needed a diaper change, so I trailed her upstairs. I noticed the carpet on the pie-shaped step at the top of the flight seemed to have shifted a bit. Oh, it had. It shifted right off of the tack board. I didn't want the Girl, or the Boy, or any of us to step on that wicked looking thing, so I poked the carpet back down on top of it. Yeah, except I poked my index finger as well. Huzzah.

Next, as I was scrubbing down the grill (it was a bit yicky from our tiny cookout on Sunday), I looked over the deck railing and noticed that wildlife had foraged in my garbage can. Somehow, it (or they?) knocked over the can and got the lid off -- the lid that snaps on and is theoretically locked by the handles. So, cleaning that up was fun.

When I returned to the house, I needed to wash my hands and slap a bandage on the tack board puncture on my finger. So, I scrubbed at the kitchen sink and then reached underneath for my First Aid kit. But I encountered a puddle of water. Huh? I cleared out the rest of the junk under there (bug spray, cleansers, etc.), and found a quarter-inch deep puddle. When I ran the water in the sink, I saw where the hole was coming from: a pea-sized gash in the garbage disposal. I pondered what could have caused that hole -- a fork? a sturdy green bean? a tack board? -- but realized I didn't care, and that I need a sink that doesn't flood. Three hours later, Mr. Plumber replaced the garbage disposal for a tidy sum, but it was money well spent.

Clearly, this is the biggest sign EVER that I should not be a stay-at-home mother, because my house would collapse if I were home with the kids for more than the weekends and an odd day here and there.

UPDATE: Forgot to mention that I also managed to ping off one of the plastic nosepads from my glasses last night. You do not appreciate just how necessary those things are until you have some metal gouging a crater into the bridge of your nose. Thankfully, I had adhesive goo I could use to mend my specs 'til I can find time to get to the optometrist. Likely, though, I will just continue to reapply the goo 'til I go for an exam and new glasses.