August 24, 2009

This was not me.

Up until the last few months, I did not mind going to the dentist. But recently (as in, the weekend we closed on our house), one of my molars broke off as we enjoyed a fine repast of lo mein and broccoli beef (damn fortune cookies). What followed was a round of bullshit with a ridiculous dental office, battles with a corrupt insurance company (but of course, we don't need any sort of medical reform... *blink*), and, finally, some time spent in the chair of a less ridiculous dentist.

Of course, this dentist says I have a really small mouth- the first time EVER that I've been told that. The result of that is that after getting my permanent crown affixed and a filling done, my mouth now feels like a Bengal Tiger had his paw in my mouth for 5 hours. For 3 hours afterwards I was speaking around a 3lb wad of cotton, and Mr. Pony was laughing without restraint as I mangled 'B's and garbled 'D's. *smack*

Several hours later (4.5 of that spent at work, 2 watching a movie and 2 staring aimlessly at the wall wondering how to make my face stop hurting), I think I'll take some Tylenol {or a strong margarita} and go to bed to dream sweet dreams of non-tooth rotting Pepsi and magic wand dental work.

If suffering brought wisdom, the dentist’s office would be full of luminous ideas. - Mason Cooley

*photo from Seth W.'s Flickr photostream

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