|Chapter 112: In which we take an odd detour
||[Jun. 23rd, 2012|10:48 pm]
Okay, not so much with the funny, but there are all of these bits and pieces…the end results of a well, frankly a lot of really goddamn long…excruciatingly long...asininely long commutes down 95 south on Friday nights for what, twelve, thirteen weekends. While stuck in the kind of expletive traffic that would make a nun curse, I needed something to keep my mind out of the endless loop of “screw HOT lanes on the Beltway, Virginia, that’s going to help nothing. Try widening 95 so we can get through the state with sanity and hairline intact!” And while learning the lyrics to all of the songs on Civil Wars’ Barton Hollow…Decemberists’ Long Live the King and Raise Our Voices to the Air, Mumford & Sons’ Sigh No More, Crooked Still’s Hop High…and more that don’t come to mind, but should they start playing in a bar one night, I will ASTOUND that I know every expletive song on the album because I had 6 hours a week every weekend for 13 weeks to LEARN them. |
Six lanes, each side, Virginia. Make it happen.
Anyway, even while trying to parse out lyrics and chase the key all over the car, there was still leftover room in my brain. Facility with multi-tasking: a blessing and a curse. So, enough room to start fantasizing about putting my car in park and getting confrontational with people not using turn signals, or driving their “Choose Life!” bumperstickered car while texting and not watching the road. So, instead, because that’s sort of dangerous and no doubt would make my drive even LONGER, I would, like some ruminant with a four-chambered brain, cough up the cud of a conversational snippet that had lodged like a popcorn hull between my parietal and occipital lobes and needs to be flossed out and resolved.
I know. That was horrible. I was going for a triumvirate of wacky analogies, but found myself phoning it in when I got to brain parts because I was too damn lazy to look up proximities of appropriate organs, so I just grabbed two that have nothing to do with that kind of introspective analysis, but are definitely next to each other and thought, oh, wrap it up while you’re…a head.
I’m sorry. Even more horrible. See what happens when I don’t write often enough? Like a horse that’s been shut up in the stall because of bad weather. You might as well just let him spazz and buck and jig all over the place and get it out of his system, because you don’t want to be in the saddle…ahem. Apparently we’ve got an analogy build-up here. Like tartar, it’s got to be painstakingly scraped off, and if only you flossed regularly…
Hmm, second tooth analogy. Who’s expletive terrified about her upcoming dentist appointment? Oh, that would be me!
Don’t look at me that way. There’s not a lot I’m afraid of…well, that I’ll let on…but dentist, oh, no hiding THAT. In my favor, I’ve had a lifetime of really horrible dental experiences. There’s something about my mouth that gives dentists ideas. (Eeew, no. Not those kind of ideas. JESUS floating in barleywine, have some pity, I’m breaking out in a flopsweat just writing THIS. Don’t get cute. For once, I’m nowhere NEAR the gutter; stay with me…because I’m sure it’ll get worse) Admittedly, it’s a mouth with issues. (See, worse.) My adult teeth all came in behind the baby teeth. So, yeah, a mouth like a shark. Except for the part where they had to PULL all of the baby teeth. Of course, that was back when they’d knock you out cold in a heartbeat. Honestly, for years, I thought you went to the dentist, they put the thing over your face, you’d have some really bad dreams, and then you’d wake up clutching a tiny plastic treasure chest with a tiny tooth in it and they’d give you a lollipop. (Ah, the bad old days…when dentists would give you candy…) but anyway, one of my adult teeth refused to come out and rather than just give it time…my dentist and orthodontist had the brilliant idea of twisting it loose in the socket. How did that turn out? Well, that tooth and part of my jaw eventually wound up…NOT in my expletive body anymore, THAT’S how well that worked out. And that’s just flowed into one disaster after another. Plus, right, imagine how well I do with dentist smells of burning tooth, and blood and oh, heavens a whiff of that cherry stuff, augh! And the sounds….gah. Don’t even get me started on seeing flecks of me spattering that damn visor they wear now.
And I can’t spit for crap. Seriously. I can pretend to be as WASPy as I want about it, but the truth is that I completely lack the ability to make my saliva leave my mouth in an orderly fashion. It’s like there’s some kind of umbilical salivary cord thing I’ve got going on. And that’s when I’m stone cold sober. At the dentist’s office my nickname is “Two Cannisters”. That’s how much gas it will take to keep me from leaving holes in the chair arms or leaping out of the chair and through the cheap wall board and poster of gingivitis. Which means, that when it’s time to rinse and spit…sigh. “Do you need a…” Set of tongs, lady, just give me scissors, a set of tongs, and a towel to mop myself up. I’m carrying spider genes, sunshine, don’t mess with my spit, it’s got the tensile strength of…spider silk. Well, that didn’t flow well.
Anyway. Spit. Another indignity of the dentist office. Right. I’ve already had to have an abscessed salivary gland removed (hey, that was a fun couple of day of ooh, mouth cancer just like your grandma…) but that apparently didn’t slow down production at all. Because I’m an over-salivator. Which is normally not a big deal…but if I’m getting a cavity worked on and they want to use a dental dam…sigh. Niagra Falls. I mean, why not toss a penny in my mouth for good measure. (Copper makes you salivate. Really. Seriously, did you even WASH that penny before you put it in your mouth?) How many times can you be laying there in the chair, frantically waving your arms, because you don’t dare move anything else because you’ve got the Lake Superior of Spit quivering at the edge of your lip and every hygienist has gone on a coffee break. And let’s face it, I’ve got a dental dam in my mouth, a mouth full of spit and three quarters of a brain floating on the ceiling, and only a fraction left to panic about the impending levee burst.
Anyway, I don’t dare switch dentists now because everyone on staff has learned that I cannot be left alone with a dental dam in. And you can’t just leave one of those little suction things in my mouth…not while I’m working my way into the second canister of gas. Because let me tell you, not only do those suction things make a horrible noise when they manage to inhale a significant portion of my inner cheek…so do I.
Hey. This whole post was going to be going someplace else. But I made a dentist appointment yesterday.