Rednecks, elephants and circus mobsters

Remember going to the circus as a kid? Remember the sparkling lights and the brightly painted clowns and the beautiful, sequined lady who jumped from the back of one horse to another as they pranced in circles? Remember the trapezists floating so high in the air you thought they could really fly? Remember the brave lion tamer coaxing the big cats to stand up and leap through hoops of fire and how even the enormous elephants seemed to move with grace? Remember the scent of popcorn and cotton candy and all of the colors and laughter and how everything just seemed magical? Well, I went to the circus yesterday and it was nothing like that. Not. Even. Close.

I’ve noticed advertisements for the circus coming to town the last few years. They’ve never been very big advertisements though, and I’ve learned that, aside from Disneyland, very few things are as special and magical as I remember as a child. Then J and I saw a coupon for the circus this weekend and for some reason it sounded like a really excellent idea, something different from our usual Central Oregon weekends of walking the river trail and trying to soak up what remains of the fading summer warmth.

What a joke. It’s called Circus Gatti and their website calls them a “traditional 3 ring circus.” Granted, there were three “rings” and a “ringmaster” but that’s about where the similarities end. Remember the big top? There were no tents of any kind. Everything was set up out in the dirt where they do the rodeo during the county fair. No fancy spot lights, just the afternoon sun. It was hard to know what I was supposed to be looking at. Something actually going on in one of the rings or the trucks and trailers sitting back in the field? Or maybe all the activity going on under the one curtain set up in the middle. Really, none of it was that interesting anyway.

And the show itself? There was a single clown and he wasn’t even wearing makeup. So basically, he was just some bozo in a really bad outfit acting like he was mute. There was no trapeze. There were a couple of rings hanging from some rope that two women sort of spun around on and hung upside down from. It was no Cirque du Soleil, that’s for sure. A couple of guys wobbled up some rope to what I assume was the tight rope. One of them wasn’t too bad, he did some little hops and fancy steps, but nothing that took my breath away. The other guy was a little chubby and fell a couple of times. Not to the ground, which would have pretty much made my day, instead he ended up catching himself and trying to save face while he wiped his sweaty face with the sleeve of his shirt. Greasy. Gross.

The animals were most disappointing. There were some miniature horses that were cute but underwhelming and looked more bored with themselves than I was. The dogs were pretty cute, but I always think dogs are cute. Seriously, all my dogs have to do is open their eyes in the morning and I think they’re the greatest things in the entire world. I’m secretly amused by their farts and burps (except for the really smelly ones, but those are the silent ones anyway. Silent but deadly. I think it’s their motto.). These circus dogs were more talented than my shedding angels. They jumped over little hurdles and each other! They danced a conga line! They rode a pony! The itsy bitsy, teeny weeny Chihuahua climbed a ladder and leaped a good three feet into the trainer’s arms! Oh, yes. There is nothing left for Cesar Millan to teach these canines.

I thought all of these embarrassing little acts were leading to something. Something Big. Like a Lion. Or a Tiger. Or a Bear. Oh, my! Nope. Not even a monkey. The only big animals were the poor elephants that shuffled in sadly only to be ridden by dozens of bratty little kids who behaved worse than monkeys. Really, it was quite the scene of animal cruelty. I had to keep the tears at bay by imagining the elephant losing her freaking mind and running around stomping obnoxious children and trampling their stupid inbred parents before running off into the sunset. Seriously, nothing would have given me more joy at that moment.

Let’s not forget the music! It was like being at a really bad nightclub. Except for the slow songs that sounded like really bad porn. You know, the kind that tries to be romantic as the camera zooms in on untamed 70’s bush? Yes. It was that bad. The juggler at least tried. Sort of. If by trying you think it makes sense to throw flashy silver pins and balls to techno music, then he completely outdid himself.

This circus was totally ghetto. I didn’t want to run away with it, I wanted to run away FROM it.

Now we come to the crowd that this craptastic spectacle drew. This is where we find the real entertainment. It was an extravaganza of redneck marvels, an endless parade of white trash surprise, literally a feast for the eyes! I don’t know if I can do these people justice, but I’ll try.

We’ll start with Toothless Grandma. Her face looked like one of those shrunken apple heads they sell at craft fairs. Her outfit was simply stunning – black shirt, black pants, black high-top Reeboks all tied together with a gold lamè belt. She further accessorized this haute couture with – please stop to picture and appreciate this fully – not ONLY her key ring hanging from a belt loop, but a HOT PINK Bic lighter hanging RIGHT NEXT to it!! I really didn’t think it could get more fantastic than this, but she did it. The toothless wonder bought AND ate a plate of nachos. Nachos, people! Yes sir, she gummed those babies right before my very eyes.

Next, we come to Chester the Molester. In the living flesh. Baggy Wranglers covering his scrawny ass, long sleeved, oversized brown shirt most likely hiding all the candy he uses to lure his innocent little victims, and sporting stringy, greasy hair with the crème de la crème – a side part pattern of baldness. Yes, the part in his hair was balding and it was nicely sunburned. I watched him follow the screaming little brats as they formed the line for the elephant ride, obviously trying to pick the weakest one apart from the rest of the pack. Just creepy. Super creepy. Luckily, as far as I could tell, Chester’s attempts were thwarted that day. He probably needs a better disguise because, really, the hair was a dead giveaway.

As always, we had the big girls squeezing into too-tight jeans, proudly putting their ginormous mushroom tops on display. There was the female-looking person in a short skirt trying to walk in heels she obviously had never worn before. I wanted to ask her if she’d pooped her pants or really didn’t know how to walk in her shoes, because I couldn’t decide which it was. My favorite outfit may have been the half jeans/half skirt that was obviously hand made. The makeup didn’t disappoint either - teal eye shadow by the pound, brown lip liner with pink lip gloss, fake eyelashes with glitter. Glitter, people! In the middle of the afternoon!! In broad daylight!!

I saw more beer bellies than I could count. One gentleman, I kid you not, sat with his big gut hanging down so far it was resting on the bleacher below him. One of these redneck idiots volunteered to be a victim of the clown. The mute asshole had this loser hopping around trying to do the moon walk or running man or something. I don’t know, I couldn’t really see past his jiggling middle. It’s truly a wonder how some of these people hold themselves upright.

I’m sure I missed a ton of the other glorious exhibitions, but I was starting to lose my sight and had to leave. There’s only so much redneck splendor a normal person can take in one day and I had reached my limit.

I’m sure the circus will be back in town again next year for those of you just dying to see it. After all, the skeezy performers/mob rejects have to make money to buy their drugs and not feed their animals with somehow. Hey, it’s your choice. But you’ve been warned.

Ew. Oogy. Gross.

This morning I killed the fourth black widow in my house in less than a year. Seriously, what is up with these bitches? What makes them think they’re welcome? Because they’re most definitely not.

This one was a fatty. Big and plump, her red hourglass shining like a beacon in the morning sun. She had built quite the web for herself, I don’t know why I didn’t notice it before. Other than it was in a corner of the garage I don’t normally look at. I must have left at just the right time this morning because as I was backing out of my garage on my way to work, the sun shone just so on her gigantic web and her big, black body was smack dab in the middle of it.

The only bug killing spray I have left is wasp killer, but it did the trick - knocked her out of her web and stunned her long enough for me to get a shovel to crush her with. She must have been sleeping too, because she didn’t see it coming. Ha! I left her body there as a warning to others. They’re evil little bitches though, so the next one will probably just eat her remains before finding another corner of my house to take up residence.

My skin is crawling just thinking about it. And did you know I have a bite on my butt? Yeah, one of her little relatives probably did it while I was sleeping. That’s a disturbing thought. Spiders are creepy little fuckers.

My Neurosis is Showing

Yes, I've been feeling quite neurotic lately. Yes, even more than normal. But only about one thing in particular, not life in general. Mostly. Anyhoo.....

My company sponsors its own Toastmasters club and, a few months ago, my manager suggested I join. Ha. Right. Public speaking? That means people watch me while I try to sound clever and look like I know what I'm doing. Which I never do. The thought alone makes me want to run home and crawl under a blanket until my heart stops pounding like it wants to escape from my chest.

So I must have been in an ass-kissing mood the day he invited me to a meeting because I went, under the strict condition that I wouldn't get up and speak that day. And I didn't. I did sit there getting hot flashes and sweaty armpits just from watching other people speak. Fear of public speaking? I'd say I have it. Which turned out to be the exact reason why I decided to join Toastmasters. Lately I've had this crazy idea to conquer my fears and this is a big one to get over. Big. Huge.

The first speech is called the ice-breaker and it's basically a way of introducing yourself to the group. Usually, I am my favorite subject to talk about but this was difficult. What about me did I want to share with my coworkers? My manager? I couldn't think of anything that was interesting enough to talk about for five minutes and yet wasn't over sharing or inappropriate. I finally settled on my role as a mom. It's pretty easy to talk about my kid and I "cheated" by stitching together a speech with some of the things I have written here.

When speech time came, I pretty much wanted to puke my guts out. I thought puking on the floor in front of everyone would be preferable to standing in front of everyone talking. At least it wouldn't last as long. I was afraid I'd forget a part, or freeze up completely and forget the whole thing. I imagined I'd pass out, or sweat pools under my armpits. All really unappealing, unattractive images.

Then something else happened. Yes, my voice shook like I knew it would. I almost cried three separate times. I did forget a couple of small parts, just sentences really. I was pretty much frozen in one spot, probably looking as awkward as I felt. But I got through it. I remembered the important parts, the clever phrases and witty descriptions. People laughed in the right places and I wasn't the only one with tears in my eyes at the end. I shocked the hell out of myself. That rarely happens to me.

The other members of the group give the speaker written comments at the end, feedback on what was good, what can be done better the next time. Mine said things like "You made me cry", "poignant", "Thank you for sharing so much with us", "amazing". Some people told me they couldn't believe it was my first speech, another told me that I set the bar high for myself. Wow. Shocking, definitely.

This is where my neurosis comes in. I'm not done giving speeches. I have nine more to do in this first series. I just put a ton of pressure on myself. Now I have new fear of being a one hit wonder, along with having to get up and do it all over again.

I decided almost immediately the topic for my next speech but it has taken me over a month to write it. I finally wrote it today. I'm feeling pretty good about it. I'm an expert in the subject matter so that should help. A little. I hope.

Yeah, I'm just going to take the next week and a half to memorize it and psych myself up for it. The nausea is already setting in.

Best. Weekend. Ever.

Oh, Monday. I hate Monday. Monday is not my friend. Monday means working, being inside, going back to normal eating and, worst of all, the end to my perfect weekend. Seriously. This weekend was the best ever. This weekend totally kicks all other weekends’ ass this year. Really. Here’s a quick recap. I might be forgetting a few details, but this should give you an idea of how much my weekend rocked. Try not to be too jealous.

Thursday –
What I did -
Played hooky from work to give myself a four-day weekend and went floating. D actually had a float she could carry herself and decided she loves floating now. Shopped for BBQ food. Had relaxing evening watching a movie with her after my ballet taxi duties. Snuggled with dogs.

What I ate –
Café Yumm’s Smoky in a wrap with added jalapeno-sesame salsa. Yumm…..

What I drank –
Water. (weekend prep)

Friday –
What I did –
Woke up early to see D off for the weekend. Went to the lake with M for lots of sun. Used my new cooler. Killed annoying bee-fly things. Realized I love summer so much that I would totally marry it. Really, I love it that much. Went to first Friday with M and had free wine and free jello shots. Went to 900 Wall, flirted with boys and had free Manhattans.

What I ate –
Leftover peanut chicken and noodles, Doritos, an apple, jello shots, potato fritters at 900 Wall (which are nowhere near as good as the risotto fritters that Merenda had. Boo.), the cherries in my Manhattans.

What I drank –
Water, diet coke, white wine, red wine, Manhattans (three of them. I think.)


Saturday –
What I did –
Woke up hung-over. Went to the pet parade with J and squealed over cute dogs. Walked around the park squealing over more cute dogs while giving a recap of the night before. Went floating. Laughed my butt off. Realized I was having the Most Perfect Weekend Ever. Felt the need to tell strangers how great it was. Went with J to her new boy’s parents’ house. They are like a movie family – crazy, loud and totally fun. This was a real conversation there –

New Boy’s Dad: Would you like some wine?
Me: No thank you, I brought my own for later.
New Boy’s Dad: Do you want some wine?
Me: No thank you, not right now.
New Boy’s Dad: What kind of wine do you want?
Me: Really, I’m okay right now.
New Boy’s Dad: Do you want red or white?
Me: I’ll take white. (I love people who force alcohol on me!)

Played bocce ball. I swear these people said my name at least 50 times during the game and were not at all shy about forcing me to play. “Hey, it’s your turn.” “Come on muscles!” “It’s totally up to you. No pressure though.” I did at least get the award for Most Improved During the Game. Even if I had to award it to myself. Oh, and the grandma lady? I was informed that she is “Nana” to me. I want to adopt them. I freaking love these people and I want to be them when I grow up.

Went to M’s for BBQ. Went back to J’s new boy’s place to set off fireworks. Drove to watch the butte fireworks at the crazy family’s office. Snuggled with the new boy’s dog in the back of his BMW. (Yeah, the only action I got all weekend was with dogs. But I’m totally okay with that. Dogs rock.)

What I ate –
Crackers, cheese, salami, olives, artichoke dip, seven-layer dip, mango salsa (which I could have bathed in, it was so good!), chips, veggies, ribs, corn on the cob in a tortilla, grilled pineapple, homemade cherry pie and vanilla ice cream.

What I drank –
Caramel frappuccino, white wine, vanilla whiskey and diet coke, water and a sip of a V-8.

Sunday –
Slept in, read in bed. Felt guilty about leaving my dogs all weekend and stayed home to be with them for a bit and laid out in the sun with them. Went to the Sunday concert with both Jens, met the other one’s new boy. Felt slightly jealous over my friends’ happiness but know they both totally deserve it. Hoped some of it would rub off on me. Sweated like crazy, ended up burning my new skin that had peeled. Went to another BBQ that was not the funnest part of my weekend but gave me something to laugh about. J read her sickly sweet texts from her new boy to me. Ooh’d and ah’d and felt nauseous at the same time. Drank water, sat on my couch for the first time all weekend to watch a movie, snuggled with dogs.

What I ate –
Grapes, cherries, bread with artichoke dip, wasabi peas, “intense” almonds, hot dog, cheese, Greek salad, chicken kabob, a pickle slice and a cupcake.

What I drank -
Water, rose' wine, coconut rum and coke, spiced rum and coke, water.

There is no way that next year’s 4th of July weekend can be better than this, but I’ll sure try. I love everyone who was a part of it and it was the perfect kick-off to a real summer.

13 Candles

Tomorrow is D's birthday party. Number 13. (There's a reason people are suspicious about that number. I bet it all started from 13 year old girls.) I didn't think it was that big of a deal - some girls are sleeping over, I get a couple of pizzas, then hide out in my room with my computer and a steady supply of drinks. I didn't realize this is a Really Big Deal.

Monday night D started freaking out. She started asking over and over what activities she could do with her friends, what games they should play, what order each one should be in, where should everyone sleep, like she wanted a detailed itinerary and map of the evening. I, in my infinite stupidity, suggested she make a list. I like lists, they help me think. Her list stirred her into more of a frenzy. I didn't get it. It's just a sleepover that we're calling a birthday party. WTF?

Later that evening I asked her what the big deal is. It's not her first sleepover, it's not her first party, they're not strangers to her. Her response was, "I just want to make sure everyone is happy and has a good time. I want it to be perfect." Oh, yes. Yes, this I get. I realized that I have passed the Party Hostess With the Mostest gene on to my child. The apple does not fall far from the anal tree.

This sent me into my own frenzy, thinking that my kid deserves a cool party, I can't let her be embarrassed in front of her friends. I won't be the lame mom who gives a lame party. I have a reputation to uphold and it's not going to be ruined by a bunch of newly-branded teenagers. As if.

I spent my lunch the next day scouring the internet and the town for the perfect goody bag ideas. Goody bags? Really? Goody bags were invented for three-year-olds to coax them into giving up a birthday gift and not feel like they have to leave empty-handed. Apparently goody bags are still very much desired at this age. At any rate, I went to my friend Michael's for some crafty inspiration and got my final idea D-approved that evening.

Next was the cake. Stupid me, thinking I could get by without it. I didn't want to spend $35 on a cheesy cake (although I might on a cheesecake), so I came up with the brilliant idea of making one. Brilliant because I don't actually bake. I do pretty much everything but bake. Again, I turned to the internets and found - insert sound of angel chorus - the Rainbow Cake. It's unique, it's colorful, it's easy. At least it sounded easy because it uses a cake mix box. It's really a bit more ambitious and I'm beginning to resent the fact that I will be spending my evening tonight relatively alcohol-free baking a multi-layer cake (because drinking could turn it into a fiasco and me into the Lamest Mom Ever. Seriously, the cake is the centerpiece. It can't be messed with.) instead of boozing it up and watching trashy TV like The Bachelorette and I'm a Celebrity Get Me Out of Here. It's summer time, people. Don't judge.

Now, for the gift. I procrastinated until yesterday, not knowing for the first time what to get her. She had a list a mile long, that she repeated to me daily for at least a month, but it is the big 1-3 and I thought it should be something really cool but not over the top. I started thinking about what she asks for that I always say no to, which made it so easy. I like saying no. No, you can't wear makeup. No, you can't wear that color nail polish. No, you can't borrow my hair straightener or my curling iron. No, you can't use my face mask. Thus, she is getting her own flattening iron, plus a crimping iron (selfishly, so I don't have to braid her hair every night), pastel eye shadow, face powder, lip gloss, a trio of makeup bags, nail polish and nail decals. I'm considering giving it to her at her party instead of on her actual birthday so the girls can play with all of it and do makeovers. Plus it makes me look like a Cool Mom, which is really all that matters.

Barring some bizarre tragedy with the cake, I believe I have upheld my title as Party Planner Extraordinaire. I might even be feeling generous enough to let them use my face mask. I'll just take pictures in case I need blackmail later.

Broken Truce

I saw a spider on my bathroom ceiling. He was small and curled up in the corner. I was too lazy to get a broom and try to lure him out if his corner just to kill him, so I left him there.

The next time I saw him he was in the same corner with a tiny little web. I figured a spider web could come in handy considering the increase I have seen in bugs lately. Doors and windows are open. I’m prejudiced against mosquitoes and quite enjoy keeping a mosquito-free house. I thought Mr. Spider would come in handy. I approached him with the terms for living in my house. They were as follows:

1. No friends overnight and no parties.
2. Stay in your corner, no traveling around the house.
3. If I wake up and see so much as one leg on any part of my body, I will kill you.
4. Do not get any bigger.

He seemed to agree. Then again, he’s a spider and I’m not sure how large his human vocabulary is. At any rate, he broke at least two of my terms of agreement right away. I am convinced this was done on purpose.

The very next morning Mr. Spider was bigger. He had either doubled his size overnight or had been fooling me by curling up in the corner. Either way, he was exhibiting very devious behavior. I warned him one last time, letting him know I had my eye on him. And all eight of his creepy little legs. Later that afternoon, he was gone and in his place was a really tiny spider. I don’t know if this was a little buddy he invited over, the offspring his baby-mama got tired of taking care of, or a cannibalistic snack. At this point I wasn’t putting anything past him.

I haven’t seen Mr. Spider since, but the next morning, as I’m leisurely waking up and relaxing in my bed, I see it. A single strand of spider string. Above my bed. On my side. I have no evidence, but I bet that little fucker dropped down on me while I was sleeping. Was I not clear in my terms? He just had to push it, didn’t he? The next time I see him he is dead. And the same goes for any of his little friends. His spider-mafia brethren have to understand. He put them all in danger.

Never make an agreement with a spider. They can’t be trusted. Creepy little fuckers.

Exposed

I went to the dentist today. For a number of years I've been able to successfully avoid it. Having no dental insurance is always a good excuse. But then I noticed a tiny little spot on the top of my tooth at the gum line. Vigorously brushing did nothing to remove it, ditto with ignoring it. A few days ago, I started to feel tenderness when brushing my teeth. No other soreness, no sensitivity to cold or warm water, just an annoying little twinge. Luckily, my dental plan started in January after my "new" job so I made the dreaded appointment.

Seriously, I dread going to the dentist. I know everyone does, but I claim special despising status based on all the work I've had done to my mouth and some of the unexpected aftermath. When I was 9, I had to have a spacer installed. This was a very archaic device that was glued to probably four of my teeth and covered the roof of my mouth. It came with a little key that my mom had to insert into the piece on the roof of my mouth and she would turn it nightly for about six months. The purpose was to stretch my mouth because it wasn't big enough to accommodate all of my teeth. Contrary to what some people might think, my mouth still isn't that big. When it was removed, it pulled out two of my teeth. The two that weren't ready to come out yet. With no pain relief. "Ha ha, thought we were going to lose her there a few times" is what the asinine dentist said.

When I was 14, I had to have two teeth pulled, this time on purpose. It's scary and gross but not really that big of a deal. Not unless they drug you based on your age instead of your weight and you are probably in the 10th percentile of weight compared to everyone else your age. This results in a drug overdose. One in which you are not able to wake up on your own but require more drugs that have an opposite effect to wake you up. Then when you do wake up you don't know what you're saying, but everyone in the room who is supposed to be a professional dental person is laughing at you. Kind of like when college kids get a dog drunk at a party and laugh at it while it runs in circles until it falls down because the poor creature has no idea why it feels the way it does. Then you get in the car to go home and sob uncontrollably for no apparent reason while your five-year-old sister asks why you're acting crazy and when you will stop. The upside to this is that you will most likely never be tempted to try drugs. Just say no.

As an adult, after having worn braces for almost three years, including the headgear contraption that was worn at night (only at night, thank god) and the tiny little rubber bands that went on little hooks and kept me from opening my mouth much at all (and snapped back on me innumerable times), I decided I would have no more oral surgery ever. For a few years my dentist kept recommending that I have my wisdom teeth removed. Nope. No thank you. Can't make me. Nanny, nanny boo-boo.

Until one day I noticed my teeth shifting. My front teeth on top. I could bite my hand and examine the impression left behind. It was crooked. The reason? My wisdom teeth had no room and as they crowded in, they were moving all of my other teeth around. Damn them. I did not go through all that work to have crooked teeth. I agreed to have them removed. By my dentist. Because he said he could put me under and it would be easy. He lied.

First, he did not put me under. Being awake with laughing gas is not the same as being put under. I don't care if it smells like pina coladas, it doesn't feel the same. I can smell a pina colada-scented candle all day long and not get a buzz. Same difference as the gas. (And this was before I became the big drinker I am now.) Secondly, he was a moron and injected the side of my face instead of my gum. I knew something was wrong when he said "Hmmm. Huh. Any history of blood disease in your family? Yeah. Hmmm... that doesn't look good." These are not words one wants to hear from their dentist after they have had a giant needle inserted into their mouth. Had I been knocked out, I wouldn't have had to hear them. But I was only given the nitrous crap so whatever teeny, tiny small little buzz I might have had immediately disappeared. I was sent home, teeth intact, with a cold press.

I ended up with a huge bruise on my face. Huge. Bruise. On my face. My FACE for Christ's sake! It's not that I'm so incredibly vain. It's just that it was so completely unavoidable. I couldn't hide it and it was there for a week or more. I had to go places still. I had scheduled play dates for my one year old daughter. I got looks from people. No, these were Looks. As in "You poor woman, I hope the bastard that did that to you rots in jail." Or worse, "You stupid woman. Do you let him hit your baby too?" At a play date, I was actually asked if I was allowed to be out of my house. Saying "My dentist did it" is roughly the equivalent of "My dog ate my homework." Nobody believed me.

After that little fiasco, I decided an oral surgeon might be better qualified to extract teeth from my mouth. I made an appointment with Dr. Shock. That is his name, I am not kidding you. Don't judge him for it either. He's really not an evil, sadistic ogre working out of a laboratory in some creepy castle tower. In truth, he's quite lovely. When discussing how the procedure would go, he gave me options for pain relief. He said the first level was like drinking one martini. Level two was two martinis, level three was three martinis. I ordered three martinis. See? Lovely. He even spoke my language. I went home coherent, with some lovely pain pills and virtually no swelling. Zero bruises.

The last dental experience is really why I've stayed away so long. I didn't like my dentist. I no longer trusted him. However, as long as I had insurance and was only getting my teeth cleaned, I went. I liked my hygienist. It was just the other guy I wanted to break up with. Making the appointment this week, I had to choose another dentist who would be covered under my plan. As in, "It's not you, it's my insurance."

When I walked into the new place this morning, the smell reminded me of a winery. It was a little jarring, but also comforting. I thought at first that if it smelled that way because they were actually drinking, we might have a problem. Unless they shared with me. I figured that would be okay. It's not like getting three martinis, but a glass or two of wine is nothing to be laughed at.

I wasn't too impressed with the technician who did my x-rays. She's probably not someone who handles her alcohol well. She certainly didn't handle the x-ray card thingies well. My mouth is not that big and they were cutting into my gums every time she stuffed one in and I had to bite down on them. Not cool. One martini or one glass of wine would have helped the situation. You know, I really think I'm onto something here. Spas give you wine, why not your dentist?

Dr. Andy was more pleasant. He poked around a little bit, finally declaring there was "nothing much going on in there." Not what I'd want to hear if someone was referring to a party I was throwing, or maybe my lack of a social life or even my mental state. But with my mouth, I'm fine with it. Nothing much should be going on in there. As in no cavities. No cavities is a good thing. (Yes, I hear you snickering. Grow up.) So why the sore tooth? Here is the bad news. Apparently the gums can start to recede as one grows older and that is what is happening to me. My gum line has started to recede right above my tooth, exposing the root and that is what is causing the tenderness. My root is showing. (Hmmm.. doesn't sound quite as dirty as having a party in my mouth, does it?) I'm going back to have it filled in a few weeks and, until then, I have been given sensitive formula toothpaste.

All in all? Good news - no cavity. Bad news - I'm getting older. Good news - I didn't have to pay anything to be told I'm getting older.

In semi-related news, my therapist let me know that she has diagnosed me with a mild case of adjustment disorder, making it sound like it's nothing more serious than the common cold. Obviously I haven't yet vomited out my entire dental history to her or let her in on how alcohol could benefit my experience at the dentist. It would probably help in her practice too, come to think of it. I'd certainly tell her more things, maybe more than she wants to know. At this point she still thinks I'm normal and not neurotic. That's okay, my deductible is stupidly high and I can't really afford for her to know how crazy I actually am. I'd rather put my resources into vodka.