This weekend my gum was feeling sore, an ache that continued until Tuesday morning when I woke up and my face looked like this:
Yesterday I had an emergency dentist appointment where I was told that I needed a root canal and crown. I don’t understand why I can’t get dentures now. I mean, if I had dentures, I could have straight teeth, or better yet, a blinged-out grill. Plus, I’m already into older men so this would give me a conversation starter with the grandpas while I cruise the ICU. They don’t call it The Greatest Generation for nothing!
I was also prescribed some powerful antibiotics and pain meds to deal with the swelling. I don’t think I’ll finish the Vicodin before my next appointment because I cannot handle anything stronger than Tylenol. I tried taking a pill yesterday, half one hour and another half a while later and waves of nausea washed over which is always what happens. I frequently overestimate how hardcore I am like the time I took a percocet while I was at the Iowa Writer’s Workshop and spent an afternoon feeling Trainspotting queasy. This is sad because Intervention is the only reality show I have any chance of being cast. I thought about Rock of Love Bus, but I would definitely be the girl Brett eliminates right away with, “I don’t think you can handle this rock and roll lifestyle. Or fit into non-maternity pants.”
When my husband, the man I married and who sired my firstborn, saw my face, he shared a series of observations on his wife’s swollen and painful situation:
“It looks like the right side of your face is storing nuts for winter.”
“It looks like the right side of your face is pregnant.”
“You look like a Picasso painting.”
“You got sucker punched with a left hook.”
“Your right side is retaining water.”
“It looks like the right side of your face is amassing troops for a D-Day invasion of the left side of your face.”
HA! I am going to file these gems under “I MARRIED YOU…WHY?!” It doesn’t bother me though because this is the same man who thinks that this bathing suit at Costco is sexy:
There are so many things wrong with this. LIKE THE PRINT. I don’t think leopard print is suitable for anyone not already living in a gated community or hosting Cabana Chat. This is why I don’t trust my wonderful husband with clothing choices. One time he came back from a conference in Austin, TX convinced that I would look hot with a bandana tied around my neck and a t-shirt tied at the corner. I had to remind him that I DON’T WORK AT COYOTE UGLY.
I am happy that I’m married to him though because I would hate to be dating right now and explain that I didn’t just go through face transplant surgery and sorry I threw up so much at dinner, I’m as sensitive to drugs as a newborn, but don’t worry, my boobs are as perky as an 80-year-old’s! Get in line fellas!