Mouth Rape – warning…some graphic content involved:

To preface, I don’t mind going to the dentist, as such, but I loathe the lectures about proper dental hygiene from the 14 year old hygenists. They are the sole reason for my irregular visits to have my mouth checked and teeth cleaned, and by extension, my bad teeth. How’s that for the North American-style passing of the buck?

I had a dental appointment yesterday since I’d had a toothache (haha – liquid, dripping pain) the night before, brought on by a wonderful loaf of French bread and cheese. Which is pretty sad itself since I'll be associating intense pain with french bread and smoked cheese for a time, I'm sure. I told the dentist this (not about regretting that it was bread and cheese, just the facts) and he came up with:

MY OPTIONS:

- remove the tooth (the very last one)
- root canal with a crown and post

PROFESSIONAL RECOMMENDATION:

- remove the offending tooth

I have been a bit bewildered for the last 24 hours, solely due to the quick decision (approximately 18 seconds) I had to make regarding its status in my mouth. Upon reflection, I know that I would have removed it in any case, because it’s apparently a ‘useless’ tooth – with a cavity, and no lower tooth to keep it in place* - but I can’t help but feel a teensy bit bullied into having it out. I made the call, but trying to decide if you should keep your damaged tooth with an expectant dentist and his assistant waiting for your answer with their heads cocked and syringes of novocaine in hand is unnerving.

Is this weird? They asked if I wanted to see the x-ray. Of course, I'll finally get to see the result of wearing a lead apron. They asked if I wanted to see the tooth. I hesitated, but in the end, how could I not. Then they asked if I wanted to keep it. Uh, no, but...thanks?

Later that evening:

I was watching tv, eating room temperature tomato soup that was so not satisfying, when KB called, which began the flow of blood that would not stop. I looked like a cage fighter, bloodied mouth and all, which was pretty cool, but on the second hour of bleeding, I had some genuine concern that I would bleed to death, alone, in my apartment and no one would find me until the scent of decay alerted passerby that something was wrong…

I'm fairly alarmed about having teeth removed with no intention of having fakes put in. In my case, there would be no point, but how fucking hill-billy is that? I might have to start eating road kill and marry my brother if they find me out. Fingers crossed that those wisdom teeth will come in soon.

It’s fine now (but I managed to get mouth blood all over my cream sheets, so that’s annoying), I did come into the office today, but am planning on taking the afternoon off because all my good drugs are gone. And that is as good an excuse to watch a movie as anything, no?

* I had the lower one removed years ago from a tragic pillow fight incident.**

**haha, not really

Further cementing the notion that this just ain’t my week:

I find it impossible to peruse a grocery store in an orderly fashion. I will walk kilometres in grocery stores, even if I have a list, because that’s how I roll. Inevitably, I spend a lot more time shopping for groceries than I would like to, but, there you have it…I just can’t shop any other way.

During one of these trips earlier in the week, I managed to slip (it was more of a skid and slip) in the produce section. It was about as graceful and comedic as a slip can be, I have no broken bones and I didn’t even spill the milk or break the eggs. But, worse than that, I had a witness…gah…a witness that I see regularly. The shame, the shame!

It was so slippery, I thought I must have stepped into an oil slick or puddle of greasy water, and I was so very surprised to find that it was a spinach leaf that tripped me up. A fucking spinach leaf. I was completely undone by a speck of green on the lino.

The highlights of this unfortunate incident:

The very concerned, very masculine Olga that asked me in a deep, gravelly, breathless voice if I was ok. (I was)

The look of shock on Hodge’s face when he realised that I was not where he expected me to be, rather on the floor in a yoga-esque position, 3 paces behind him.

And the confused expression on both Hodge and Olga’s faces when they searched for the giant puddle of cooking oil that was my undoing. ‘Ummm…there’s a bit of green there…?’

Oh…remember the dream.

-remember to floss twice a day, A

Happy belated Halloween, Internetters!

Candy highs are the best! Soo good! Especially when combined with caffeine highs! I wish I had discovered that winning combination when I was still of legitimate trick or treating age. Wouldn't my mother have loved that?

True story:

I go to my local corner store pretty regularly, even though sometimes I get asked for spare change on the street, on the corner and … in the store. Inside. Seriously. The dude that works there is mostly cool, even though he usually rocks this heinous faux hawk, had a t-shirt that mimicked (and tongue-in-cheeked) Jon Gosselin’s bestie of hideous outerwear. His shirt was blue and had a dove on it, among other things, with the tag line: Fancy Mother Fucker. Yes you are, faux hawk, yes you are!

I had a dream, perhaps inspired by his fancy shirt, that I was a tattoo artist. How cool would that job be? So naturally, I Googled how to follow my life’s new direction, and found this article. I love this for so many reasons!

1. That it is found on about.com! Nothing says cool and bad-ass like about.com!!
2. That all those people who can’t colour within the lines have to find a different life path. Sorry guys. You suck and will have to take you untalented asses elsewhere. Try accounting!
3. That theres a “What You’ll Need” checklist!
4. The requirement to apprentice. It makes sense, but it does seem to be a bit straight and narrow. Don’t you think?

Things that are annoying me today:

People pressure washing* the sidewalks. Honestly, guys, there's a move to conserve water. Pressure washing a sidewalk is not conducive to that. There used to be a thing they used years ago...I think it was called a broom. Get it, use it, love it! Also, you always get the bottom of my pants wet.

*As a digression, which I so love to do, my Uncle calls his pressure washer a Hotsy. I'm not sure if that's a brand name or something that he made up, but it led me to thinking of a word he did make up: Gizunder. His kid, my cousin T, operated well into her twenties thinking that this was an actual word and even convinced ESL students that a gizunder is a very real kitchen implement. You see, a gizunder goes under things, and the modern world calls it a spatula. (or sometimes a flipper, which is a dolphin not a spatula. ugh.)

The people filming a movie outside my office. I'm pretty sure that I'm an extra in your fancy pants New York/London disaster and I would like my $5 for that. See me inside when you have the cheque ready.

That it is a beautiful, sunny day outside, which has prompted the air conditioning to turn on (Hi, it's November!) and am freezing at my desk as a breeze straight from the arctic blows down the back of my neck.

Things that are not annoying me today:

I am enjoying that the straws in my can o' Coke Zero keeps fizzing up after every sip, causing a volcano effect that is way more entertaining than it really should be.

The extra packet of plum sauce I got with my noodles and veggies. Thank you lady, you usually only give me one. I will enjoy this very much and expect that this is the new precedence that you're setting.

It's a beautiful, sunny day outside. I'll get to play out there in a few short hours. Wait for me!!

-Anna

Words From My (Zombie) Mother

My Mum was waiting for her vaccination of the swine flu aka H1N1 aka (post innoculation) I ain't afraid of no flu. While she was waiting in line and I was working on my high scores in solitare, Mum was texting updates of her progress.

It would appear that everyone in Edmonton went to the same clinic as her, dazzled by the promise of not getting the dreaded leurgy, to which I applaud them for being proactive in the not-dying-today dept. The effect, however, was a crazy long line of people waiting to get a prick in the arm, for a change.

This is the end of the exchange (after 3.5 hours of waiting - and while Mum has told some whoppers before, she would say embellished - I would say LIE, I'm tempted to believe her in this case with all the hysteria surrounding this flu):

Mum: Good News. Shots done so in 15 min. I'm outta here!

Me: Nice one. Are you feeling healthy or has your blood sugar level dropped far enough to make you unrecognisable as a human?

Mum: Totally unhuman ... almost zombie like and there are so many brains here!

Me: Me want brains!! And guts!

Mum: NICE......I think I'll settle for some good old fashioned fast food!

Me: I think brains might have a higher nutritional value than fast food.

Mum: Lunch good. Brain mushy. Arms sore.

Me: I didn't think that zombies could text. Spooky. But I'm glad the brains were good.

Mum (in what is, and will be, the coolest comment ever to leave her sweet [ha!] soul): Zombies are highly misunderstood sensitive beings with rather unfortunate fashion sense.

This, dear internet, is the woman that raised me. Show her a roomful of people and she wants to eat their braiiiiiins.

Still, it has to be better than McDonalds.

Conversations

"Birds have no sphincters."

True? possibly. Hilarious? definitely.

-A

I Like Your Brand of Crazy

I just found this written on a piece of paper on my desk:

Directions
1.Walk to Fridge
2.Open Fridge
3.Select a Can of Beer
4.Consume
5.

And that's all she (I) wrote.

Welcome to work, lady! It's gonna be a good day!

-Anna