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Crazy. Also, overly worried about her teeth.

Issue Date: Wednesday, Feb. 28, 2007

Okay kids, I have several things I want to get off of my chest. You may need a sack lunch for this one ya’ll. And no, babies, this isn’t about that… or that. Just a few little things that I am sure you already know, but I would like to discuss them further.

Number One: I admit it. No need to point fingers y’all. I am a bit high strung. No, no, no. It’s ok. We can all talk about the dead moose on the table. It’s been out there for a long time (as of 2/20 – four freaking years of a long time). I know that you may have suspected that I am a little on the “wound tight” side… but it is okay to talk about it. I get a little anxious surrounding some things.



I get a lot anxious surrounding A LOT of things.

And I? Actually have medication prescribed to help me get out of those little death roll thoughts. It is called Nirivam. It is basically the oral dissolving tablets of Xanax. I have it prescribed on an as needed basis. But let’s go ahead and call a spade a spade. I need it every day.

Take for instance… oh, today.

Back story goes here: (I’m a bit format happy today as well. Go with it.) (Also? Someone is eating Vienna sausages and I can smell them. I may barf.) So, last week I got my teeth cleaned by Diana. She was sweet, complimentary and gentle. All things you should ask for in your dental hygienist*. My teeth are healthy and when the dentist guy (unfortunately not Hot Dentist) came over to do the check-over before I left he asked me if I had any concerns. I replied, “No, not unless you count that I really, really, really want razor straight blindingly white teeth. No, I don’t.” He was all charming and said, “You have good teeth girl.”

He called me “girl”. Let’s move on.

*I also (y’all please, do not run away after you read this) confessed to Diana that I have been known to use everything from a vigorous tooth brushing, to floss, to… a… thumbtack (I know) to get rid of tartar. So, she gave me my own set of dental tools. How freaking cool is that! Move over, curiously long thumbtack, your replacements are here.

So I thanked him/them and went about my week.

Over the weekend I was sitting in Mister’s Tahoe and reapplying lipstick with the help of the sun and a compact mirror while he was filling up the tank with fuel and I noticed this little discoloration on my tooth between one of the front ones and the canine on the right side.

My mind immediately went into overdrive, “Your teeth are going to all fall out of your head. You will be toothless by sundown. It’s a CA-VI-TEEEEEEE! Oh, NO! A cavity!? I’m not a good steward of my teeth!”

Okay, yes. Maybe a little dramatic and over the top, but whatever. You guys know my teeth are a big hot topic button for me and if that button is pushed, it sends me over into crazytown, population: Me.

Monday could not come fast enough. I waited until the dentist office opened on Monday and then called, breathless trying to get a viewing of the gaping hole in my maw as soon as possible. That ‘soon as possible’? Was Thursday (tomorrow) at 12:30 p.m.

Today, I happened to be in that part of town dealing with the company that shorted me (bastards.) on 12% of my swag order for Green Bay (squeee!). I thought to myself, “Self? The dentist’s office is only around the corner. Seriously… Just around the corner. Over there… yes, there. Why don’t you just mosey on in, see if that hot dentist with the beautiful smile has a moment to look at the hole in your tooth the size of Manhattan.”

So, yes, I listened to the crazy and waltzed into the dentist’s office and met the receptionist. “Hi, yeah, um. This may sound a wee bit nuts but, I uh, I have an appointment with [hot dentist] tomorrow at 12:30 and I was in the area and wondering if he had a quick moment to take a look at the tooth that I have questions about. And if he does and we have to fill it… if (God forbid) it was a cavity, we could fill it tomorrow during that 12:30 appointment that I already have scheduled.”

And I said it all in one breath like “Hiyeahumthismaysoundaweebitnutsbut,Iuh,Ihave anappointmentwith…” blah blah blah. So by the time I finished the receptionist lady was almost physically restraining herself from running away. She smiled all sweet and said, “Sure, let me check on that.” And y’all? A dental assistant came out into the lobby and got me right away. I must have, “Crazy. Also, overly worried about her teeth.” listed on my file or something.

So while I was sitting there with that stupid little paper neckerchief thing on and wondering if I was going to lose all of my teeth at once, or if I may keep a few until I turn, oh, 40 and if I would have to get dentures**, the assistant guy comes over to take my blood pressure. The little wristlet cuff thingy was all “beepbeepbeepbeep” like it was trying to win a race and my blood pressure was way up. I realized, “I may vomit.” It is a little dance you can do with me… I get het up, keyed up and then I want to throw up.

**I’ll get to this later. Or make it Number Two or something. Really, you do not want this ‘aside’ put here. It’s not one to move along quickly from after reading. And, could that sentence be anymore ungainly? Answer: No.

That is when I knew that I had made a mistake.

Last night while getting ready for bed [sex] I was taking my medications and I said to myself, “Self, why don’t you just take an Advil PM along with your 87000*** mgs of Sonata to help yourself sleep tonight. You do not need the Nirivam. Also, you only have a few left, and then there was that one time [Galen] that you took one and a half before you went to bed, but you are also going out of town this weekend and what if you needed them and they weren’t there and the TSA may take your luggage and you may not have your medications and and and…”

Yeah, so it spiraled out of control from there and I should have taken one anyway because I think the medication actually lasts all night and then all the next day and keeps part of my crazy at bay. (That totally rhymed.)

***Total exaggeration. It’s only 86000 mgs.

I was sitting there with my heart racing, freaking out on the inside that my teeth were going to fall out of my head and it took me that long to realize that I may have missed my medication. And more than just missed, I MISSED my medication… if you know what I mean and I totally think you do.

Hot Dentist came over after what felt like an eternity (maybe six minutes) and looked at my tooth, “Oh, this here? It is just a bit of calcification. You have a little shallow groove here that may have collected some plaque in the past and it has just discolored your tooth a little. No problems. It is not a cavity.” I let out a sigh of relief so immense that it blew back his perfectly coiffed hair.

When I left I called Mister, “You know I am crazy, right?” Without missing a beat, he replied, “Yes.” So I told him all about how the crazy took over and somehow I ended up at the dentist. “I thought your appointment wasn’t until tomorrow.” So I went over the whole, “Well, I was in the area…” thing. “Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiight.”

That poor man. Good thing he thinks I have a bangin rack.


Number Two: Also known as ** or the artist formally known as “**” or just plain “Ew.”
When Diana was cleaning my teeth the other day, between scraping and polishing I asked her what made her want to become a dental hygienist. She told me that she went to school for being a dental assistant but then she wanted the one on one interaction with her patients, she didn’t want to just hang over the shoulder of the dentist and take notes, she wanted to do the cleanings.

This was all well and good until I mentioned that it must be disgusting to have your hands in people’s mouths all day. She said that the only thing that bothers her is when men leave spinach or broccoli or some leafy green goody in their teeth for her to clean out. She said, “For some reason, it is only the men.” And then she said it… “Want to know the grossest thing I have ever seen?”

Oh, y’all… more beautiful words have never been spoken.

Except this is where I totally forgot that I am all teeth OCD and it may color my world view if she actually told me something completely disgusting that she found in someone’s mouth… or something.

She said, “I’ll tell you when we walk you to go have your x-rays, in case you squeal.”

I knew this was going to be incredible.

Do y’all want to hear it? Huh? If you do, please read… if not, catch up after the break.

Okay. Lean in closer.

Diana said, “When I was first out of school this man came in to the office where I was working. He was an older gentleman, about seventy or so. He was complaining of a tooth ache and the dentist asked me to take him for x-rays to see if he had a cavity. So I take him back to the x-ray room and in the course of trying to get the x-rays it was found that he had dentures. So I told the dentist that the man had dentures but was still complaining of a toothache.”

Here she raised an eyebrow as if asking if she should continue.

“Please continue.” I said. So she did, “It seems that the man has had his full dentures for over ten years and in all that time he had never taken them out.”

This is where I was all, “Nooooo….” She replied, “Yes. When he had first gotten them he said no one ever told him to take them out and brush and soak them overnight… everynight.” I asked her, “So… what was hurting him?” I thought maybe he had a corn hull stuck up there or something but she totally threw me for a loop. “No, when the dentist took the man’s dentures out his gums were rotting and he had a worm burrowing through his jaw.”

::all over body shudder::

My face squinched up and I asked her, “Did you totally vomit?” She said, “No, I wanted to but that old dentist just laughed and laughed… thought it was the funniest thing he had ever seen!” I said, “Did he have gangrenous gums or something? How did the worm get in there?” She just shrugged and laughed.

So now you know what I was REALLY thinking while I was sitting there in that chair waiting on the dentist to check out my tooth. A) Did I have a worm burrowing in my tooth. Or B) Did the dentist just see someone else who did and is he about to put his hands in my mouth!?


So. Yeah. Sorry about that.

Ok, last thing.

Number Three: Wait… one more little thing first. On the way to the dentist this morning I saw a guy on a Harley making total fun of a dude on a Vespa. There. That didn’t really count as thing number three did it? No? Good. Okay.

Number Three: Music.
I was not raised going to concerts. I begged and pleaded to go. I wanted to see Journey SO BAD in 1990 (89?). They were on their Raised on Radio concert tour and I was a senior in high school. I was old enough. Lord, my sister went to Monster Jam when she was a scant seventeen years old! So, yes, I wanted to go to see Metallica that summer when they came to town, but I knew (or thought I knew) how to choose my battles.

I brought up the concert to my mother. I told her that I would pay for my own tickets and that she could even come as my chaperone. I just wanted to see Steve Perry and his pointy nosed goodness singing. I didn’t care if Raised on Radio sucked ass. I just wanted to go for the sheer pleasure of MAYBE hearing him sing something from Frontiers or their Greatest Hits. I didn’t care.

My mother? “Oh Susan, you are too young. You don’t need to go to a concert.” She said “concert” the way most people would say “genital warts”. She said I was too young. I was ready for that one, “But Maaaaahhhhhmmmm, Reb went to the Monster Jam at Texas Stadium when she wasn’t even a senior!” “Susan, this is not up for discussion, it just doesn’t suit that you go this year. You can go next year.”

That summer? Fucking Journey split up.

Blast! ::fist in the air… villain stopped in his tracks moment::

Up to that point I had been to two concerts. TWO. And I was eighteen. (Or would be that May.)

One of the concerts, oh, the shame… was going to see a ‘surprise concert’ with my parents. My mother dressed me up in my best Laura Ashley pastel, sailor necked dress and freaking off white stockings to see Barry Manilow at Reunion Area when I was fourteen. My sister was probably off watching porn or seeing Iron Maiden in concert. I? Was sitting between my father and my mother, with a bow in my hair listening to Barry Manilow do a benefit concert for the Ronald McDonald House.

Could I go to Winger?

Oh helllll no. But, “Susan, George Strait is playing at Six Flags on Saturday. Why don’t I take you and Stephanie to see him and you can use your season’s passes to get in.”


Steph, do you remember this? We went to see George Strait play oh, all of four bars of “Amarillo by Morning” and then we were off to ride roller coasters and smoke at the top of the observation tower. Okay, I smoked at the top of the observation tower, but you went with me.

I love live music y’all. I really do. But for some reason not going to concerts in my developing years I just never really cultivated a taste for arena concerts. They are loud, the music is distorted, it is impersonal, people are touching you, it smells bad, is usually as hot as Hades on the 4th of July and the beer is expensive.

Live music in more intimate settings such as ice houses, watering holes or bars of any kind are my speed.

One of my favorite bands to go see live is Chant (awww suki suki… PS, go to their MySpace page… downloads available… yummy). Chant is scrumptious. Chant is delicious. Chant is wonderful and can be loud and crass or slow and seductive and all bluesy. In an arena? I would totally lose the closeness, the intimacy, the sound of Chant. Now, they do play some pretty big houses and some outdoor venues but they make it intimate. They MAKE it so you want to go see them anywhere they play.

I just can’t see Joan Jett coming up to me after a set and giving me a kiss and saying, “Glad you could make it. Thanks so much for coming.” Although I would probably die where I stood if that ever happened because of the curiously strange girl crush I have on Miss Jett.

Take tonight for instance.

Mister took me for sushi last night and we were talking about our plans for the next few nights/days.

Check it. The man scored some tickets for a suite at American Airlines Center to see Eric Clapton tonight.

I don’t know of one person (ok one, my father) who wouldn’t give their right arm to go see Slow Hand play… and for free? In a suite? Free beer? Air conditioning? People not touching me? Well, that sounds mighty fine Sir. Thank you, I will have another.

Where was I going with this?

Oh my GOD. I am on page seven.

Ok, quick, to wrap it up… I am a little miffed that Mr. Clapton (the genius that he is) is playing tonight. Tonight I had planned to do a dry run for everything that I needed to pack for my Green Bay weekend. It is eighty degrees here and minus eleventy there. I may die. I need to pack everything and then at least twelve pairs of shoes for two and a half days.

This will just not do. Mr. Clapton, you are jacking with my packing schedule.

In conclusion. I am crazy.


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And because of said comments he sent me my very own dream turtle in an email titled wee gift with these words attached, “my purple monkey is booked solid so i ordered you a tangerine turtle. hope he proves helpful.”

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