Dentist

Two weeks ago, I went in for my annual visit. It should be every six months, but I delayed by a year and a half. Bad Bianca! No cupcake for you! Anyhow, I quickly learned that I was in desperate need of some extra work. They offered me the evil nitrous laughing gas. Most people love this stuff, but my hyperactive imagination has bizarre internal dialog rendering me mentally unstable for the duration of my open-mouthed trip, which consequently lasted about 3.5 hours.

Shocker of the century: I'm a talker. Why oh why do hygenists feel the need to make small talk? I'm not getting my nails done or my hair did. (Which, by the way, I really enjoy talking during those sessions.) In any case, there I am inhaling this gas, thinking all sorts of random things about mouth cleanliness and prostitution, when the friendly woman with the sharp instruments scrape-scrape-scrapes my enamel making it shiny and new. She proceeds to tell me about her life and such, which, again, I don't mind. I like hearing life stories. But then she feels the need to ask me questions, and my replies come out like a garbled gurgles mess. I then resort to hard blinks of yes and no, but I don't think she speaks my eye language.
After a couple of fillings (one because I had a cavity and another for preventative reasons...whatever that means) and a temporary crown (I'm a mouth grinder in my sleep, I guess, and I managed to crack my back molar smack dab down the middle. CHOMP CHOMP), I was all done. I can't feel my lips or the sides of my face. I knew I'd drool, so I wrapped my scarf to act like a bib. But boy........my slick teeth were a thousand kinds of happy, which made me happy too. See, a much, much closer view of my teeth that you might not have wanted to see, but I wanted proof that they are so fresh and so clean, clean...
And then the drugs wore off...

I can't wait to get my permanent crown, because this eating on one side of my mouth is awful!