I'm looking forward to it.

This is the second time in a year I've gone through this. It makes me sound like a Jerry Springer cast-off with a mouthful of rotted teeth. But by looking at me, you could never tell my teeth are having a mutiny.

I really, really do take wonderful care of my teeth, those ungrateful SOB's. Flossing is one of my hobbies. I am undeserving of this fate. But, I know why its happened.

It was the Kool-Aid.

As a child, Kool-Aid was the sixth food group in our house. I had a permanent red mustache until about the 7th grade. To make matters worse, once we kids were old enough, we were allowed to make it ourselves. Do you really think we stopped at one cup of sugar? I mean it was SUGAR, the crack of childhood.

My steadfast commitment to the boycotting of all grooming procedures didn't help much, either. The brushing of hair, teeth and basic bathing were only done under the threat of dire punishment. Now I know where my 11-year old gets it from. Add to that bacteria-laden mix, a childhood dentist who, I'm pretty sure, trained under one of the barber-slash-dentists of the Wild West, causing me to fear the dentist for a portion of my adult life and there you have the reason my teeth now hate me. My damn teeth just won't forgive and forget.

So tomorrow, I get a cadaver bone. I hope my new tooth's old owner was good to her. I don't need any more problems.

Since I've done this before, I know what to expect. I'm going in, in the early morning and since my wonderful angel of a dentist believes in no fear, there are no IV's, just a little pill to take. You start off with one pill. They watch you for signs of drowsiness. If you don't go under, you keep getting pills until you're out. On the average, it takes about two.

It took six for me.

I have no idea why. I'm pretty small. I claim 5'4", like Tom Cruise claims 5'9".
And it's not like I'm one of those pill-popping housewives, hooked on Oxycontin, driving over to crack alley to feed my habit. I certainly haven't built up a resistance to drugs. The strongest thing I take is an Advil and that's with great trepidation. I like hot baths, vitamins and a few herbal remedies for whatever ails me. So, I don't know why I had the stamina of an Olympic heavyweight wrestler on steroids. But, let me tell you, I was out. I mean out, out.

I don't remember a thing. I did make my wonderful friends at the dentist office promise me they would tell me if I did anything mortifying while under.

My sister has a story about a friend who woke up from sedation with her arms tied to the chair. Evidently, she was trying to molest the dentist and he was too busy fighting off her roaming, "gotta get me some" hands to get any proper work done and sooo...she had to be restrained. It was either that or arrest her for sexual battery on a dentist.

I was relieved to wake up with no ropes around my wrist. Whew. I mean, you never know. I know how I am awake without any drugs in my system. I can't imagine what my sound-asleep uninhibited side is like.

My hubby reported no strange behaviors, either. On the ride home though, he claimed I kept mumbling something about cakeholes. The only time I've even used the word, is in the phrase, "Shut your cakehole!" And that's reserved for really, pissy moments, usually involving smart-mouthed kids.

We made it home and he put me to bed and here's the first thing I remember of the whole surgery. My dentist had suggested in pre-op that the best way to keep my mouth iced down was to take my bra, fill the cups with ice and hook the bra around my head.

Ingenious, I thought. Except for one little and I do mean little problem.

My bras weren't big enough to hold a few cubes of ice.

I remember my hubby hooking it around my head and the ice just popping out of those pitiful, useless, training-bra cups. He kept shoving the ice back in and out it would slide, as if to say, "There, ain't no way!"

Through my fog, I knew what to do.

One of my girls did not inherit my need for Wonderbras. One of my girls has been blessed far and above my genetics. I can fit five of my bras in her one.

I was still groggy, but awake when my Hubby brought the girls home from school. They walked into the bedroom, looking a little unsure and a tad bit frightened over what they might find.

That is, until my daughter noticed her bra buckled around my head. Her fright was replaced with indignation as she stomped her foot and cried, "Great, now you're wearing my bras on your head!" (Like I do that sort of thing all the time.) "I'm never gonna be able to wear that, again!"

I'm thinkin' this time, it'll be her favorite pair of undies. I'll go to any length to torture my kids.

Today's Definite, Definite Download: Radiohead's "Paranoid Android." A form of protest against Little Miss Teen Queen of Horrible Pop Music-Miley Cyrus. Evidently, she felt snubbed at the Grammys because she had her people inform Radiohead's people that she wanted to meet them. Their people said to her stupid people, "We don't really do that."

That's it! If this CHILD understood Radiohead, she would know they don't really give a shit about the celebrity part of music and I'm sure they really don't give a shit about someone who sings, "Breakout, let the party start...We're gonna dance till the dance floor falls apart. Uh, oh all over again."

She went on a national radio program whining about it, calling them "stinkin Radiohead", announcing she was going to "ruin them" by telling everyone about the snub, and saying that she loves alternative music and she really hates corny pop music. And I wonder, does she listen to the music she makes?

As Thom Yorke so graciously put it, she needs to grow up and lose her sense of entitlement. She's Hannah friggin Montana, for Land's sake! Does she not realize, her music cred lies in the hands of little girls under the age of ten?  I am downloading every Radiohead song in their collection, thanks to this little brat. I'm sure when every other Radiohead fan hears her threat, they will do the same. Is she that delusional about who she is, thinking Hannah Montana has the power to bring down Radiohead? Miley, shut your cake-hole!

I've gotta go. I'm gonna run upstairs and shred all my daughter's Hannah Montana posters. And then, there's the matter of finding those undies for my head.