I Bet You Can't Guess Who This Is!
Thursday, March 26, 2009

Before I give the big reveal, (Now, don’t be looking ahead! Have a little patience as my friend
Axl would say), I’ll catch you up to date on the hell that has been my week.

My surgery went well. There was no molesting of dentists or lewd behaviors that would
have banned me from the dentist office permanently. I guess this time I did wake up from
sedation a little grouchy and a lot of crazy, unfortunately at the expense of my sweet,
11-year-old curly girl. My hubby stuck around the house all day waiting for me to wake up,
but I was slumbering away in my drug-induced stupor and so, eventually he had to go pick up
my array of narcotics. He left the girls in charge of their drugged-out mother. The two oldest
were not interested in being Florence Nightingale as teenagers are wont to do. Anything that
doesn’t involve them being the center of the universe is of no interest to them. They wandered
away, leaving the 11-year old to greet me as I awakened from my coma.

She said I immediately began yelling for her to get the car, because I’d overslept for my surgery.
She kept telling me that: One- I’d already had the surgery and Two- she wasn’t old enough to
drive. Once she talked me off that ledge, I guess, I started insisting I had to rinse my mouth out
with salt water. My little darling girl took her job very seriously, unlike her sisters who were
parked in front of the TV upstairs catching up on all their "Toddlers and Tiaras." I think our
DVR is filled to the max with that train wreck of a show.

My curly girl had taken it upon herself to read the million or so pages of my post-op instructions
and she knew I was not allowed to rinse, no how-no way. She said I insisted on reading the
paper for myself which she readily offered up to me. It was a useless effort. I kept falling asleep
between words. She said I then snatched a tissue off my nightstand and announced I was going to
blow my nose. I have no idea why I was acting like the world’s most insufferable ass. I am well
aware that none of these things are allowed. My sweet little nurse read out loud the instructions
printed in bold print that said "DO NOT UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCE, BLOW YOUR
NOSE." This too, was an act in vain, since she said I couldn’t get the tissue to my nose without
falling asleep.

I so owe her a trip to the ice cream store.

Besides the torture to my youngest, everything went smoothly.

It’s just the rejection that's been a bitch.

Yup. Looks like the new tooth doesn't think my mouth is a proper home. And is it ever protesting!
It throbs mercilessly, letting me know it is none too happy and that it wants to go home. It's pulsing
throb wakes me up at night and keeps me under the haze of prescription pain-killers.

I now understand all the bad drivers on the road. They're all on Vicodin.

Seriously, except for the relief I get from the pain, I do not understand how people can thrive
and function on painkillers. I only take them at night when I can let their sweet pain-free fog
take over my body. The days are filled with cocktails of Tylenol and Advil. I hope my liver
doesn't give out on me.

The pain is small potatoes, compared to the other thing, though.

I really hate to be all about the TMI, but my breath can only be described as rancid, as if I've
been chewing up raw meat and letting it fester in the sides of my mouth for several months. It
is awful. My, oh so supportive kids, gag and retch dramatically when they come within 10 feet
of me. My always oblivious eldest, who, I'm pretty sure isn't even aware I've had surgery, perhaps
she thinks the bra around my face with ice in it, is just a new fashion statement, that girl, said to
me the other day, "Have you taken a shower lately, cause there is somethin' just not right about
the way you smell."

I looked at her and wailed, "It's my new tooth. It hates me!" She just shrugged the way she
always does when she has no idea what's going on around here, (which is all the time.)

But, before the whole rejection began, I had a day of feeling pretty jig-dancing good and on
that day my Hubby asked me if I was interested in going to Disney. He offered to hang out in
my favorite place, Epcot, while the kids did their own thing. He lured me in by telling me we
we could have a lovely dinner after the fireworks.

Going anywhere besides the stillness of my bed and eating something besides pudding sounded intoxicating to me, so I readily agreed.

On the boat over to Epcot, I started to feel a little tuckered out. By the time our little boat made
it across the waterway, I was exhausted. What a stupid decision on my part. What on earth made
me think I could traipse across central mini-Europe and the continent of mini- Africa? My gum
started to throb at the thought of it.

We made our way through the heavy crowds into Great Britain. My hubby has to start off every
Epcot adventure with some fish and chips. As he waited in the wicked Spring Break Disney line,
I sunk to a curb, so wishing I was back in that bed I'd been desperate to get out of. But, then,
from the depths of my glum,  I spotted the sign advertising the musical acts performing in the amphitheatre, conveniently located directly across from America.

I wandered over to the placard and when I read it, I realized that once again, the order of the
universe was fully in its rightful place.

Davy Jones was here!  That's right, "Hey, Hey We're the Monkees and I'm the cute one,
Davey Jones."

I screamed across the crowds to the massive Fish and Chips Line, "Davey Jones is Here!"
Within seconds, I was surrounded by other moms who once collected Tiger Beats and were
also jealous of that Marcia Brady kiss on the cheek. I know I would have NEVER washed
my cheek again!

The Hubby and I wandered around for awhile enjoying the flower and garden show. My Hubby
taking pictures of all the exotic flora and fauna with his new snazzy camera. Even though I took
it slow, I was looking at the motorized wheelchairs with envy. I shouldn't have come. My hubby
noticed my lack of usual pep and so we took a seat in the amphitheater well before Davey's
allotted time.

When the show began, Davy ran out on stage and I was immediately struck by how incredibly
tiny he is. I mean, I knew he was short, I just didn't realize how easily he could have been cast
as an Oompa-Loompa. We're talking short. I was also a little disappointed at how old he looked.
He's Davey Jones! He's not supposed to have a paunch. He's supposed to have that dreamy hair
and that dreamy voice and that dreamy accent and that dreamy petiteness.

But then he began, belting out, "Take The Last Train To Clarksville" and he sang and danced
and flirted and talked to us, telling us his stories, in that dreamy English accent and that little
munchkin Davey Jones charmed me right out of my dental funk. By the time the encore came, I
 had my hands in the air, swaying with the rest of the Tiger Beat fans, singing along, to "Cheer Up, Sleepy Jean."

I turned to my hubby afterwards, eyes bright, all high-energy again and said, "Oh, how I needed
that! That was better than any Vicodin ever could even try to be."

Even though, this week has been a hard one, I keep finding myself singing, "Cheer up Sleepy Jean,
oh what can it mean to a day dream believer and a homecoming queen..." and I try to smile.
Smiling, it's on my list of things I can't wait to do, again. Sooner than later.

Today's Download: "Galway Girl" by Gerard Butler. (You really didn't think I'd say a Davey
Jones song, now, really?) It's a great Irish pub kind of song. I'm not even sure you can get it on
Itunes, but you can see it on youtube. I can't embed it due to copyright law, but if you have a
chance, wander off to the land of the tube and check it out. It's from the movie, "P.S., I Love You," which I had never seen before. But, since I've got nothing to do but lay around, moan, watch
movies, moan, Facebook, and moan some more, I checked it out. What a great chick flick!
And Gerard Butler is my new celebrity boyfriend. Yum. He plays the dead husband. He does his
own singing and he looks pretty darn slick without a shirt on. A good uplifting song, from a hot
Scottish actor who plays a dead Irish husband.

Enjoy. Wish me Well while you're watching.

Postscript: My sweet middle daughter just brought me my favorite comfort food, tomato soup.
Actually, my favorite comfort food is grilled cheese and tomato soup, but I'm not up to solids yet.
I greedily devoured the soup and when I was almost to the bottom of the bowl, I realized what the
soup was contained in. I looked up at her with horror and said, "This is the cat's bowl."

She looked at me matter-of-factly and said, "Yeah, I know, but it's really wide and I knew it'd be
easier for you to eat in bed that way. I cleaned it out before I put the soup in it."

I wonder what my dentist would say about this with all his instructions on avoiding bacteria. Does
cat-saliva count?

Only in my world.

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