Me & My Manky Teeth

I wasn’t joking the other day – if it wasn’t for modern dentistry and our wonderful (absolutely no irony intended here) NHS, I would look like this:

I have always had manky teeth.  I blame the parents.  They didn’t make me brush my teeth as a child, and now I’m reaping the reward.  It has nothing to do with my intimate relationship with chocolate, of course.

I have had five oral infections in about seven years – all leading to horrendous but necessary treatment: teeth pulling, poking around with sharp sticks, and an intermittent speech impediment.  Yet I brush my teeth at least twice a day.

Woot canal tweatment looms on Tuesday, now that the antibiotics I’ve been taking for five days have calmed the infection in my tooth-that-isn’t-a-tooth-so-much-as-a-massive-filling-with-gums.

Don’t worry – it won’t affect my blogging; in fact, it does me a favour – it’s been a while since I shared a horror story with you.  Something to look forward to.

If I had been born over a century ago, I’d probably be dead.  Not because of ancient dentistry: anyone born over a century ago is probably dead by now.  It’s simple mathematics. 

But I would probably have been dead at twenty from my first infection that led to root canal treatment that gave me a dark front tooth that made me look like Posh Spice because I never smiled in photographs.  Even now that the tooth has been veneered – although it tends to come off when I eat toffee lollies – I still smile with my mouth closed for photos.  Check out my old ones and you’ll see.

Tory Boy might have killed me as well.  It wasn’t dentistry that saved me that time, you’ll be disappointed to hear; but Dr Faktor in Park Town, Johannesburg, who saw me the week before my due date and booked me in for a caesarean eight days later.  He saw me again on my due date; told me TB was still breached (breeched?  I’m never sure: either he broke our contract or he came out wearing trousers); to go home; relax; come back tomorrow for the op.  No op = a baby coming out sideways = let’s not go there.

The Hub took me out to eat and to a movie: Look Who’s Talking.  I never give birth now, without thinking of Bruce Willis.

I bet he has good teeth.

Cover of Look Who’s Talking

 

Joke 170

The shareholders of a compass manufacturer were concerned that the company wasn’t heading in the right direction.

Today’s joke reminds me of one of my favourite-ever movie scenes: picture, if you will, Bruce Willis in a pink bunny suit, chatting to a young Elijah Wood before he was a Hobbit. 

BW: What’s your name, kid?

EW: North.

BW: North?  That’s a good name.  I’ve seen it on maps.

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I’m Frightened

Image via Wikipedia

In order not to spoil the tone of today’s post, I will advertise that there is a new poem on my sapoems blog here, instead of at the bottom like I usually do.  Shameless self-promotion is rigorously advised if I want to up my hits.

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Now that I have a new kitchen and bathroom, something terrible is happening…I have learned to notice dirt.  When the equipment was antiquated, cracked, damaged, yellowed, stained, it was easy not to see dirt.  Now it is sparkling and twinkling and fresh and I have to clean it all the time if I want it to stay that way.

Last night, for example, as I was brushing my teeth, I noticed that the bathroom window sill needs wiping again.  That’s the third time in as many weeks; I don’t think I cleaned the old window sill that many times in thirteen years.

The first thing I did this morning, after a wee and a prayer and fussing the dogs and a cup of tea and checking my emails and writing the other blog post and another cup of tea and thinking about breakfast, was to clean it. 

I don’t know what’s wrong with me and I don’t like it.  I’m going to have to call in Bruce Willis because, like Haley Joel Osment in ‘The Sixth Sense’, I see dust bunnies….

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