Heeheehee :)

I wasn’t going to post today but I had to write this one quickly.

I don’t really have bad breath, honest.  That was just my little play on the word ‘gagging’ in yesterday’s post.  My dentist is not that rude.

But thank you all for being so quick to believe it was true.  I’m not offended.  Not offended at all…*

*Please get today’s joke and don’t make me write another explanation tomorrow, retracting this post.

 

Coming Soon…

…The conclusion to my London tale.

Wax Lips (Photo credit: red clover)

Thank you all for your good wishes.  I am on the mend but I have spent today catching up with some of your blogs.  Don’t be offended if I haven’t visited you yet; I follow a LOT of blogs.

Tomorrow, I’m off to the hospital to see a man about a gag.  I will take two buses there at the crack of rush hour to be fitted for a thing in my mouth that I don’t really want but which is supposed to stop me snoring.

If the dental doctor ends up with my breakfast on his shoes, don’t blame me – I gag if I put too much food in my mouth (it’s why I can’t eat trifle) so how they expect me to sleep with a plastic wotzit in my gob I really don’t know, but doctor, apparently, knows best.

Of course, if I choke to death in my sleep on the plastic wotzit that’s bound to cure my snoring, so the Hub’s all in favour of it.

Anyway, the ordeal of taking four buses and rubber fingers poking around my very private mouth probably means no London post tomorrow.

Sorry.

Someone Stole The Internet

Internets = srs.biz. Parody motivator. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Going to post this unedited just to make sure you get it; then I’ll fix it if I’m still here.

Woke up early this morning feeling horrible: D-Day* had arrived; or, more accurately, RCT-Day**. 

*Dentist Day

**Root Canal Treatment Day.  Doesn’t have quite the same ring to it, does it?

Turned to my beloved internet for comfort, only to find that the internet had disappeared.  It didn’t work on any of the four computers, three phones and two consoles I tried.

Quickly kicked the Hub out of bed to investigate.  Investigations turned up the fact that the internet had disappeared.

Hub called Virgin. 

Virgin said, ‘Can’t come ’til Thursday.’

Hub said, ‘But my wife will kill me.’

Virgin said, ‘Can’t come ’til Thursday.’

Hub sent Spud to tell me the bad news.

Hub lives; but only because  I can’t find him.

Went to dentist.

Came home.

Internet back on; Hub lives to quake another day.

Internet may not stay on, so please bear with me.

Related articles

• Root Canal FAQ (topdentists.com)

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

 

My Dog Is Sick; My Son Never Returns My Calls; My Tooth Fell Out; But Worse Than That: The Internet Is Down.

Image via Wikipedia

I’m writing this in Word because the internet keeps going down.  You’ll be reading it live online, of course; lucky you.  What’s so great about you that you get t’internet and I don’t?  Life just ain’t fair sometimes.

You’ll see by my first paragraph that I get a little grumpy if I don’t get online the minute I want to.  It’s like a drug.  Is it possible to mainline online?  Somebody better fix something sometime soon or someone’s gonna be bashing computers against someone’s head in a frenzy of withdrawal symptoms.

*

Toby seems to be on the mend!  Hooray!  My posts will stop sounding like eulogies.

He ate a little chicken last night; some more this morning; some more after that; some more…you get the idea.  He’s taking his tablets, drinking tea, and looking a mite perkier.  My bad mood has lifted like someone took their foot off the internet wire and fixed the blockage (it must be lumpy ether; what else can it be?).

*

Tory Boy: the incredible vanishing son.  Says he needs your help then leaves you hanging, worried sick that something has happened to him because why else would he say ‘Look at this for me’ and then not send the thing to be lookited, not answer emails, nor his phone?  It was only once I sent a text threatening to visit him that he let me know he wasn’t lying in a hospital bed, beaten to within an inch of his life with no id because it had been stolen by the beaters and there was therefore no way for the hospital staff to contact his frantic mother.  I only worried because he said ‘Look at this for me’ and then nothing.  If he had said ‘…,’ I’d have known not to worry because I never do when he ignores me for weeks at a time, never calls, texts or emails.  It’s a mother’s lot to be irrelevant; I get that.  But don’t let me think I’m relevant and then ignore me – you might as well put a gun to my head and tell me to choose between Maltesers or the internet: the resulting spin would make a tornado look like a gentle blow on a puppy’s ear.

*

So my tooth fell out again.  Not my tooth, actually my front left veneer.  It’s now the third or fourth time.  The dentist, who keeps a spare appointment just for my teeth emergencies, tried another tack.  She sand-blasted the back of the veneer, roughed up the front of the tooth, and cemented them together.  I wasn’t sure if I was at a dentist’s or a builders’ convention.

After two hours of starvation I tested it on a packet of Chewits and it’s still there.  I may have manky teeth but I’ve got good NHS. 

*

Coming Soon To A Blog Near You: The Greatest Quilt Ever Made!

(Once the Hub uploads the photos)

Writer’s Island: Adventure

Image by tarale via Flickr

A Denture Adventure

A juvenile reaction
to a baby tooth extraction:

£2 – Yeah!

 

A middle-aged reaction
to a wisdom tooth extraction:

 

Quake
Quiver
Sob
Shiver
Cry
Weep
Pills
Sleep
Moan
Groan
Complain
Pain

 

An elderly reaction
to a last-ever extraction:

 

Sigh
Slurp
Burp

*

*

You can see other interpretations of the prompt at http://writersisland.wordpress.com/