Um, do you think it’s strange that someone that I’ve known for 5 years (my admin, who was my ex-boss’s admin before she got handed down to me - shall we guess why?) doesn’t know how to spell my name? Seriously. I just looked on her calendar to make sure she had my vacation next week marked, and WTF? My name is spelled wrong. It’s a possible spelling of my name, but it’s not how my name is spelled on my business email address. Or the snail mail that she delivers to me daily. Or the fuckin’ name plate on my office door that she sits right in front of! She also has it misspelled on the calendar for the week after - my trip to Chicago. Sigh.

She’s out with a sick kid today. Do you think she’d notice if I took a big red marker and crossed out her entry and replaced it with the correct spelling? Because, y’know? I’m her boss and she may want to know that it’s kinda important to me.

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Mr. Hot made an appointment for Shortman with the dentist for next Monday. He’s complaining about one of his wisdom teeth cutting through. (Yes, my dear young friends that have teething babies and toddlers…it doesn’t end - teething pain continues into the teens!)

My own wisdom teeth experience was frightening, to say the least. We (me, Mr. Hot & Shortman) had gone to see the Detroit Tigers (when they really sucked). I think it was a Monday night game. We had popcorn and peanuts and the usual ballpark food. Wednesday morning, I woke up and couldn’t open my mouth. (Not an issue for Mr. Hot, but for me? Ack!) And the pain? If I opened my jaw more than wide enough to allow a coffee stirrer in between my teeth, it was like an ice pick drilling into my ear.

I stumbled to the kitchen to find the Yellow Pages. We had only moved back to Michigan about 6 months previously - and I have had some really bad experiences with dentists - so finding a new torturer one wasn’t high on my list.

With tears blurring my vision, I paged to the Ds and looked for the most important feature there could be in an ad during this time of need.

“Nitrous Oxide Available”
in 72 point font. Flashing - with little twinkly Christmas lights.

I dialed the phone and begged them to see me as soon as possible (after asking them if they had replenished their gas tanks recently). When I got to the office, a very sweet hygienist helped me into the examination room, tied my hands and feet to the chair, assured me that everything would be alright, and gently pried my jaws open. She slipped a mirror and a tiny little penlight into the hurty place and screeched in horror exhaled slowly.

“Oh, sweetie. It’s pretty swollen. It must be infected. Let me get the doctor.”

They determined that my trip to the ballpark resulted in a kernel of popcorn getting wedged into a tiny section of impacted, semi-poked-through-by-a-damn-tooth section of gum, and infected my entire effin’ jaw! The infection could travel to my brain! (So, maybe not, but - y’know? May.be.)

I was referred to an oral surgeon who wouldn’t be able to do the x-rays until the swelling went down and the infection was cleared. So I got my prescription for penicillin and Vicodin (which, y’all? didn’t do shit for this pain) filled and headed home to lay on the couch for the next two days.

Friday, the oral surgeon confirmed that I had 4 impacted wisdom teeth (not ALL on the infected side obviously, but y’know, when I decide to do something, I go all out!). And sorry, but he couldn’t operate that day. Oh, and Monday - was Memorial Day. No surgeries! Barbeques instead!

“So, hey, just keep downin’ those Vikes until we get you in here Tuesday morning for surgery.”

Oh my holy hell. I was in for another three days of pain. At least this sawbones surgeon could give me a general anesthetic. I would be out-freaking-cold.

So, Tuesday? No problem. Mr. Hot goes with me. I remember sitting in the chair. I remember them putting the IV into my arm. And I remember Mr. Hot coming into the room when it was all over to help me out to the car and get me home to my couch so I could recover.

I also remember the nurse whispering to Mr. Hot: “Could you take her out the back door please?”

—- Because, y’all? I looked sooooooooo bad they didn’t want me to scare the other patients that were in for their exams. Is it any wonder I asked Mr. Hot for a pencil and piece of paper and wrote this down for the nurse? “Screw the Vicodin. Make it Percoset.” —-

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