i'm in my happy place, i'm in my happy place....

Not knitting, not spinning, not hooking, not dying, not carding, not nuttin'!!! Upon arriving back at the casa de mess following another grueling day wrangling other people's kids I noted that I had a phone message!!! Whoopie!!! Someone in the big wide world took the time to reach out to lil' ol' me. I must be so popular! Whom could it be? What exciting thing could be coming my way as a result of listening to this message?

It was my dentist's office.

They were doing a "courtesy"call to remind me of my appointment on Thursday and that I needed to "pre-med." (For those of you without heart-murmurs, this means take an antibiotic that gives you diarrhea before you go to the place that scares the crap out of you.)

Now I'm heading into full "terror mode." Amber Alert, All Hands On Deck, Man The Lifeboats, pick your panic-related cliche.

Last month's root canal was almost out of my mind when I began to lose the temporary crown. My crack staff, quite sick of listening to me complain about this, gently suggested that I make an appointment and get the permanent crown done so that I could enjoy my Holiday Break. ( Translation: "so we can enjoy some peace and quiet before we go on said Holiday Break") This appointment is the day after tomorrow.

I was just getting over the nightmares that came flying out of my now hollow nub of a tooth. Dreams where the dentist (let's call him Dr. DeSade) says things like, " now you may experience some mild discomfort here." Then he grows horns and fangs and proceeds to drill my face off. There are variations on this, but you get the general idea.

Now I have to go back and face him again. I must suck it up and return to the place of ugly decor, bad Muzak and sharp things that poke you. I must go there and act like none of it bothers me like a real grown-up would. Then I must pay them large amounts of money for the privilege. It hurts on soooo many levels.

So, instead of working on that "skinny scarf" that I need to have done for Christmas Eve I am sitting on my couch in a semi-fetal position worrying obsessively about this upcoming appointment. The one Dr. DeSade assures me won't be nearly as bad as the root canal. The one that I know will not go well because, in a past life, I clearly attempted to murder the tooth fairy or one of her cats. And the moral of this story (for those who need a little more closure in their blog posts): Floss...Floss like your f#$%&ing life depended on it!!!!!!

The sheep will now go rummage through the medicine cabinet for some expired valium.

SA