And then my face starts flopping like pig blubber.


HAVING A SENSE OF HUMOR at the dentist’s office is not a quality that I’d say is highly developed in my character.  After all,  nothing is remotely funny about spending a fortune on a couple of teeth that should have from the get-go been replaced with implants.  But I drag on trying to save this one tooth, having it filled, refilled, filled again, refilled, etc.  Now in the process of having it crowned, I rush into the office late because I have been tied up in a conversation with granite counter top installers, who have suddenly sprung on me the news that no, the old counters can not be lifted off and hauled away.  But this is another tale for another blog of little annoying disruptions that lead on to more expensive resolutions.  I wave myself out the door making promises that I’ll return with shelf paper after I have finished with the dentist.

I’m not sure that I found this visitation funny because I was stoned on laughing gas or that it was funny, would be funny to anyone.  Laughing gas or not.

I hang upside down in the chair, with hoses, hands, and purple impression gunk stuck in my mouth when my dentist’s receptionist bursts in and blurts out that a man is trying to deliver a cake to someone named Sherry.  A conversation erupts that closely follows something similar to one in one of the Coen brothers’ films.

Without a bleep of a second’s delay my dentist responds,  “Didn’t we have a patient named Sherry?”

Dental assistant:  “I’d be suspicious of a cake that shows up like that.  It could be from a terrorist.  Isn’t it a shame that we have become so suspicious these days?  Tell him to bring it in.  I’ll run a knife through it and see if it is booby trapped with something inside.”

Although I can’t speak as I’m prohibited by a mouth full of impression gunk,  I would have offered a much better solution.  “Bring the cake in here.  Bring the knife in here and I’ll act like I’m Sherry.  We’ll have cake for lunch.”

Briefly one or the other comes to his/her senses and offers up a probable solution.  “Maybe the cake is supposed to go to Dr. Jobe’s office.”

Man, oh, man, Sherry, you have no idea how close you came to our blowing up that cake.

I leave the dentist’s office with the lips on the left side of my face flopping around like pig blubber.  I must buy new shelf paper which, of course, at our house hasn’t been changed in 30 years.  I walk into the store and ask the first clerk, “Whert du shell afer?” She looks at me as if she’s not thinking about shelf paper, but rather should she call the police to report a public drunk.  I repeat my question.  I must do better with repetition because she carefully leads me down the aisle and points it out.

All the clerks take a turn checking me out.  I know what  they are thinking.  I don’t want to encourage any calls to the police department.  I try to smile at them.  Problem is only one side of my mouth can smile.  Perhaps they’ll think I’m a stroke victim.

I whip through the Sonic for a Coke Zero (incidentally the best drink in town).  I scoot the paper off the straw and position it in my mouth and suck real hard while the dead left hand side of my mouth drools Coke Zero down my white blouse.  I wondered where it was going until I feel an icy thrill down the front of my clothes.

I whip through the garage door and stumble through the kitchen contents that are now stacked over three fourths of the living room.  “Ah ot dem,”  I proudly announce.

John and the plumber simultaneously announce, “Now you must find 2 3/8″ sink lugs.”

Me:  Uth du old uns.

John and the plumber:  They aren’t long enough.

Me: ot du ell er ink ugs?

John:  Get online and see if you can order them.

Later, me:  ale’ll ee here un tree days.

I should be able to speak normally about the time the sink lugs arrive.


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