A New Cat, A New Dentist, A New Commissioner

Well I have three main things to tell about tonight. Now if that's not an obvious thesis statement then I don't know what is. Here they are, in chronological order:

First, I came home from Dallas with this cat, which was promptly named Josie. Josie has a rattle in her chest and a Halloween color scheme. She sleeps in the big boy bed, plays in the tent, goes potty, and eats blueberry oatmeal. A talented feline addition to the household.

Second, I went back to the dentist for him to fill cavities 2, 3, and 4 (of 8). I will try to make this short, but because of the level of trauma that I encountered in that office, I'm not making any promises of brevity. And if you have any fear at all of dentists then WARNING WARNING WARNING: DO NOT CONTINUE READING THIS UNLESS PSYCHOTHERAPY IS COVERED UNDER YOUR HEALTH INSURANCE POLICY.

Here is a rough recap of what happened ... (1) I was on time but they were not. (2) I was in line behind a medical student from a very prestigious local university. He was telling them all about how he only has tests twice a year. This was shocking, apparently. How would they know if he didn't study?!?! Goodness gracious! What if he didn't do anything all semester until test time and then crammed and then passed and then became a doctor? A doctor! (3) It was my turn finally and I got a shot in my lower left jaw. (4) A man in overalls came in for a denture adjustment, so I was left to "numb up" while the adjustment was made. They talked about the war (as in WWII). They talked about the dentist's son-in-law who is going to be on PBS next week in a documentary about mold inspection in the cargo holds of airplanes. They talked about killing fire ants with 3 tablespoons of that white powder stuff. You know, the worker ants feed it to the ole Queen and once she's gone, it's all over. (5) I am numb down to my waist and I start obsessing about how long the numbness will last. Is it powerful enough to outlast the denture adjustment? (6) It's my turn, finally, for the drill. But first the gas. However, this time, since I nearly vomited last time, I requested that they turn it down really low ... too low ... and when they started drilling, my brain somehow convinced me that I wasn't really numb. So I started kinda moaning and grabbing at the arm rests on the chair. And then he gave me another shot because darned if that stuff ain't supposed to work real good the first time and now my ankles are numb. More drilling. Is it my tooth that hurts? Or is it just in my head? Just breathe some more gas. The gas isn't working. IT HURTS. I jump. He jumps. The drill jumps. And then, (remember that warning ... I'm serious ... do NOT continue reading if you ever expect to go to the dentist again) due to the startled reactions of patient and doctor ...

The drill got lodged in my upper lip. The only part of my body that was not, at that point, completely numb beyond words. Now I am making that awful mewing sound that kittens make when they're hungry. And he is saying, "Oh no. Are you OK? Carolyn, go get some penicillin." And Carolyn is saying, "I think we better turn up the gas." And she does. And he extracts the drill from my lip and before I go into my nitrous-oxide induced haze, I manage to say -- through my sobbing -- "Fill 'em up. Fill 'em all up and get me outta here. I don't care what's wrong. Just fill 'em up; I'm leaving." And he did. And I did. Leave. As fast as a speeding bullet. Proceeded straight to my car and sat in that parking lot on 21st Avenue having the panic attack of a lifetime. Sick as a dog from two penicillin and nitrous oxide on an empty stomach. But not after I sat in that chair for a long time sobbing hysterically and thinking that life would never be the same. Came straight home to investigate the option of having sedation dentistry for the rest of my life.

A big fat lip. Another hundred and fifty dollars. Dentists are terrorists. Memo to the FBI: Abandon the search for Osama. Let's start with the home-grown guys. The ones whose tactics include such torturous atrocities as excessive waiting and upper-labial assault.

Third, the Friends of Radnor just purchased another huge block of land for the park, and so they had a celebration and ribbon cutting tonight. The land was near the observatory owned by the aforementioned prestigious local university (all of which is adjacent to the natural area), so the wine and cheese was served way up on the top of observatory hill. It was quite the event. Everybody was there. Even The Commissioner was there. You know. The Commissioner. THE Commissioner. And of course we were there. I in my bluejeans and Goose in his boots. Ah, The Goose. Our dearest Goose, who, during the commissioner's address to the party-goers, shouted, "Is all done! Yay! Go-go Mama. Let's eat. Amen." I could've crawled up under my chair if it hadn't been so hilarious that my violent snickering prevented me from removing him from the scene.

Later in the evening he grabbed a truffle off of the mayor's plate, scared a 3-year old by attaching himself to her pink jacket, grabbed Saturn out of the display case and yelled "A BIG BALL," and poured out an entire bottle of water on the beautiful starry rug underneath the big telescope. Luckily, almost everybody was a little bit tipsy from the wine and most of this went unnoticed. Somehow, I think that we must not get him out enough.

And that, people, is a synopsis of our week.

TGIF.