The email started with:
You should now be free of pain, and back to normal.
It was from the dentist.
First of all, I have never been exactly normal.
And the pain? Hey, I had that wisdom tooth for at least 40 years.
I need time for grieving.
“Remember to floss and brush your new crowns, at least twice a day.”
Forget it. I don’t want to know.
So, in a few days, I go back.
This time for another crown and a filling.
I really should get a throne, don’t you think? To go along with all my crowns?
The strangest part of my treks to the dental office is that the original problem has yet to be addressed.
I lost a crown.
I found it on the floor.
I carried it in my pocket and when the dentist saw it, she immediately put on rubber gloves and a mask.
What the hell?
Anyway, it is back in my mouth.
However, I am not supposed to floss it.
Not supposed to eat anything near it.
Not supposed to disturb that precarious crown.
Meanwhile, the damn thing is super glued, while I get crowns everywhere else.
Do you know what it’s like not to eat a crisp apple? A slice of pizza? A bagel loaded with cream cheese? An ear of sweet corn? A can of cashews?
I stopped by the bar for a beer on the way home and it was wing night. The people were chomping on those crispy wings, while I sipped a beer from a glass of ice, from a straw, not to disturb the royal crown.
For now, I am holding on to my title of queenie, and will be enjoying the royal duty of flossing my ass off, before heading to bed.