All hail The Kaiser and his magical endoscopy wand!
Went back to the dentist today to have a whinge about how starving I was and that I never want to drink miso soup again; ditto yoghurt; ditto mashed potatoes. Thankfully, Dr R. grasped my point. She jacked up my back teeth with some temporary whatever, and HUZZAH! Let the mastication commence...
Not even 24 hours have elapsed and I'm back in the dentist's chair. We have a conversation which I wish we had have had yesterday because to be forewarned is to be, well, forewarned. It went something like this:
Me: I cooked pasta for supper last night because it seemed the least braces-threatening of meals possible. However after the first mouthful I realised that my upper and lower teeth no longer have contact. I couldn't chew. NO. CHEWING. [At this point I'm showing her how fucked up the situation was in my mouth...]
Dr R: Yes. They won't touch for a while. Maybe in a few days - no, let's say a week - you should be able to do some version of a gurn/chew type thing. It won't take long.
Me: So to be clear, for the next week (at least) I will only be able to drink smoothies and slurp soup?
Dr R: Yes. This is the pay-off for getting your teeth and jaw lined up within the space of only four months. It's extreme, but things will get better really very fast.
Me: Oh... [slight pause while I think about this unexpected liquid food diet, mental scan of fridge] ...gin soup for supper then.
I've been dreading today... So much so that I've been putting today off for at least 30 years. But all that avoidance ends today. No more vanity, no more shame, no more waking up with lockjaw, no more headaches, because today I get braces on my lower teeth.
As with that unfortunate little bout of cancer earlier this year, I shall be posting random updates on what it's like to be 50 years old, divorced, single, chronically shy, vain as all fuck and sporting the visage of a spotty metal-mouthed teenager whilst living in a city famed for its love of the beautiful and disdain for the afflicted.
Wish me luck. Or at least, please try not to laugh.
When cats are still off their face on anaesthetic but desperately want to describe their feelings via horizontal interpretive dance...
Waiting for the sun to dip and come 'round just a little more so I can begin drawing...
My view of the Biltmore Hotel is massively improved by this Gerry-built, most likely illegal, definitely not up to code, beautifully lit shack on top of the Shulte United building across the road. I hate to say it but good work, hipsters.
Homage to Nancy Reagan (RIP) and her 'War on Drugs' campaign to which I paid zero attention, clearly.