Where's my message? What are you doing? Why are you ignoring me?
Bloggers trying to please each other
I had been thinking of my posts as assignments. Essays. With a theme; a message; a topic. If I couldn't come up with something great I should just ruminate until something happened worth writing about. I started thinking that my
So. I still want my blog post to be the best thing you've read all day. If everything goes my way and you've only read the local newspaper and a cereal box that morning, I might hit the mark. Otherwise, maybe my blog will just say that I'm still here, waving at you over the interwebz.
Today we've had about five kinds of weather. It's sprinkled, poured, hailed, thundered and lightning-ed. It's been sunny. Cloudy. Cold. We've had rainbows. There was wind. Over and over. The only thing we didn't have was heat, and this town makes up for that in the summer when its hot night and day for weeks and weeks.
The view from my front porch
Yesterday the rain held off until after my appointment at the oral surgeon--oh, you thought I was finished with that? I am not. Why, just two days ago he pared some wayward lumpy gum tissue off the spots where my new implants will go. I've been waiting, unable to bite, since September to finally get my teeth but naturally at the last minute Dr P decided I needed a temporary set for a few more weeks, lucky me, so my gums could fill in obligingly and look natural and not freaky, which I am sorry to report, they do. I begged for some input into the appearance of these temporary teeth but Dr P just scoffed. The lab would make them look great! Better than that ugly space holder (denture) I've worn for six months. As you have correctly guessed, this was not the case. Not great. Not better. Worse. Horrifying. I look like a hungry vampire. These teeth are short and square and their tall neighbors loom threateningly on either side like a close-up of Dracula. But in typical nightmare fashion, I have no choice but to wear this wolfish face for two months. And pay cash; this is all extra.
My hair looks dark, don't you think?
Dr Z is the boss of the permanent implants. When it's finally time to decide how those will look, I'm insisting on some creative control. Dr N (I know an awful lot of dentists) loaned me books and walked me through the process of crafting my smile; armed with my new knowledge we'll pave the path to a lovely trio of permanent implants. It reminds me of when my house was being built and I dropped by every day to check up on the contractor and subs and force them to change all the things they'd built that day, flagrantly ignoring the plans, my careful instructions, or building codes. I kept telling myself that they didn't have to like me (they complied with that part) but this was MY life savings and they had better get it right. And for the most part, they did. The dental situation is kind of the same: It's a lot of money, and I have to live with it, and like it, for the rest of my life.
So much for a quick hello. Oops. Hello!