The Bloody Doors Off

Another big day tomorrow.

Four bottom teeth comin’ out.

Now I just need to …

Actually, there’s nothing I need to do.

And there it is.

Stage five.

Acceptance.

I fucked up my teeth.

My fault. No one else’s.

I’m paying the price.

Granted, I look better with the top plate in.

I just haven’t figure out how to eat properly with ’em.

Given that I am a vain motherfucker.

I’ll probably get the bottom plate.

At least take the mold tomorrow.

The next few days are gonna be fun.

If this goes like the previous procedure, I’ll be out of the chair in an hour.

And eating gauze well into the afternoon.

Huh. I wonder if I should be wearing the top plate while the gums heal.

I’d think so. I’ll have to ask.

No pictures though.

Blame my vanity.

It’s funny, innit?

I write about this shit. No holds barred.

But I refuse to let anyone see my smile without the dentures.

Who’d have thought that was the line I wouldn’t cross.

I’ll tell you about my heavy drinking days.

How I conned a beer out of a poor old guy who just wanted someone to listen to him.

(I didn’t do AA, but I wish I could make amends to him.)

But showing holes in my mouth? Nuh uh.

I might write more later.

They started up on the construction site at 6:30am.

Which I think is illegal.

Even with the extended hours given them by the Province.

Fuck Doug Ford.

Either way.

Fuck the bastard.

And I got coffee grounds in my cup this morning.

More than usual, for a Keurig.

Sigh.

Gonna be a long day.

I thought today was Wednesday.

Steeled myself all day for what tomorrow would bring.

And now realizing I have yet another 24 hours to wait.

It’s like the unexpected voicemail from your doctor.

They don’t say anything in the message.

Aside from asking you to call back.

Every disaster scenario plays across the back of your eyes.

And after three days of trying to reach her.

She tells you your blood pressure is a little high.

So cut out the salt.

It’ll be fine.

It’ll be fine.

It’ll be.

Fine.

I haven’t written since we returned home.

Whatever muse visited me at the cottage stayed behind.

Even this is excruciating.

Searching for words.

The title popped into my head yesterday.

Looked up the rest of the lyrics.

Definitely doesn’t speak to how I feel.

Which is.

Kinda numb.

Mentally.

I had menial jobs waiting my return.

Knocked those out in no time.

End up going back to bed this morning.

Which I rarely, if ever, do during the week.

Always alert, should a request appear in my inbox.

Today I slept through one.

Got it in time.

Took half an hour.

I need to be alert this week.

Doctor’s appointment tomorrow afternoon.

Dentist on Thursday.

That’ll kill half my day.

Ugh.

This is Paul.
Paul didn’t take proper care of his teeth.
And now he’s losing a bunch of them.
Don’t be like Paul.

That’s a cautionary tale, if ever there was one.

Still not used to the buggers.

I can wear them for longer, but suspect I’ll be investing in Poligrip just the same.

No one wants me to pop these babies out at the dinner table.

Hehe. Had to look up how to spell ‘Poligrip’. I wanted to spell it Polygrip.

Puts a spin on the meaning, doesn’t it?

Random thought.

I wonder if Harold got left at the cottage?

Lost on that long road he wanted me to walk.

Here’s hoping.

Tonight I was reminded of a family tradition. Because there was no such thing as central air conditioning, you had to rely on a window-mounted air conditioner. These were expensive and always went to the nexus of the house, which in our case was the sitting room slash dining room. (We had a rec room in the basement that kept cold in summer.)

I remember my mother declaring, “It’s too hot; there’s no way I’m using the oven tonight. So it’s going to be a cold supper.”

Everyone, I’m sure, has their version of a cold supper. Ours was various slices of luncheon meat, devilled eggs, a tray of sliced cheese (the horror, “sliced”), pickles and olives, cold potato salad, a type of green salad (usually iceberg lettuce — what do you want, we were barely middle-class back in the 1970s), and buns if you wanted to make a sandwich with the meat and cheeses.

I’m sure there was more. And I remember how simple it seemed to prepare.

I know better now.

But I’m extremely thankful for that memory jog tonight.

I could hear my mom again.

Having trouble getting used to the dentures. The way the plastic hits my soft palette.

If there was less of it. I think that’d be fine.

Also having issues with not wearing them. It feels unnatural, not having front teeth.

And that’s not something, I think, is gonna change in the short-term.

Did I mention that I’m not done?

Bottom four front teeth come out Thursday.

Which prompts a new question.

Can I get along without bottom dentures?

Or will vanity.

Mostly comfort.

But a little vanity.

Will that bend the decision towards ‘yes’?

I hoped the passing storm would’ve answered that question.

Thunderstorms both thrill and terrify me.

The terror goes back to childhood. A summer storm, gale force winds slamming my door closed and 5-year old hands unable to twist the round handle, blinding-white lightning casting nefarious shadows along the wall. Thunderous booms echoing in my ears. That may have been my first ever panic attack.

But now I feel like Prospero in The Tempest. Bending nature to his will.

(To be honest, I can’t remember the full plot. I just hope it’s the right metaphor. Not like I’m Caliban or anything. (Again, I have no fucking clue what I mean. Just go with it.))

Back to the question.

Dentures or no?

People can see my bottom teeth when I talk.

Or.

They won’t.

And that terrifies me.

I did find some enjoyment at the cottage, make no mistake.

But we were in agreement: if we summer in cottage country again, there needs to be central air.

I need to ensure I’m always wearing sunscreen. (Got a fair bit pink.)

Apply the bug spray at the first hint of dusk.

I think I’d enjoy it more in the fall. A slight chill in the air. The leaves turning colour.

And the fire pit.

Had no desire to light the logs in the middle of a heat wave, especially at it would’ve invited more mosquitoes.

But October/November? Perfect.

Hi.

Harold here.

Came to say I visited our mutual friend earlier tonight.

Tried to convince him to go for a nice long walk on a secluded road.

The fucker didn’t listen.

But that’s alright.

He can’t ignore me forever.

Maybe not, Harold.

But I’m gonna fight you every inch of the goddamned way.

I am struggling.

The dentures feel so foreign to me. I’m popping them out every once in a while, for a few moments, to get some respite from the alien feeling.

I forgot to put sunscreen on yesterday.

It was cloudy. And I forgot the UV rays can still penetrate.

So I am every pink.

And must slather SPF 60 if I am to go out on the dock today to read.

We discussed the possibility of leaving early.

There were convincing arguments on both sides by the adults in the room.

Vetoed by the boy who, despite spending the majority of time in his room, says he is enjoying himself.

We care that much for his happiness.

I have bug bites all over my body.

Despite the OFF bug spray. I guess pasty (now pink), plump white dude is on the menu up here.

I suspect I enjoy all-inclusive vacations more as there is less responsibility to clean.

It feels like just another day at the condo. Only I can walk to water, instead of drive to it.

Auggie is having the time of her life. Doubtful she’ll want to leave.

The cats are acting up at home, with the lack of omnipresent humans.

Apparently one of them (*cough*Hannah*cough*) took a poop in my slipper as a form of protest. I shudder to think of what else we’ll find.

Guess I’m hitting Walmart when we get back.

(Seriously, it is hard as fuck to find slippers anywhere else.)

TL:DR. I am grateful for the break, but am ready to come home.

First came the spoons.

They took over the utensil drawer before making their play for world domination.

The war was bloody.

They thought they’d won.

We thought they’d won.

Then came the Resistance.

Both sides suffered major casualties.

But the tide turned.

The spoons were beat back into the drawer.

All the while, waiting for their opportunity.

Were the socks.

Left by a Zaidy, accepted by his grandson.

They were washed. Any with holes per pitched.

Socks that were then added to the boy’s collection.

For he wore many, but were mostly mismatched.

But at the cottage.

As I unpacked.

There they were.

In my suitcase.

I’m not a paranoid person.

And it’s one hell of a conspiracy theory.

But what if it’s true?

Skinny jeans had their time.

Now the socks.

Rise up.

Are you prepared to fight?