Thanks, But I've Donated My Uterus To Science Fiction

A little more than a week ago, I had a few teeth ripped out of my face.

The thing is that when I was 18, I had xrays done and those xrays indicated that I had, and I quote, "plenty of room for those things to come on out on their own!"  So I let them.  If a dentist ever tells you that, duct tape them to their examination chair and run for it.  It's a trap.   They're in it with the pain killer companies building landing strips for gay martians, I swear to god*.

My gums had plentyof room for those teeth.  My jaw had other ideas.  My bologna has a first name, it's oh-my-god-that-hurts.  I had the two on the right side removed one by one, both fully erupted, both when it became an emergency, both with nothing but local anesthetics, which isn't fun for you or your dentist or your kids in the waiting room who you have drive home and take care of after they've drilled and jack-hammered and raped and pillaged and left you with nothing more than a dry socket and a bottle of motrin.

You'll thank me later aside: Clove Oil.  Best thing in the galaxy for tooth pain.  Babies, idiots who let their wisdom teeth come out on their own, anyone.  You can buy it anywhere like this.

None of this has anything to do with this post.  Maybe I should start over.

A little more than a week ago, I had a few teeth ripped out of my face.  A little more than three decades ago, I was born with two holes in my heart.  What these two things have in common with each other is amoxicillin.

Because I have these errant holes laying around in my heart, I have to eat a bazillion grams of amox before a dentist can even breath on me to prevent endocarditis, which is a fancy word for Death By Dentist.  The American Heart Association has recently said that some of us don't need to "premed" anymore because the big, scary, evil antibiotics are going to kill us.  I had a lively chat with my dentist about this very subject and when he said that I was going to build up a resistance to antibiotics I said I hadn't yet built up a resistance to death and until he had two holes in his heart, he could refrain from judging my choices.

I got the prescription.  I took it.

This is where I get to my point.

I picked up the prescription and the pharmacist says, "You know that's going to interfere with your birth control, right?"  And I said, "Thank you, but I'm really a man."  Then I read the little pamphlet that comes with it about the 18 thousand ways it's probably going to kill me and of course, in big yellow highlighted letters, it cautioned, "Antibiotics might decrease the effectiveness of birth control pills."  And I told that pamphlet, "Thanks for the heads up, but I'm celibate."  And then I got to the dentist and the receptionist asked, "Did you premed" and I said that I had and she asks, "You know that will interfere with your birth control?" and I said, "Are you hitting on me?"

I have never had anyone inquire so much about my birth control.  Which actually explains a lot about where I am in life right now.

Anyway, I was called back to the Chair Of Doom and the dentist looked over my xrays, stuck the iv thingy in my arm, took a call from his wife in which I could hear her screaming at him and see him blushing from embarrassment, and as he injected whatever that totally awesome stuff that knocks you out is into my iv line, he shoved my chart in my face and pointed at the word, "PREMED."  I nodded.  I think I may have said, "snarfblastaschmurna" which of course means, "Dude, I so totally took it" and as the world began to grow dark and cozy, he pointed and the line below and with a quizzical look on his face, he violently shook that chart in front of my completely stoned eyes.


Here's the thing.  I don't take birth control, and you'd have to do a hell of a lot more than hand me a bottle or come at my head with sharp instruments to get me to tell you what I do use.  (Like by me shots.)  This, however, is not really my issue.

This is.

Either this is a really, really cruel joke, or these people are idiots.  Have they never pulled a wisdom tooth wrapped around a nerve before?  Are they unaware that the one and only thing I will most certainly not be doing for several days, if not a week, will be it?  I was sexier 5 minutes post-partum than I was until about a day ago. 

They may as well have sent me home with a paper bag for my head, a ruffie, bottle of KY and a note for the Donor that read, "Enjoy the silence, yo!"  because, really.  The smell?  Dear god.  The pain?  Sweet Baby Jesus.  The swelling?

2 days post-op

Yeah.  But thanks for the warning.

*Please, someone get that.

Feet Don't Actually Taste Very Good At All

Every married couple has some thing they like to do together, and my man and I?  We like to walk.

Oh, now, I have to admit that when we first got together, we did a lot of walking, and then the kids came and we made new friends and we went through that whole "hating each other" phase, and then we didn't walk so much.  In fact, we'd go months without.  But as we've grown older, and the kids have, too, we've fallen into a nice rhythm.  We set the time aside for each other, and we are finally really able to enjoy our walks together.

I used to be a really slow walker.  I am, truth be told, really slow at most things in life.  I don't even wear a watch; I'm just never in that much of a hurry, you know?  The Donor is a much more efficient walker than I am, for sure.  He walks tall, takes long, powerful strides, makes each step count.  Me?  I start with a bang and then I'm all FLOWERS!  and SUNSHINE! and BIRDIES! and then I realize I've wasted all this time and energy, and so I power on out to the end.

You can learn a lot about a person by the way they walk, I've noticed.

Anyway, after a few years, we kind of figured out how we could accommodate each other's pace and sort of keep up with each other just enough to finish our walks at the same time.  We could just as easily take a walk by ourselves, I suppose, but it's just more fun with each other.  We got married so we could do stuff like this together, right?  Right.  A decade in, we'd finally gotten ourselves settled into a nice place where we were keeping pace with each other, and then I had to go fuck it all up.

Lately, I seem to have gravitated towards speed-walking.  I don't mean to; I always start out fully intent on soaking in the scenery and enjoying a nice, relaxing stroll, but I'll be damned if walking that first half with him, pushing to keep up with him, doesn't get my heart racing and kick me right into overdrive, and then I'm all pile-driving my way through the second half, leaving my poor man behind to eat my dust.

On the rare occasion when he gets really going and makes it around the track before I do, I'm usually pretty happy to just throw in the towel and call it a day.  Call me lazy, but the Starbucks stop after is just as much fun for me as the walk itself.  But when I am the first one to the finish, well, he's a little more dedicated to the cause than me.  He's an athlete.  He's going the distance.  The problem is, this is where I'm totally screwing myself over.  If I'd just stayed with him, we could be chatting about the weather or the election or something, but since I didn't even have the consideration to hang back with him, now I'm stuck having to wait and he has to decide whether or not to hurry it up already so I don't get bored or whether to take his time and enjoy his damn walk that he was trying to take with pequeño Senorita Speedy Gonzales in the first place.

I was thinking about the sudden change in my performance, and I got to thinking about the reasons why.  I'm not a competitive person, really, so I thought there had to be some other reason for the difference.  And then I remembered that not too long ago, I switched from the regular anti-depressants that I take to the extended release kind.  Which means that at certain points throughout my day, I get this little zing of activityableness (is to a word).  I take advantage of the zing to get the floors swept or the laundry folded.  There's no reason that isn't playing right into our walks.  It seemed perfectly reasonable to me that it wasn't so much that he was motivating me to walk faster or inspiring me to really push myself, but that pharmaceuticals were to blame.  (Or be credited, depending on how literally you're taking this post.)

Which, by the way, is a terrible thing to say to your husband while you're out on your first date in just about a year.  Yeah, honey, it's not you, it's the drugs.

Hey, Baby...Are You A Member of the Mile High Club?

While I'm waiting on pictures from my camera, I might as well tell y'all about this:

Donkeys Over Denver

David and I are officially ready to announce the

Rocky Mountain Blogger Bash 5000 : Donkeys Over Denver

The website is up and running, with a spiffy header designed by the always lovely Aimee Greeblemonkey, Trios Enoteca is booked for the night, there's a keg waiting for us from Wynkoop Brewery, we've got Lijit officially sponsoring the event, and there's a rumour that my old buddies at CreBuzz might help us fund our little event, too.

Which would rock.

Because we don't have enough booze yet.

And booze is going to be really, crucially important in a room full of democrats AND republicans.

The official details are:

August 28, 2008
Trios Enoteca
1730 Wynkoop·Denver, CO 80202
7:30 PM to Close

Free Food and Free Beer & Wine
(In limited supplies and only if we like you.)

RSVP and get additional info available at our website.

Please, if you wouldn't mind passing along the info to anyone you know who will be at the convention, near the convention, affected by the convention or thirsty after the convention, we'd be really grateful.