Feel It

I really need A. to come home, because in the last few days, my dinners have consisted of chicken broth with a few sad little green beans thrown in, frozen pierogies and, once again, ancient Eggo waffles. The culinary coup de grace was last night’s Chef Boyardee overstuffed sausage ravioli eaten right from the can over the sink. I mean, I couldn’t even put it in a bowl? Seriously?

Separately, this is the closest you’ll ever get to drunk blogging from me, because I’ve pounded back two shots of whiskey and a glass of wine because this week – this day – was toilet-worthy, despite last week being a complete shitter, and one that should totally be followed up with a really and truly stellar week. You know, a week that would involve something like endless bouquets of flowers and maybe a minor lottery win or something. I did get a lovely thank you gift from my boss for all of last week’s suicidal misery, so it wasn’t all bad, however, unless it was for $1M, I’m not sure it could begin to make me feel any better. Although now that I think about it, one of the items was a gift cert to a wine bar, so perhaps tomorrow I shall buy and drink several bottles and see how I feel then.

It wasn’t good. I mean, it wasn’t good at all for many reasons, but mostly it wasn’t good, because it involved an altercation with the IRS and a root canal. I mean, honestly! Honestly! It’s like a cliche! In one day – today – I spent four hours on hold with the IRS and came to the conclusion that I need a root canal. The only way that could be worse is if I *had* a root canal today, in which case, I would have set up an IV drip of Maker’s Mark and maybe stolen some OxyContin to ease my suffering. Although in truth, the root canal would at least stop the wild scraping of the tooth, at least.

So, ah, yeah: the root canal. I had a root canal and a crown put in a few weeks ago, and a filling put in right next to it, and lo, it turns out that filling – that horrid, awful filling – was hitting too high repeatedly, and the dentist didn’t believe me! She didn’t believe me, and she kept fixing it without really fixing it, and finally, today, she drilled all the way down to the nerve! The nerve! While I wasn’t under the influence of any sort of Novocaine! NO NOVOCAINE! And a drill! And a nerve!

!!!!

This, as you can imagine, feels something like taking razor blade wrapped in aluminum foil and jamming it right up your jawline through your ear like a rocket of pain to your frontal lobe (or is it temporal over there?) A light breeze is enough to send me into near-hysteria.

And wait! There’s more! This was at 5:30 p.m. this afternoon, when the endodontist was closed. Closed! And here I am with Motrin, two shots of whiskey and a glass of wine, blogging my face off and praying that the endodontist can get me in tomorrow, because sweet holy lord, I’m dying here, and I’m wondering how drunk I’ll let myself get before I realize it’s completely futile and just roll over and pass out.

Oh, and the IRS. THE IRS. I have canceled , as in cashed, checks made out to them, and yet, they do not have record of this, as evidenced by the very cruel notice I got yesterday. They do! not! have! record! of! my! money! The obscene amount of money that is no longer in my bank account, but has been cashed by someone named the “Internal Revenue Service.” And they’d like it again, please, or else. But Ken is working on it. Ken promises to help me. Ken promises that I will not have to pay it all all over again, or have a lien put on my house, because he is going to fix it. Unfortunately, Ken cannot fix my tooth with the money I’ve already given him, so if the IRS and the dentist were the same person, things would be much easier on all of us.

I’m holding out for next week. I really am. In the meantime, I’m spending my weekend in a Tylenol/Codeine haze and knocking back Crown Royal at every possible opportunity, and thinking really? Really, Universe? I mean, everyone is happy and healthy and all that, and I’m so lucky, and really, I’m so, so happy, but at the moment, I’m intensely irritated and I just want someone to throw me a bone. A non-tooth bone, and preferably one that won’t clonk me in the head and knock me out.

(Incidentally, the whiskey made me a little on the emotional side and I sobbed – S O B B E D – my way through the very end of Grey’s Anatomy, heaving and hiccuping to the point where I upset the dog, and she started crying to come sit in my lap and lick my face – not because she wants to comfort me, understand, but because tears are her favorite thing to lick. Crying, to her, is a delicacy. Oh, and I’ve rewound the scene three times, and instantly bawl, complete with loud noises.)

Upside: It’s Friday! And he comes home tomorrow. Hooray!

* I give up. His name is Adam, no one cares. NO ONE CARES, and even he doesn’t care at this point.

*House of Pain. I love Everlast. Don’t laugh.

21 comments February 22nd, 2007