Tiny Dancer

I had a root canal today, and it was the highlight of my day, which sounds worse than it actually is, because have you had a root canal lately? I don’t mean to wax poetic about today’s modern dental marvels, but I was in and out of there in 15 minutes, I felt absolutely zero pain and the overall inconvenience factor was less than that of a filling. Well, except for the $1000 price tag, given that I have already whipped through my dental insurance allotment for the year. Yes, yes it is only February, why do you ask? Ahem. Anyway, no one is more shocked than me, and if I wasn’t entirely convinced that my endodontist was unattractive and very likely gay, I’d have considered making out with him right then and there, such was the depth of my gratitude.

I mean, I’d spent the weekend in some sort of Vicodin haze, which made me wonder, seriously? People get addicted to this stuff? I don’t get it, even a little bit. The addictive properties of just about everything else, I completely understand, because at least they make you feel kind of…good, or something, I guess. It’s hard for me to judge, because I don’t really have an addictive personality, and at this point, that includes cigarettes, despite my past. I could have a pack of cigarettes a day for a week, and quit the next, and ah, this theory has been tested in recent years.

So while I’m not Matthew Perry, I remain perplexed by the appeal, because Vicodin made me feel as inert as a pile of day-old soggy buttered pancakes. Half a pill and I was more than half in the bag, and at one point, I decided to read the side effects while under the influence and convinced myself that I was about to overdose, and if I fell asleep, my heart would stop beating and I’d be dead by apparent suicide, and what would everyone say? Hence, I spent all of Saturday night forcing myself to stay awake so that I would not die from half of a dose of Vicodin, playing a strange sort of combination of William Miller and Penny Lane, and talking to myself like some kind of strangely twisted Jekyll and Hyde routine. Penny wanted to sleep, but William was NOT GOING TO LET PENNY DIE.

Vicodin and I are not friends, which means I am now free to hand it over to my neighbor, who is a purported Vicodin dealer, as rumor has it that he gets it free from the U.S. government because he is a veteran. It is tempting, given that at least it will keep the punks in the neighborhood confined to their houses, passed out in front of the television, MTV’s “My Super Sweet Sixteen” blaring in the background. If it wasn’t dangerous, scary and more than a little illegal, I’d be tempted to slip a couple into their beers at night, because God, the punks! The noise! THE AKON. I CANNOT TAKE THE AKON.

Penny did, by the way, eventually get to sleep, but only around 3 a.m. after William was convinced the danger had passed. These hours were, by the way, spent listening to my snoring, sick-sounding husband and working myself into a wild froth about whether or not he was actually sick and regretting every single moment I’d spent earlier in the day kissing him, and oh, they were a lot, because, did I mention I was so happy he was home? I’m not typically the clingy type, but I was attached to him for most of the weekend, afraid to let go of his hand because he might use it as an opportunity to escape the madness, of which I was a central character.

Well, Penny, William and me, that is. We were all really happy to see him.

Happy Tuesday.

*Elton John. How great is that scene? It almost makes me forget that Billy Crudup is such an ass.

17 comments February 26th, 2007