It's a two-post day but I figured if I'm on the road curtailing the advances of one Willie Nelson co-pilot, I should leave you with a little something more than a sexy Willie Nelson pic. You're welcome.
In between picking lint out of my belly button and getting acquainted with the Jersey Shore crew (yes, daytime television sucks donkey balls), I actually got out of the house and away from all things electronic. So, why not pay a visit to my favourite demon dentist?
It wasn't by choice. Well, it was my choice to chew on an ice cube and potentially crack or break a tooth but that's neither here or there. The outcome was sharp, shooting pains out of one of my top molars into the central vortex of my brain. Cold water, hot water, tepid water, a soft whole wheat roll... it didn't matter what touched my tooth, it friggin' hurt. And, judging from my last visit to the dentist where drills whirled and my dentist's gargantuan hands threatened to get lodged in my small mouth, I thought it was adviseable to get the tooth checked out. It is, after all, an original and one I wanted to keep for the time being.
The good news first. An hour after calling to set up the appointment, the tooth miraculously stopped hurting. I mean there was no pain despite hours of poking and prodding when before a cool breeze would set it off. The even better news is that I didn't do any permanent damage from chewing ice. The tests proved the absensce of pain. He poked, he prodded, he made me bite down on what I thought was a silver bullet to see if I would writhe in pain. Nothing. Yay me. I even stepped up my brushing and flossing regime to impress the crap out of the dentist with the largest hands in the history of dentists.
The bad news is that there will be no more ice cubes. Sure, I can use them to cool down a drink but they must, MUST stay in the glass and melt naturally. I must resist the urge to chew. That's the hardest part since I've been chewing ice cubes almost my entire life - or for as long as I've had teeth and was able to put ice cubes in my drinks. The dentist thought I'd learned my lesson earlier on in my adolesence when I'd actually cracked the enamel, forcing him to paint a seal on my upper and lower molars. But, the temptation is always too much.
But resist, I must or it will result in monthly visits to the dentist's chair and a reintroduction of needles, drills and those damn dams. Besides, I think my family has already contributed enough to his Muskoka cottage, high profile cars and bi-monthly vacations. It's a small price to pay.