Phase I: The Mommy Blogger at War

I am not proud of my behavior, really I’m not. But what do you expect when the person with whom you spend the most amount of time is an irascible 3 year old? Something’s gotta break.

Here’s your CLUE. My little break[down] was–

1) Location: at the endodentist’s

2) Who: with the dental assistant

3) Weapon: a drill

You see, before the masked man made his appearance, the assistant sat me down in the big ugly chair. You you know: the one that dangles you upside down like a Cirque du Soleil trick gone awry.

“I am going to test your tooth to determine its sensitivity.”

I looked at her dubiously and jokingly retorted, “What you’re saying is you’re going to inflict pain upon me.”

She didn’t get it. Or maybe she did and she was just mad I was the first sucker to call her on it.

She didn’t respond and sternly commanded me to “open.” I think she even got some pleasure out of her torture techniques and was snippy to me the rest of the time.

Note to self: do not get on the bad side of the dental assistant. You may live to regret it.

I was in there for a few hours due to nerve problems and the complaints over the location of the tooth (forgive me for also having teeth at the back of my mouth). In my own sick, competitive mind, a part of me was proud my stubborn tooth did not give up without a good fight.

Such complications required an inordinate amount of X-Rays by my friend. Lest you had forgotten, did I mention I HAVE A CANKER RIGHT BELOW THE SITE OF THE ROOT CANAL? This made sticking The X-Ray Thingamajig the Size of Colorado into my mouth just a wee bit painful.

It did not help that my friend would spend about five minutes to line up the stupid machine and equally as long to take the picture. I think she even snagged a drink of water and had the nerve to accuse me of moving by the time she finally wandered back.

A bigger person would have just blown all this off but welp, this is me. And this was The Passive-Aggressive Showdown of my life and I could not back down.

I sensed early on that she was a bit obsessive compulsive over certain things, including the location of my spit catcher bib (the official name, I am sure). If it was not perfectly flat against my chest, she would promptly move it back into place.

My act of rebellion? I shifted it when she wasn’t looking, which drove her nuts. Pretty wild, eh??

Evidently I did not sow my wild oats during my teen-aged years.

In the end, my canal got rooted, she was relegated to sucking my saliva with the spit catcher and I now have a killer toothache and an exacerbated canker.

It is tough to say who won the battle. Certainly, I lost that war.


This weekend is D-Day. You know: De Day all our rigorous training thoughts about rigorous training are put to the test as we attempt to climb the big mountain. Heaven help us. Wait. Not that that I want to return there anytime soon.

Oh, and if you don’t hear from me have a HAPPY CANADA DAY on Sunday! Make sure to smooch a token Canuck for me. Oh wait. Kisses are reserved for the Irish. A simple pat on the butt should do….

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