Princess Zurg: Doc Martens are for men or for women.

Mister Bubby: You mean they’re homosexual shoes?

Mad: The word is “unisex,” Mister Bubby.

MB: Oh.


Why is this a pity post, my friends? Is it because I feel sorry for you, because every day without your gentle Giraffe is like a day without sunshine? Or is it because my teeth really hurt and I want you to feel sorry for me? Maybe we will all feel sorry for each other when this is over.

I’ll just get the teeth thing out of the way: OUCH, DAMMIT. It’s not as bad as it was initially, thank God, and it is true that I can chew with my remaining molars much better than I could a week ago, but the front teeth are still very, very unhappy. Any contact they have with…anything…is still quite painful. This morning I was in the shower and my upper lip itched, and maybe I had shampoo on my hands or something, whatever, I scratched the itch by rubbing the back of my knuckle against my upper lip and the upper front teeth WERE NOT PLEASED. It is more than three hours later and that part of my mouth STILL HURTS. I feel like if I pushed on these babies AT ALL, they would just snap right off. THAT IS DISCONCERTING. Also, painful, if I hadn’t mentioned that before.

On the plus side, I think these braces really might be making me look younger. Of course, that could also be age-related dementia, but we won’t go there today.

The sad part about having hurty teeth is that it makes eating an unpleasurable experience. That is just sick and wrong. If we’ve come to the point where sex is better than food, I think there is a serious problem. (Note: that is a joke based on gender stereotypes and not an invitation for commentary.) Anyone who’s read this blog for a significant period of time understands that I have emotional problems and psychological issues and identity crises, and how am I supposed to deal with all of these without EATING? Madhousewife cannot live on Prozac alone. (Note: that is an expression, in a manner of speaking. I am not on Prozac, per se, but “Prozac” is a metaphor for the cocktail of pharmaceutical support that I enjoy.) If I am not eating, I have to be working, and even when I’m working, it is difficult to avoid thinking about all the things that are wrong with me and my life if I have not recently ingested something delicious to kill the bitter taste of failure that always arises in these conversations I have with myself. If you’re thinking that this sounds like an unhealthy coping pattern that I am better off without, well, I don’t have any proof that you’re wrong. Except that up until two weeks ago, it was working! Sort of. But sort of is better than nothing, believe me.

Have you ever tried eating with only your back eight teeth (four on top, four on bottom)? It is harder than it sounds. Yes, it’s true that they do the lion’s share of the chewing anyway, but have you ever tried eating without letting anything touch any of your other teeth, lest there be severe dental discomfort? It is almost more trouble than it is worth. Most days I don’t even eat lunch. AND I LOVE LUNCH. More to the point, I miss lunch. I miss it from a calories standpoint, and I miss it from a feelings standpoint. I miss the comfort of gratuitous between-meal snacking. I also miss eating dinner because I want to and not just because I need it to live. These lifestyle changes have had a serious impact on my mental wellness.

Talking of which, I was going to tell you about some other crap going on in my life, but I only have thirteen more minutes before I have to pick Mister Bubby up from school, and I have to collect all the pudding cups in the pantry because they’re the only weapons against debilitating melancholy left in my arsenal. Pudding cups, ladies and gentlemen. This is what I’ve come to. I will have to tell you the rest tomorrow.