Wednesday, May 10, 2006

in which there are a lot of segues

TV is supposed to not make you want to throw yourself under a truck, so rather than get depressed about not being a rich and pretty young thing living in Orange County, I've avoided switching on to watch the hijinks of those who are. More recently though, I developed either a death wish or a sense of self that goes beyond being validated by having a late model Mustang parked in my driveway, because while the rest of the world is watching this season's OC, I've been busy plowing through the first series on DVD. My review? As much as I'm enjoying it, and I am, I'm hating Mischa Barton. What in the name of giddy fuck is she so famous for? Bland looks? Wooden acting? What?

Inquiring minds need to know.


I'm going to the dentist for the seventy billionth time today. This should be the last of the excessive number of dental appointments I've had so far to get a simple crown fitted. Two actually, given that the simple crown from November last year was so simple that it's one of the two muthafuckers being cemented into mouth today. They were supposed to be fitted last week but as I was dripping with enough cold germs to fell a small nation, I gave them a reprieve and rescheduled for this week. Then the temporary crown broke, leaving behind what amounted to a Gilette GII and several sharp knives in the back teethular region of my cake hole. So I ended up in the dentist's chair anyway, having the fucking thing puttied up so it would last until today, which it didn't, but rather than put myself in that damn chair another time, I dealt. And, I might add, I've done a stellar job of avoiding severing my tongue, a la Children of the Corn ("gaaah, gaaah!").

Having mentioned my teeth, let's talk about my smile. Now that I've had the boy, I'm potentially able to undergo the surgical equivilant of a punch in the face some time next year. I thought it prudent to follow up the first opinion with a second, and lo! the diagnosis of Adult Onset Muppet Freak Syndrome has been confirmed. I don't look like nature intended me to, and it bothers me that Daniel will probably resemble what I was meant to look like, so he'll end up not looking like me at all.

Second Opinion Surgeon is internationally known for his achievements in cranio-facial surgery, to the point that googling his very common name spits him out as the first result. Point being that if he thinks I could benefit form getting my stupid face fixed, then I'm seriously going to consider it.

Having taken that line break to serious consider it, I'm now in the process of following this up with his team because as much as I once wanted a nice smile, what I really want now is a chance to look like my son.


Next on the agenda: Stef extracted his head from his arse long enough for Legal Services to arrange genetic testing to confirm his, uh, contribution.

I'm hoping the results confirm 'immaculate' so that Daniel and I can forget all about this pesky Father Of Child stuff, and get on with the serious business of preparing for his career as The New Messiah. In the meantime, I'll be conferring with PayPal about installing a 'donate' button for all the gifts of frankinsense and myrrh.


Speaking of the boy: he's still cute, but good GOD, what is up with him today? Dude is being a major grizzlehead. Teething? Probably, in which case, consider this another segue.

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