- No Balance Bars
- No Stir Fry
- No Soy Nuts
My diet has been greatly reduced.
I called the dentist’s office last night when I tried to chew through a chunk of my own tooth (seems cannibalistic, doesn’t it?). Of course, the office was closed, and I waited in a sort of fog for the dentist’s receptionist to stop babbling so that I could leave a Virginia Woofe-esque Stream of Consciousness message:
“Uh, yeah. So a while ago I came in to see you. And you said I needed a root canal. But my insurance doesn’t kick in until April. But I have a flexible spending account which covered a tooth extraction but not a tooth filling, which I don’t really get, but whatever. Anyway, you started the root canal, drilled and drilled and drilled, filled it with goop, and said you’d see me in April. Well, part of that tooth just fell off, so I’m assuming I’ll need to come in sooner, yes? Because it’s not good to have part of your tooth come off, I assume. So if you could let me know what to do. Here’s my number: I’ll call you back anyway, but in case you beat me to it, you can give me a ring. Uh, thanks . . . ?”
They didn’t call: I can’t imagine why. I didn’t get a lot of calls in high school from guys, either. Weird.
So I called the office back in the morning. I called repeatedly. See, I had even set up potential JJ-sitters so that I would be able to report to tooth inspection at any given time, and I wanted to let them know when they’d be called to duty. See the planning? The adaptability? The “I can do this whole single parenting thing”?
“Called to say ‘hi.’ No answer. Time passes by. No answer. Called you again. No answer. Called all your friends. No answer” – “Stalker Song” by Blame It On John (R.I.P.).
Over and over again: no answer. Could be a busy day. Could be a sick receptionist. Could be them on the phone with my insurance company figuring out all the ins and outs of me not having to pay for dental care because dang it insurance should be good for something.
My mama called because she’s good like that. She ventured to ask what their hours were: “Maybe they’re not open yet.” “No, they are. 8:00-5:00. I’ve heard the receptionist say it over and over again on the message, 8:00-5:00 Monday through . . . wait a minute. . . . ”
Thursday. My mind kindly chose at the moment where I could look like the biggest boob to inform me that the message always said Monday through Thursday. I am a ding dong.
The receptionist did call me back today. Even though the office isn’t open, she checks messages for emergency and ding dong cases. I now have a check-up on Tuesday at 12:10 – you know, 50 minutes before my husband leaves for yet another trip. The joy never ceases.