Ah, it’s always something the week before a big show. Sunday was the Czarina’s turn to get horribly sick a half-hour before a friend’s wedding (in her case, labyrinthitis instead of my nearly-lethal asthma fit), and now there’s the glee of an emergency dentist’s visit to reattach a freshly popped crown. Thankfully, not only do I actually like visits to the dentist, but my dentist is a hoot. And yes, he’s getting a sundew today: he’s as sick of Little Shop of Horrors references as I am, so he’s threatening to feed the next person who starts doing Steve Martin impersonations to the plant. (I’d recommend saving that for the next one who asks “Is it safe?”, but that’s just me.)
In the meantime, I’m slightly disappointed with my previous dentist, even if he was a daylily junkie the likes of which even I couldn’t quite grasp. I mean, the tooth in question had a root canal back a decade ago, so there’s enough room in there for two cyanide capsules or three CIA mind control transmitters. Heck, there’s enough room in there to pack in enough Semtex to turn my head into an aerosol in case I were ever captured by enemy agents and threatened with torture. Either dentists are getting a lot less imaginative than in my youth, or my current dentist saw me coming and figured “Next thing you know, he’ll ask about having all of them replaced with chrome, so he can smile and scare the hell out of Sigourney Weaver.” The worst part of it all is that he’d be right.