My Dead Tooth.

In another life-pondering moment the other day I concluded that my "Totally Rational Worst Fears" list keeps growing. I'm not talking about fears like becoming a cat lady, going to work naked, falling into a manhole. Standard. I'm talking a very specific list that details occurrences that will inevitably result in my demise and/or complete humiliation.

I'll highlight a few of the biggies:

- Death by icicle. I just have this feeling that I'm that girl strolling down the street who gets pierced in the noggin by an icicle falling, most likely, from the overhang outside Nordstroms.

- Decapitation via bus mirror. Seriously, the 156 drives by me and do I see a side-mirror? No. I see a giant machete waiting to chop off the heads of 6'1" tall females.

- Lake shark attack...in Lake Michigan...at North Avenue Beach...Jaws XII style. Enough said.

But the fear that's resulted in hate filled glares targeting Rob Lowe and Julia Roberts, is the horror of developing and losing a dead tooth...

You see, I once had an impacted tooth. And this tooth remained impacted for the first 18 years of my life until it was extracted from it's comfy little home in my upper left gum and forced to live with the rest of my teeth. It's been violated by coffee and jolly ranchers ever since. The whole surgical process was creepy anyway, blood spewing everywhere, the dental hygienist "ooo-ing" and "uh oh-ing." But what will forever haunt me is the Oral Surgeon's sheepishly inserted comment while I was drooling and high on nitrous oxide... "Okay, so there may or may not have been some nerve damage. Significant nerve damage. Maybe, I don't know. It's too early to tell. Probably not a big deal though. So there's a 90 percent chance you may lose that tooth some day. Good job in there. See ya later!" Oh you're damn right you'll see me later sir. I now have to live with the fear of biting into a caramel apple only to find my dead tooth stuck in it. Or worse yet, what if I have so much nerve damage I don't even know it's gone and I'm giving a presentation to thousands of people and it's just hanging there or I'm on a date and find it stuck in a roll of sushi. You can bet your bottom dollar I'll be back at Granville Family Dentistry faster than you can say "ew you've got something on your...oh."

In all fairness to my tooth, it still has some life left in it. But it could probably go at any second and then who will want me? I googled "dead tooth" to try and ease my anxiety and find solutions to prevent it from turning revolting but this was an awful idea. I saw some things.

I suppose I should enjoy this time I have left with my tooth. My upper left incisor has had a great run, as far as upper left incisors go, so I should just let the natural tooth cycle take it's course. Let's face it, I made it through my prime years with two sets of railroad tracks securely fastened to my teeth, what's another dead tooth.

A love (of bud) note.

Normally, I hate notes. They tend to be uber-patronizing and cause flashbacks to my mom's chore lists wall-papered to the refrigerator (my fine tuned hidden talent: ignoring these notes). But this emotionally charged plea strategically placed above the button at the elevator in my new apartment building commands way too much respect to ignore, so I thought I'd share it with you.



First of all, I like that the writer started off the note intending to create a sense of community. It really succeeds in establishing a receptive audience, not putting the reader on the defensive, and setting the tone for the rest of the note. Hello AP English.

Secondly, this is definitely a seasoned smoker. Offering up THREE alternatives to letting that distinctive earthy odor seep under the door? THREE?! In my opinion, that's totally above and beyond the call of duty. This dude/chick loves the bud and is taking extra steps to ensure that you and I do NOT compromise that freedom. Also, who knew a vaporizer could take care of the smell, but I guess it makes sense seeing as it vaporizes and all. See? Maybe it's not a note at all, it's an informative essay.

Lastly, the writer packs a final punch and totally legitimizes him or herself in the sign off. You see, this isn't just another resident asshole, this is a 3YR 14TH FLOOR RESIDENT STONER...so listen damnit. And I think if my high school English teacher took a stab at grading this stellar piece of literature, no doubt the only ding against the author would be the ironic near-misspelling of dumbass.