It's been a rough couple of weeks here in Speckled Troutland. A simple replacement of an old crown has turned into a saga of pain, infection, antiobiotics, barfy stomach due to antibiotics, allergic reaction to prescription oral rinse, and three trips to the dentist within a week.
Sheesh, I'm a weebly mess when I have to have my teeth cleaned so this has put me over the edge. Or on the edge.
In my desperation to feel better, I said to The Big Daddy, "I can't find my mouthguard. Maybe that's it. Maybe since I haven't been wearing it things have gotten worse. Maybe I'm grinding that temporary to smithereens at night."
"And my free sample of laser repair cream from Clinique. It's a little blue bottle. Maybe it's green. Let's call it a bluish green. It says Laser Repair Cream on the front. Have you seen that because I can't find that either? I really need that since this tooth is keeping me up every night. It promises to make you look less haggy in two weeks if applied twice a day after moisturizing."
"My mouthguard and my laser repair cream. They're both missing," I said. Or shrieked. Or pounded my fists into the mattress.
The Big Daddy snapped to attention and offered this piece of sage advice, "It's gotta be somewhere."
"WHAT? WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY? IT'S GOTTA BE SOMEWHERE? DID YOU JUST SAY THAT?"
He did. He said that.
Two weeks ago he had to drive to a big meeting and before he left I told him he needed to fill the tank. Ten minutes later he called from the gas station because he had locked his keys in the car. Friday he left his wallet here. Friday night he left his keys at work.
That is but the tip of the iceberg of lost, misplaced items that he loses on a daily basis. The things I mother him through. Did you look in your briefcase? Do you think you dropped it somewhere? What about under the seat of the car? Did you look there? Did you go out to lunch today? Maybe you left it at the restaurant.
And all I get in return is "It's gotta be somewhere."
It is a given that I am grinding day and night.