First of all, I’d like to express my gratitude for wonderful & supportive friends, particularly my coworkers S. and E. who, throughout this adventure, have been awesome. E. helped move the rest of my stuff into the new place late last night. Then today, he insisted S. use his car to pick me up from the ortho. S. not only picked me up; she got me smoothies and soup and toothpaste and gauze and was so so cool to me. They’ve both called several times since, and I’m happy to report I’m medicine-less and doing freakin fine, thankyouverymuch.

Now for the gory details you’ve all been waiting for:

There aren’t any. Tooth extractions and blood and pain shouldn’t induce the level of fear it generally does; nor should it stipulate any nasty physical effects resulting from said fear. I gotta tell you, it’s not easy getting over the fear of multiple permanent-tooth extractions, but I’m getting better with it. For me it’s a moral challenge: I know I can handle this, and quickly, and well, so I have to prove it.

Regardless, I wouldn’t recommend getting a billion teeth removed at once, just in case you were considering the adventure. However, all things being equal (and all adventures being valuable), I have to admit that, despite the physical discomfort and achy pain, I had kind of a good time today. I really like my ortho. And since I’ve developed a relationship with them as the psuedo-tough-girl-who’s-really-a-complete-baby, we get on well, Gael and Diego and Mo, my doc, and I. He gave me about 18 shots of novocane, which was pretty much the worst part. Nobody wants 18 injections inside any bodily cavity, least of all your mouth, least of all a wuss like me. But the doc was patient when I demanded him to stop every two minutes, made fun of me when I punched him in the chest (lightly), and proceeded to remove — via metal pliers, but painlessly — three of my teeth. (The fourth extraction, I learned, will wait a few months. Great.) The best part was that we even managed to have some meaningful conversation, even while the pliers were deep in my mouth, pulling out my bones: He recounted the story of The Little Prince for me, said the moral is I’m allowed to boss him around as long as I’m reasonable with my demands. Then we discussed parenting (ok so I’m not a legitimate parent, but boy do I feel like one with all these kids I look after), I mentioned I’m planning on adopting, he said he thinks I must be a pretty decent person. It was hearts and flowers all around. And then he pulled all my teeth out.

When it was all over, I went up to the desk to pay for the bit my insurance didn’t cover. Gael had returned from lunch. He was wearing an awesome aqua shirt. “Naahce shet,” [Nice shirt] I said through a face full of gauze. “Thanks,” he said. “You know, I’m beginning to understand your language….” Wanna go dancing? I didn’t ask, but wanted to. I like those boys at the desk. I like the doc. I like everybody. Even after two days without eating and a headache, stranded carless in an empty new flat, I’m quite happy. Really. And so, as I’m apt to do when I’m happy and toothless and in a bit of pain and unable to eat and completely alone, I’m watching my collection of Yul Brynner movies –Romance of a Horsethief and Anastasia tonight — because nothing says I love getting braces at 26 more than the Bolshevik Revolution.

I’d originally intended to write all about the white blossoms on the trees in Davis, about how awesome church was (yes I went, yes it was cool, organs are awesome! Church rocks!) or about the Metropolitan Opera we’re going to in NYC next month, but all of this has been superceded by the most recent orthodontic adventure:

First, allow me to reitterate the point that having an extremely attractive and funny and kind orthodontal assistant — Gael, as I’m calling him, although his name is something else — is perhaps the only reason I’m allowing any of this crap to get done.

This morning, after inhaling what might be my last veggie bagel & cream cheese for a really long time, I sucked it up and went in to face the dental music. It was “easy listening”, as Gael explained when I turned up my nose at the wafting 80s soft rock from 92.9 fm. He took off my spacers in what was shockingly the easiest and most painless part of this whole extravaganza, which was unbelievable to me seeing as how it was the most painful thing to get on. I had a consultation with the ortho first. It went something like this:

Doc: “I consider myself an aesthetic orthodontist. Most of my patients are adults, and they don’t want to look too ridiculous during the process. That being said, you have two options: We can (a) just pull your baby tooth and attach large and ugly metal springs to the top and bottom to pull teeth into place, or (b) we can extract four teeth, use the regular braces to pull your jaw back to where it’s supposed to be, you’ll only look toothless for three months, and after all the extractions your total treatment will be reduced from 24 months to as little as 12-14.”

Me: “Um, the second option. Pull ‘em out! Pull ‘em all out!”

One year, people. That’s it. I might have this gunk off by my 28th birthday, which is a tolerable enough timeframe to be completely antisocial, dateless, and never open my mouth. Technology’s come a long way since I was a teenager. Thank you God.

And so, hot hot hot Gael slapped some plastic openers in my mouth and some cotton swabs and a spit-sucker and went to town cementing metal bands around my molars. They had these stick-out edges, like small metal diving boards, on either side of them. I thought they were just the ones he used to test the size out. “These aren’t the actual things that go on my molars, are they? With the huge things poking off them that are jamming into my tongue and gums?” Gael wrinkled his nose and gave me a sympathic nod. “Yeah, they are. Sorry. You’ll get used to them.” “Are you serious, man?!” I hit him. “Dude, no, really, I have to have this shit on my teeth the whole time?” “You’re so cute,” he laughed, which immediately shut me up. (Gael, if you’re reading this — yes, being attractive and funny DOES make a difference in the experience of your patients.)

We proceeded to talk about music:
“Ahh laahk ohr-en ap,” [I like foreign rap] I said.
“You do? What, Russian? Indian? Caribbean?”
“Uh huh,” I answered. “Ahh ench.” [And French]
“Do you like Brazilian music?” Gael is, as I mentioned weeks ago, not just a hot guy: he’s a hot Brazilian guy.
“Ya!” I said.
“Do you know Bossanova? Samba?”
“Uh huh, ya..”
“Fasa?”
“Uhh….no”
“You should learn fasa. Do you dance? You should learn to dance fasa.”
“Ah ooos to ance,” [I used to dance] I said. [Salsa, Caribbean, Bachata...tried Capoiera. But long ago. Now I'm not very good.]
Additional goal of 2005, besides never opening my mouth: Learn fasa. Preferably with Gael. Without ever opening my mouth.

“This is my favorite part,” Gael commented while the plastic thing was pulling my mouth apart and my lip was beginning to split in half and the saliva sucker had ceased doing any semblance of an effective job. “You know why? Because I know you hate it.”

When all was said and done, I had clear mini bowling balls cemented to all my teeth. It’s really not that noticeable at all…without the wires in and the teeth pulled…if you’re standing at least four feet away from me…and the lights are dimmed. Tomorrow they put the wires in, after yanking out four front teeth. Hurrah! Bring it on! I’m a big girl. I can handle this.

The streets were terribly empty tonight. Dark. Quiet. The moon looked like a cookie someone poked while it was half-baked. I noticed all this on the drive back from G’s at midnight, after exporting our behind-the-scenes footage to tape so I can FedEx it to Channel 5 tomorrow (their request), and after slurring my words to G like a sleep-deprived hobo, which I’m not really. I’m just in transition. And quite tired. And still getting used to getting up and leaving his place like it’s nothin. (It’s nothin, it’s nothin…)

On the way home, WXRV started playing that kitchy song by the Spin Doctors — Just Go Ahead Now. The refrain at the end is the only part worth listening to, when he sings falsetto. I peeled around a corner in third gear and turned it up because no one else was around to hear or see me, plus it’s my last night with the on-loan vehicle. “Oh-whoa-oh, your majesty…c’mon, forget the king and…marry me…”

Earlier — before the radio, before video editing, before soup, before enchiladas, before the box of strawberries — I spent some quality time at Fellsway Auto Repair with E. and his enormo SUV. He let me drive his on-loan Audi Quattro to get there, which was tres cool, albeit nerveracking, least of all when I stalled out in the middle of Broadway in a moment of luxury-vehicle-that-doesn’t-belong-to-me panic. Also the gears are all funny — reverse is located on the top left, and the gearshift slides like warm butter instead of requiring the beating I give the clutch of my borrowed green Honda. You will not build muscle shifting in the Audi Quattro, so if that was any motivation for a considered purchase, forget it. Butter, I tell you. Warm butter. The transmission simply purrs.

Someday I’m going to own a Lexus hybrid sedan

with commercial plates and Tapioca’s revised and eventually copyrighted logo painted on the driver’s side door: a fish on fire in a flaming bowl of flames. In fact I’m going to get Lexus to sponsor my first feature length production via the donation of said hybrid. Plans, kids. You gotta have big plans.

Tonight, my good good good pal’s birthday, I picked her up and we got ice cream for dinner, which is for us an old and well-loved custom, like sleeping with the window cracked. She lives now in a building where we used to live together six years ago. Six years! How time flies! It just shocks me, the linearity of this weird human experience. Shocked me so much I stood in the street for a while after I left her flat, stood silent watching the sprinklers watering the small park and the new leaves popping a bright lime green on the trees. I used to walk under them when I was 21, convinced I owned the city, that everything in it had a significant meaning. Tonight I just stared blankly, sniffing the air. It was clean, a clean night. The moon was huge. I knew I wouldn’t be able to write about it properly, so I decided to take a phone photo, albeit crappy. The moon is that circle in the top center. The other glowing circles are just streetlights.

And then, like the creepy old man I apparently am, I sat in the car with the lights off and the windows down, sniffing at the park and watching the sprinklers for a while. The water never sprays in a smooth arc, you know. It’s inconsistent; it spurts and bends like a sturdy coughing thing with a tremendous tenacity and a slight swaying. Even in the dark I could tell the grass was already a brilliant green.

And now I’m back here, back at Ry’s, my last night officially living with him since he’s off to tour again tomorrow. It’s one of those nostalgic nights where you have to be quiet and reflective…then listen to No diggity.

Play on, playa…

1. We rock because everyone on crew is incredibly cool & talented.

2. We rock because our film was pretty cool, despite its pitfalls and general plot weirdness.

3. We rock because we won an audience award and are in the running for production awards, too. Award winner screenings will be held Wednesday, May 11 at Good Times in Somerville. More details to follow.

Rock!

Dude, so I was driving through Cambridge tonight to feed the cats when suddenly I noticed THE MOON! Huge, man! It was enormous and full! I tried taking phone photos but they didn’t convey the actual enormity or awesome awesomeness of that cookie in the sky. Awesome.

Add to that the fact that it’s stopped raining and the city smells beautiful and flowers are out and Ry came home from tour, which is incredibly exciting even though it’s only for a night and only because his van is near death in an auto shop. He’s tres sick and tres tired and all partied out and broke, but very sweetly offered to come home from Albany later in the week if I have oral surgery and would like him around. He would do anything for me, as he’s proven many times, and I for him. I haven’t had a platonic friendship like that in a while (minus my platonic straight ex-domestic partner, Bayley, who’s birthday is tomorrow!) And so I brought Ry soup and fruit smoothies to feel better and now we have to watch movies. I’m moving out this week, down the street and in with A., which makes me sad sad sad. Sad. But you know, life goes on. I had a dream that I was driving over the train tracks in Somerville when I suddenly noticed the red light was blinking, and I missed being hit by an oncoming train by a fraction of a second. The moral is, I survived. I think that’s a solid metaphor for anxiety-inspiring events (ie, oral surgery, moving, etc).

This is boring. I’m shocked people actually read this. Bla bla bla, my teeth. Bla bla bla, my friend Ry. Bla bla, my film, my past relationship, taking care of kids, bla bla bla bla bla. For what it’s worth, thanks for tuning in.

Since my readership is growing and has now extended to include several coworkers, I have to be careful not to jabber on about office-related things… Like how we all went to the bar tonight and I spent 45 minutes trying to slowly chew chicken fingers (mistake, mistake) and playing pool and gossiping like bored girls do. Or like how S. and I went back to the office til midnight, I kid you not, to read online personals in our separate cubicles and laugh about them via speakerphone. I’ll never ever meet anyone good enough. I don’t know why I waste my time even considering the possibility.

It’s so incredibly silent tonight. There’s supposed to be a thunderstorm but it hasn’t happened yet. Thunderstorms = summer.

In other news — have I already mentioned the silence? — oh yes. What else?
Oh, an excellent poem by Eliza Grizwold in the New Yorker this week. Its raw truth makes me want to cry.

TIGERS

What are we now but voices
who promise each other
a life neither one can deliver,
not for lack of wanting
but wanting can’t make it so.
We hang from a vine
at the cliff’s edge.
There are tigers above
and below. Let us love
one another and let go.

I just wanna give a quick shout-out to my reader(s) in Cambodia. I only know one person in Laos/Vietnam/Cambodia right now, and that’s you, Marcus. May all your anthropological filming and ethnographic research and pad thai eating go well. Don’t get yourself shot at.

Everyone I know is so cool and international and interesting. I mean seriously.

Screw this dental improvement scheme, I want my teeth back. I want the damn spacers out. I can’t chew anything and it hurts to talk. It hurts to not talk. It just hurts. Also, the idea of living solely on yogurt, smoothies, and the occasional mushy enchilada is, at best, disheartening. Ahhhhhhhhh!

Fortunately, a 30-yr-old coworker of mine also needs her teeth fixed, so I referred her to my ortho. We might suffer together now, us two old ladies in the same office, looking like teenage fools with wires in our mouth all year. I just keep reminding myself that, despite the intense discomfort, I am lucky to have this done. There is a bigger picture to everything, and I know the majority of people in this world can’t afford the cosmetic luxury of financing perfect teeth. I need to shutup and start being grateful for things again. That’s the only way to get through life.

Meanwhile, J. and I went last night to see the final 48 screenings. They were rather good, much better than the films that screened with our group. I was quite impressed, although it means we’re up against some tough competition. There are some skilled filmmakers in this city, I’m proud to say. I’m proud Tapioca’s a part of them. (And no cracks about the name, ok? Tapioca started as a made-up band name in 1999. In 2000, I made promotional spoof t-shirts that said “Tapioca World Tour 2000″. Then Tapioca became our brand name; any article or creative writing was dubbed “Copyright Tapioca”, and barbecues or parties became Brought To You By Tapioca Productions. Then I bought the URL. And now, three years later, here we are: tapioca’s about the only thing I can eat. I wish I liked it.)

In other news, feisty 9-year-old Maisha will be visiting me this weekend, rumor has it. Jealous that her brother Josh gets to see me and she doesn’t, it’s now her turn and I have to prepare. Maisha is quite possibly the most energetic, dryly sarcastic and charmingly impertinent child I’ve ever met. She only has one request: “Is there an Applebees in Boston? Will you take me there?”

We’re going to Applebees.

Adventures in orthodontics continue.

So I went today to get my “records” done, where they take molds of my mouth in plaster and about 20 x-rays of my face. Incredibly Hot Orthodontic Assistant man was there, whom for our purposes we’ll henceforth refer to as Gael. Flashing a winning smile as I walked in, he proceeded to smear plaster all over my face and massage my jaw, a move I would otherwise object to from a less attractive clinical person — wrong, I know, but if someone’s going to cause you dental pain, they might as well be someone you don’t mind looking at. The last half hour was spent with Gael trying to cram rubber seperators between all my molars, a difficult and painful process since my teeth are jammed so close together. Jokes were thrown around:

“So,” he said, “You’re a boxer. Does that mean you can take a lot of pain?”

“My capacity to inflict pain has no reflection on my tolerance to endure pain,” I said.

“There’s three of us here,” my doc called over. “I’m sure you can’t take on all of us at once.”

“Says you,” I snipped, then turned to Gael with all his fingers in my mouth. “Hurt me and those rubber bands are getting shoved down your throat, buddy.”

If I’m going to be subjected to the supreme care of attractive orthos for the next two years, we might as well develop a decent, if not sarcastic, relationship now.

I have only a week or two left with all these messy teeth in my head, unassaulted. Am terrified of losing weight. Already I can’t chew, and barely eating during 48 dropped me like seven pounds in three days. Nevertheless, although I hate to admit it, despite the already uncomfortable pain and the near inability to eat, I’m almost looking forward to this weird adventure. From here on in, it’s going to get interesting.