Dentist, Again

As you read this, I am paying someone to attack my teeth with a drill. I know. It's hard to wrap my head around paying for this, too. I think this is something dentists should pay me for. I mean, I'm letting them hurt me and paying them. That's something out of that creepy 50-something book.

Instead of getting money in exchange for allowing someone to torture me, I will instead be paying extra because the dentist thinks (and I agree) I am too highly strung to endure any dental procedure involving me spending any money at all without copious amounts of nitrous oxide.

So while you are sitting at work, starting your computer up, putting your lunch in the fridge, know that somewhere, I will have one half of my face frozen while someone uses a freaky light to bond some kind of space-age plastic to my tooth. Fortunately, this is the last tooth I need fixed. When this is done, I'll have perfect teeth,

I will be so happy, I will smile this smile.

I smile the smile of Novocaine.

And everything will be beautiful and perfect until the next time I go see the dentist, when I will discover that some other nightmare has occurred. I'm a realist. I know my teeth are doomed.

Why is it that when you grow up, the dentist stops giving out treats when you leave his office? I don't think that's fair. Also, I have decided that just because the dentist doesn't give me a present doesn't mean I don't get one. I am so buying yarn to reward myself for being a responsible adult. I could use a present after all this. I'm thinking I'll make myself some pretty mittens.

I loved THESE, which are made with THIS pattern. But I also love THESE made of THIS pattern. And I want them lined, which means I might choose THIS instead. Or I will have to do some pattern rewriting.

Secretly; though, I would like to wear these around all winter.