“Why don’t you get yourself a smoothie on the way home?”
“Bup don tho hab lil sees in em?”
“Get a Mango smoothie.”
I started to chuckle, and the chuckle turned into a laugh, and pretty soon I was guffawing and crying.
Guffawing and crying, with my mouth full of gauze.
Ha! I couldn’t stop imagining it, trying to order at the drive through:
“May I pwease hab a man smooey?”
Drive through guy:
“I’m sorry, I didn’t get that, can you say it again?”
“Meem man smooey.”
“Sorry, there must be something wrong with my headset. Once again?”
“I wan a meem man smooey! A smooey! Oo know, wif orange fooot? Fwozen and bwended?”
“Yef, yef, a smooey!”
“OK, what flavor?”
“Oh, Ga! a MAN smooey! Manjoo!”
“Yef! Yef, Manjoo!”
“Oh, GAAAA! Meem! Meem, pwease!”
“Yef, yef! Meem! Bup no stwah.”
“You don’t want a straw?”
“Wight. Na pose hab stwah fo two wee.”
“OK, no straw with the smoothie. Anything else?”
“Yef, yef, Ife cweam!”
“Cup or cone?”
“Cuh – wif a poon.”
By the grace of God, they only have one flavor, so I wouldn’t have to try to say, “vanilla.” But it would have been fun.
“Vaniwa. Wif chawla sauf.”
Etc. I’m crying, here, and I’m not supposed to be. Better go re-stuff my mouf wif gaub.
Now what’s so funny, Sophie cat?
OK, so I’m a little swollen. It is nowhere near as bad as everyone said it would be. I’ve got the tube socks stuffed with ice tied around my head, the bleeding has stopped (but it will start again if I can’t stop laughing), the clove-tasting things the oral surgeon stuffed in the holes on the bottom seem to be numbing whatever pain there is supposed to be, so, so far so good. Not much pain at all.
I suppose I should be a little concerned that, as soon as she pulled the final tooth, the oral surgeon jumped up and ran out of the room.
I’ve decided to treat that as hilarious, too.
I mean, I’m sorry she wasn’t feeling well, or is pregnant, or my ancient decayed wisdom teeth were so disgusting they made her hurl, or whatever caused her to puke. At least the bathroom was right in the next room.
And she didn’t puke on me, at least. So there’s that.
I’m not even getting all germ-freak OCD about it.
Because I can’t stop finking bow owdwing a meem manjoo smoowey at the dribe tru.
I’ll keep you pof sed.
Until then, I remain,
Your swollen, gauze-biting, laughing-til-I’m-crying, pudding-eating, smooey-drinking, honest-it-was-only-local-anaesthetic,