The Revenge of Sponge-Woman (a post dental tale)

Having just returned from another fun-filled visit to the dentist and, with a numbness that rivals catalepsy spread across my entire face, I now understand how people who have Botox injections must feel.

But why would anyone voluntarily paralyse their face? I wonder. I am living proof that, from a cosmetic improvement perspective anyway, it doesn’t work; for I am certainly no prettier for the experience. In fact, with not much capacity for animated expression at all, it’s quite a grim little reflection that greets me in the mirror as I inspect the damage.

So bland is my expression that Number One Son (who has apparently been taking full advantage of the ‘Unlimited Home Phone To Mate’s Mobile’ option in my absence) appears confused as I motion for him to hang up the phone.

“What?” he splutters, feigning innocence.

I try a scowl. Nothing. I try a grimace. Still nothing.

“Grof-de-fern” I mumble. Amazingly he seems to understand. He bids his buddy farewell and hangs up the phone as requested.

“What’s your problem?” he asks, peering bewilderedly at my expressionless face.

I act out a (somewhat embellished) dentist-drilling mime. I use a pretend jackhammer for the charade. Number One seems to get my point.

“Oooh, filling, huh?” he grins sadistically, in the way that people do when they don’t have a dentist appointment looming. “Aw, shucks. It’s too bad you won’t be able to eat those chocolates in the fridge, isn’t it?”

He realises by my haughty grunt that he has probably gone a bit far, and makes a hasty retreat.

It is true that I am not a happy camper. My head seems like a giant, lifeless kitchen sponge and, to make matters worse, I am hungry.

Having not eaten for several hours (which is pretty much hitherto unheard of by my digestive system) I head for the kitchen in search of something soft – yet tasty – to sate my appetite.

I decide on a vegemite sandwich of soft white bread. I cut it up into small pieces so I can feed it gently between the numb lumps that are currently posing as my lips.

Chewing proves to be difficult because the inside of my mouth resembles an alien planet full of strange, out-of-whack machinery. But, eventually I manage to suck the bread into submission and the swallowing mechanism (which thankfully seems to work on “auto”) pushes it down.

“Ahh!” I can almost hear the fat cells give a little sigh of relief as the first morsel slides past my comatose tonsils and into cellulose depositing territory. No doubt, having been on ‘famine alert’ for the past two hours, the little chaps are rushing about multiplying feverishly to ensure that this situation never arises again. (You’ve truly got to admire the tenacity of fat cells, and believe me, currently on my body, there are plenty of opportunities to admire them!)

After the sandwich and a warm cup of coffee (slurped half into my mouth, but mostly down my front) I am beginning to feel almost human again, and by the time Number One returns I am even feeling a little friendlier. I try a little smile.

“What?” he cries defensively (suggesting that the smile muscles are still a little haywire).

“N’fn,” I grunt, conceding that my post-dental emotions will probably remain a mystery to everyone else for at least another hour or two.

Number One grins and crunches a chocolate loudly in his mouth.

I smirk (inwardly, of course) silently vowing that, as soon as my mouth starts to work again, I will ring the dentist and book Number One in for a check-up.

That'll have him smiling on the other side of his face! He he!