Trip to the dentist

Here's my big, dark secret in a world full of metrosexual males who carefully craft their looks: I've never been to a dentist.

My mom says we went once when I was a little kid, but I really don't remember it. I know I certainly hadn't been to one in the 12 years I've been a full-grown adult. My attitude about doctors is generally all the same: I don't see the purpose of them unless there's something wrong.

Well, today when I got up, there was definitely something wrong. Truth be told, it'd been hurting for several days, and to a lesser extent much longer than that. My wisdom tooth on the upper right side was simply poking places it shouldn't, and the nerves left the whole right side of my face tingling.

By the time I got to work this morning, I was mumbling. (OK, more than usual.) So I called a dentist's office that said they accepted emergency cases and set up an appointment.

All told, they X-rayed my mouth and "extracted" the wisdom tooth on the top right. (I believe "extracted" to be a much too technical term for what felt like bending and twisting until it popped on its own.)

Here's the surprising part for me. I wasn't nearly as afraid as I thought I'd be. It probably helped that the wife of one of Jessica's cousins was working in the office. Perhaps it helped that I was in enough pain that I didn't care what it would've caused.

So far as I know, I didn't cry (although I did tear up a little bit when the dentist started the extraction and realized it wasn't quite numb enough yet).

Was it such a great experience I'll go every week? Probably not. Will I go back and get the other three extracted, like they recommend? I don't honestly know. The penny-pincher in me feels like waiting for another emergency.

I felt like a big, tough guy afterward, though. I went back to the office, gauze stuffed into my mouth, and tried to work. That was a swell plan until the novacane started to wear off, at which point I told the folks there I needed to head home and wail in agony in the peace of my own home.

It feels better now. Hopefully it feels even better tomorrow. And hopefully I can stop rubbing my tongue over where that tooth used to be and move on with my life.

Boiling over...

I'm steamed. I'm hot. I'm boiling over...

I'm not mad, though. I'm just plain warm. I'm seeing the real downside to living with someone who prefers warmth to coolness.

The Future Mrs. Trinko and I have varying ideas on what's an appropriate temperature. She's happy around 80 (or higher). I'm happy around 73. Talk about your seven degrees of separation.

You never realize how much of a difference a couple degrees can make until you're in this situation. All through the winter, I was able to handle the differences by simply taking my coat off while we were in the car.

I've found the corrolary doesn't work in the summertime. There's really only so much you can take off before it becomes a problem. I haven't yet discovered a way to take my own skin off for the cooling effects.

I hadn't really ever thought about how different your life is with a little bit of discomfort. It makes you irritable, though. It also makes your neck sore, your head ache and the days seem endlessly frustrating.

Some day I'll understand why our temperatures are so different. In the mean time, I'll try to suffer through it with plenty of cold beverages and as good of an attitude as I can.