Well, that’s over with. I still feel like I’ve been punched in the mouth, and apparently there’s a lot of bruising going on inside, but the pain has pretty much gone. There’s nothing quite like a little dental discomfort to make one realize that life is ultimately a miserable journey into darkness and despair, rife with suffering and pain, abandoned by an uncaring creator, brightened only by the knowledge that it will be relatively short. And your dog will die first.
So, it was a learning experience.
Since I went to the dentist last week only mildly uncomfortable in the beginning, I have to admit I harbored some bad feelings for a bit, but I think we’ve cleared that up. I’ve agreed to be better about scheduling regular check-ups, and apparently she’s going to wax my car for the next six months.
But wait! It got better!
We got a summer teaser yesterday, just stunning weather in the 70s, and that once again gave me hope. Birds were rubbing their eyes with the backs of their hands. The grass grew an inch. I saw a couple of neighbors I assumed had died. It was spectacular.
I got a little energized, too. I cleaned up the house a little, emptied some trash, listened to the radio, and decided to make quiche.
OK. I guess Ann’s going to call me a faggot now.
I hope no one tells her about the show tunes.
In defense of my manliness, I don’t actually eat quiche, but I like to make it. I actually like making anything that requires a pie shell, since a few months ago I decided to master the art of the perfect crust and an awful lot of Crisco had to die before I got the hang of it, so I like to stay in shape. And Julie loves my spinach quiche.
The secret to good quiche, by the way, aside from a flaky crust, is to add eggs.
For my manly appetite, I stuck with chili. I make chili at least once a week these days. It’s sort of become my…hmm. Can’t think of the word for that French fish stew. Starts with a B. You know what I mean. It’s that.
Whenever we have leftover meat, my stockpot calls me. In fact, I’ve got two batches currently in the fridge, one in which I cannibalized some dark turkey meat and added jalapenos, and last night’s chipolte black bean with chicken breast. Mmm. All that smoky hot goodness calls out for the addition of a beer, but those days are past me so I settle for onions, sharp cheddar and chocolate ice cream.
As I’ve mentioned before, hot chilis are my Valium. A bowlful of capsaicin endorphin stroking and I mellow out real good, toothaches go away, sleep comes quickly, and leggy blondes with potty mouths seem irrelevant, as they deserve to be. Put on some Sondheim and I will call it perfect, a new lease on life, a scent of spring, a resurrection of the human spirit, and my car is going to be all shiny and stuff too.