“Your CT scan costs $250.00. We take all major credit cards!” the cheery receptionist at the Beverly Hills oral surgeon happily processed my Credit Union Visa a few months ago.
Frankly I didn’t care for anything about the creepy place, let alone trying to sit motionless in a restraining chair while a computer scanned my head. (I submit that not every idea in my mind is brilliant, but the thoughts are mine and I prefer to keep them to myself unless I choose to blog about them.)
And diagnosed with a “torus” in my mouth by Doctor Evil (whose actual name will just give me a spell-check headache), I accepted my role as a patient, and assumed that whatever ‘the Professionals’ know must be God’s honest truth; my gums would have to be ripped open and bones filed down with possible tooth extraction and some icky dead corpse (redundant) injected into my dental work.
Yet on a particularly hungry evening, craving some apple slices and suffering my very best at the pain in my mouth and tears in my eyes, I looked up a local West Hollywood place within walking distance that had lovely Yelp reviews. Granted, there was no info if they actually had a surgeon on site, but I had to take the chance. And calling my Credit Card Company, I let them know in advance that there might be a big fat medical charge within a day or so.
Awake at about 5:50AM (I don’t really sleep at night anymore); I popped up in bed and waited for the institution down the street to open at 9:00AM.
Whilst I wasn’t particularly proud of my anxiety and weakness, I lit up half of a cigarette. “Berate me all you want to, new Dentist/Surgeon. I’ve already had my head checked” I rehearsed pragmatically as any good card-carrying Union Actress worth her salt would do.
But yes: another “Hmmm”...
I wasn’t entirely sure what was rolling around in my mouth, but hello! Whatever the heck was trying to get out of my gums, it made its way out!
And preserving “Boris” (the possible “torus”) onto a napkin, for the first time in months, I ate almost absolutely everything in my kitchen;
cried , no, SOBBED that I could talk without my tongue
getting caught on the nodule (seriously,
I sounded like Drew Barrymore after a stroke); and finally slept for
“Hi Penny. How are you?” a weird voice called me from the security gate out in front of my apartment building.
“Who IS this?” I wondered.
Well, kind readers, as it turns out, I seem to have a stalker... And whilst I won’t name him here, BELIEVE ME, my Mom has taken copious notes! (And no, I don’t think he’s actually dangerous.)
But just when you expel one creepy thing out of your head, a new one pops in!
Now, can someone please explain to me in what alternative Emily Post universe of Etiquette it’s OK to just show up at a single woman’s front security gate??? You were an acquaintance ten years ago? No, I didn’t know your wife passed away, nor did I know her name, or that you were even married. But hey, feel free to show up at my apartment building? How does he even know where I live? And just what does this fellow think? Sure let me buzz you in? That’s seriously INSANE. I wouldn’t drop by my best friend’s home under ANY situation without calling at least a month in advance!
But politely letting him know that yes, I was in fact busy, he quietly went away.
Now, usually, the “restricted” ring tone on my cell phone (separate from the land line to the security gate) lets me know it’s my friend “Rose”, but I DID make the singular mistake of once answering “What’s up, Buttercup?” to an unlisted Executive Producer. (Not particularly professional, but I still booked the gig!)
So naturally, two nights later when I heard the “restricted” ring tone, I assumed it was either “Rose” or an employer.
“Hey, I just wondered if you had dinner yet.”
“Who IS this?”
OK, once is odd; twice is disturbing... (Now, he has my private cell number?)
But as I’m not completely stupid, I did a wee bit of online window shopping as to a bit of home protection. (My family in the Midwest are proud of their rights to “pack heat”, so why shouldn’t I? And hey, I got University Credit for a riflery class!)
“What’s a Desert Eagle 50 AE Spring Powered Airsoft Gun?” I ever so officiously contacted a Department of Justice friend who knows absolutely everything about these extremely powerful firearms, and whether or not $21.99 was a decent price.
“My dear, that’s just a BB gun” he replied. “The most you could probably do if you have a semi-decent shot, is wing your creepy 90 year old shirtless neighbor that rakes leaves all night and every morning outside your window.”
“Well... that certainly wouldn’t bode well for the pizza delivery boy if I was experiencing a hot flash and hunger pangs!” (I mistakenly thought I’d get a chuckle, but apparently the DOJ doesn’t sanction a sense of humor.)
(Yep, insert another “Hmmm...”)
Additionally, my Mom tells me that my youngest nephew Austin is incredibly gifted with accuracy and a blow dart gun! (*scratch chin, and contemplate*.)
Viable as an alternative as that could be, I recently fell dead asleep in front of the television at two in the afternoon with a marathon of “Criminal Minds”; my glasses still on my face. (Suffice it to say my frames are still wonky, and until I get them all bendy back normally, a blow dart gun would likely only blast a pigeon or accidentally take out my mail carrier...)
So what’s a girl to do?
*Ring* (9:45pm on my cell phone a couple of nights ago – “restricted”.)
“Hey, Penny, is it too late to call you?”
“Yes. And who IS this?” (I recognized his voice immediately, but I felt the need to establish the fact that we have NO real personal connection and that this is simply NOT acceptable behavior.)
“OK, well, I’ll stay in touch.”
Personally, I’ve decided not to arm myself with an arsenal. (Most likely, I’d end up shooting off my own foot.)
But if my body could fight off “Boris” and “Dr. Evil”, then I think I may be clever enough to elude my stalker...!
I’m admittedly a pathetic prevaricator, but so far I’ve established a fabricated tale (should the stalker call again), that my “boyfriend” is here (I really gotta think up a manly name... Any suggestions? Is “Thor” believable? How about “Maximillian”? (Told you, I’m a lousy liar)); but additionally, after “he” (the mysterious fictional boyfriend) finishes power weight lifting, “we’re” going to watch a violent slasher movie and eat a meat lover’s pizza. (As an Actress, I’ve mastered a disturbingly believable baritone voice, so yes, I can play both roles.)
In the “mean” time, I’m just thrilled to chew! I’ve officially designated “butter” and “chocolate” as necessary dietary food groups in the RDA pyramid.
Additionally, “Pepperidge Farms Garlic Bread” has become a staple on my grocery list, and it’s my firm belief that “Stouffer’s Meat Lasagna” is the source of a significant life force.
But hey, that’s just me. (And maybe the anti-vampire stench of garlic will fend off my stalker!)
Wishing you all epicurean delights!