“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.
Hmmm...
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.
Hmmm...
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
twelve hours!
>>><<<
“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.
“Hello?”
“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*.)
Hmmm...
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.”
Oh, brother...
>>><<<
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!
~P
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