Ack! VintageChristine is completely fed up with her body, particularly the head part. I FINALLY went to the dentist even though I kept thinking, "Well, since I can't chew anything harder than Jell-o, maybe this is as good a time as any to start Diet #101,423." Any other chubbies out there know, however, that not being able to chew has never stopped a dedicated eater since we will find ANY WAY POSSIBLE to chow down on fattening stuff. There's just too much out there, unfortunately.
I've found a great new dentist, recommended to me by my traitorous friend, The Beautiful Miss Dawn. She's traitorous because she moved back to her home state, New Mexico, and left me to be the only remaining liberal in the entire state of Mississippi. She'd mentioned Dr. Kevin awhile back but it took a couple of good ole toothaches to get me to text her to get his name again since I didn't write it down and so of course forgot it. This actually happened three more times, me being the forgetful old lady that I've become. My first visit to Dr. K confirmed what I already knew--my mouth is disgusting. Missing teeth, cracked teeth, cavities, fillings so old that Dr. K said they'd be qualifying for Social Security soon (like I did in April). Due to the fact that he's also a liberal (he's in Louisiana where there are many more liberals than in my state, mainly due to New Orleans which is decadent and full of gay people and, according to those guys on Bourbon Street who hold up signs telling everyone they're going to hell if they don't repent, will be reckoned with very soon. Oh well, might as well be decadent and have fun until then, huh?), I figured I'd like him, and I do. Except when he sticks that freaking needle in my gum after he's nearly put me on my head in the chair. I realize that it's much easier to work on someone's mouth when they're upside down, but it still makes me dizzy. So Dr. K has so far replaced four fillings and now we're talking about implanting titanium rods in my jaw where I'm missing teeth.
One titanium rod will last many many years but it will also cost yours truly about $3500. And I need three of them. Look, I'm 62 years old and as far as I'm concerned I'm pretty sure I'm not going to live another 50 years and don't want to spend all our money on my teeth. Although I'm going to get cremated so I guess someone could remove the rods and resell them for scrap. Do people scrap titanium?
During my mouth exam, Dr. K used this neat little camera shaped like a pen to peer into all the nooks and crannies. And he finds a lesion on my gum and now I have to get it checked out by an oral surgeon, who, coincidently, would also be the person who would implant those rods. Hmmmmm. When I told my friends about the lesion (which looks like someone stuck me with the tip of a pencil), one of them came unglued and informed me that it could be cancer and you might lose your jaw like Roger Ebert did and you might even die and and and . . .
With friends like these, who needs enemies, right? I told her that yes, it could be cancer but it could also be a reaction to a piece of filling that worked itself into my gum. At the rate that my fillings have been falling out, I'm surprised my whole mouth isn't covered with little black dots. Jeeeeeez!
And on top of all that, I decided that I'd better get the little spot on my lip checked out by a dermatologist since it's one of those little things that go away and then come back, which is one of the skin cancer warning signs. Plus when I smoked the cigarette used to rest in that very spot. Fortunately, the derma doc assured me it wasn't cancerous but, just to be on the safe side, he suggested that he zap me with a little liquid nitro. While it hurt, it wasn't unbearable. What WAS unbearable was the giant blister that blew up on my lip and stayed there for a freaking WEEK! Then when it finally popped it took another week to heal and I looked like I had the mother of all cold sores (which I don't get). I was so self-conscious of this monstrosity resting on my lip and when I apologized to people for it (don't ask me why I did that, it just seemed necessary) they'd invariably say, "Oh, I hadn't even noticed it!" or "Oh, I thought it was just a cold sore." And then they'd stare at it for the rest of our conversation, which reminded me of Austin Powers and the guy with the mole ("moley moley moley") on his face.
I can hardly wait for next month when I get my yearly notice that it's time for a mammogram, or as I like to call it, The Annual Squashing Of The Tatas. If you want to see someone in panic mode for a week, look me up right after the mammo while I freak out waiting for the results. It's a riot.
At this point, you may be wondering why I have a photo of a coat at the beginning of this post and then write on and on and on about the state of my mouth.
I have NO idea other than I was going to write about my latest obsession, collecting vintage clothing that doesn't fit me, but then I started thinking about today's oral surgeon appointment and lo, the floodgates opened and truly, verbiage, it did flow.
Anyway, the coat is mine--I bought it in San Francisco in the late 70's and it's a below-the-knee-length Norma Kamali.
BTW, the shoulder pads were removed permanently in the 90's. Big girls celebrated when shoulder pads went out of style, believe me--we don't need to wear clothing that makes us look like football linebakers. One of the reasons I've hung on to the coat for this long is (1) it's gorgeous, (2) it's a designer garment, and (3) it's a size that I haven't worn since I was 11 years old. Well, that's not completely true since there was that one day in my adult life when I actually COULD wear a size 10. Actually, the coat is really a one size fits anyone up to and including an elephant. You just can't BUTTON it if you're anything over a 10. Eh.
I've been stockpiling vintage clothing ever since I decided to participate in the Alameda Pointe Vintage Fashion Faire since I wanted to have more than just incredibly gorgeous costume jewelry. I'll be showing you more neat stuff soon!
One more thing: see that "Made In U.S.A." on the tag? Sadly, that's one of the ways you know it's vintage.