It Was a Dark
and Stormy Night

It all began very gradually, in that unnoticed change- over from the blissful uncon- sciousness of sleep to those first few glimmerings of wakefulness. I had done this all my life and really didn't notice the process much anymore. But this time was different. I was vaguely aware that something was not quite right. My mind was still too filled with mist and marshmallows to fully comprehend the problem, but that was slowly changing. As the cobwebs melted away I came to the horrifying conclusion that if I woke up much more there is going to be serious trouble; trouble as in pain, more pain and lotsa pain.

Don't wake up! Don't wake up! Don't .. too late!

ARRRGGGGGHHH!

Now the problem had come into sharp focus. Somehow the left side of my face had burst into flame, or so it felt.

Omigod, omigod, it hurts; omigod it's a toothache, omigod it's 1:30 Sunday morning, -- hey I think there might be a column in this -- omigod, where's the aspirin?????

I literally sprang out of bed, sending two cats flying in six directions, stumbled into the kitchen and looked for the aspirin.

Where did I put it? Let's see, tool drawer nope; knickknack drawer, nope, nope, nope and nope. How about the cupboards? Nothing there except old boards. The refrigerator, the oven, the broom closet? Wait! the toaster oven! There they are.

It's at this point that I put a curse on the inventor, and all his descendants, of the child-proof cap. Luckily the tool drawer was still open and a hammer was on top of the pile. Dang! only two aspirin in it. That's not even enough for a simple hangover. Well, it's better than nothing.

Now comes the waiting. How long does it take aspirin to work anyway? Forty-five minutes later I decide to try other measures. I'll try something to distract my attention from the pain. So I spend the next half-hour marching briskly around the livingroom singing "La Marseilles" at the top of my lungs. I haven't done that since high school French class and I'm surprised that I remember the words. But it doesn't help. I always suspected that studying French had been a waste of time.

Then I remember my bachelor's first-aid kit. It is still in a shopping bag sitting in a corner of the livingroom, right where I had left it. Swishing a swig of bourbon around the tooth should do the trick.

That was a bad assumption.

Now every nerve on the left side of my face was singing "La Marseilles" at the top of it's lungs.

OK, I decide it's time to go to the emergency room. I'm not in any condition to drive myself, so let's see if I can get a ride. The trouble with this idea is that none of the people I know seem to be home at 3 a.m. Sunday morning.

The only option left is to finish the first-aid kit and try to sleep or pass out, which I did.

To make a long story interminable, I got to the ER and eventually to a dentist. Three abscessed teeth and they all have to come out. I am seriously considering doing them one at a time. This would take care of my column until the end of the year.

Next week: Eating soup with numb lips.

George Breithaupt is a photographer, copy editor and columnist for the Mount Vernon News. Every time he submits a column we hope it includes the phrase "two weeks notice" in it.