Wednesday, April 4, 2012


Yesterday I had my #14 molar pulled, or, as they say, "extracted." I was upset about it. I've had that molar for more than 30 years, longer than I've known some of my closest friends, and I dined with it every night and never thought about it until it went bad. We went through a gummi bear phase together, in the 80s, and tapas, in the 90s, good old #14. Old shoe. Fit me like a glove.

The hole where it used to be is not a hole, it's a pit, basically. Something could be mined out of there. I have gigantic teeth, like all the Hawkins women. At family reunions I know from whence I came: flesh-tearers. Big smilers. Fat-ass molars. It's where we put our energy reserves, I guess.

The oral surgeon said, sure you can keep your tooth, whatever bits are left, I expect it will shatter. But it didn't, whatta pal #14, a trooper, an English peasant gal. It came out intact, thick as the pinky on an infant. Three-rooted, strong shouldered, but dead - it was nobody's fault, the oral surgeon said.


  1. Your woman are toothsome.

    The ones in my family are small mouthed LARGE toothed.

    I don't know, evolutionary regression?

    But what all this means is: TMJ of the most severe degree along with 7 adult tooth extractions, because of our itty bitty small mouthed frog mouths.

    What will they put in place?

  2. Oh my gosh you took me back with the small mouth frog. That used to be my favorite joke. Maybe it still is, Empress. I relate.