A little less wisdom

I wrote this last Monday, the day after I got my wisdom teeth out. I would've written more, but by the time I had typed all this up I was needing more drugs and a nap. And I had them (drugs and naps) for the rest of the week. Anyway, without further ado:



LuLu asked me the other day, "Erika, what happens when you get your wisdom teeth out?"
I said, "Well, since you lose that wisdom, you get a little dumb."

Here I am, ladies and gents, a little dumb. Yesterday I got my four wisdom teeth pulled. I sat in the dentist chair and watched while the assistant lady (normally I'd call her a dental hygienist, but she wasn't actually cleaning, so she's become the assistant lady) poked and prodded. She stuck two electrode thingies on my chest and one on my ribs. I watched a screen they were attached to as it read my heart rate. I'd like to report that I have a nice slow heart rate of about 60 beats per minute. However, when the oral surgeon came in and opened up a needle the beeps sped up. Soon my heart was beating over 80 beats a minute. I'm generally good with needles (heaven knows and exchange student needs to be!) but the heart monitor doesn't lie.
Once the needle was in my arm...I don't remember much. I looked at it one, slowing filling with blood, then the next thing I knew, I heard the assistant lady's voice. Somewhere in my dazed and drugged head, I figured it was a good time to sing. Never mind I had just had four big, nasty teeth yanked out of my skull. I started in on my Italian arietta, "Danza, danza fanciulla gentile." My mouth was too numb to get out words, but I was doing a great job mumbling along until the A.L. told me to stop singing. Dangit.
From there mom and dad came in. I think. Again, the whole drugged thing... Well, they asked how I was doing, and I discovered it was difficult to talk. For whatever reason, I said Pucha. Probably because it was difficult to talk. Mom asked what pucha meant, and I explained es como puta pero mas amable. Por ejemplo, miercoles es como mierda, pero mas amable. Poor Dad had to translate for me.
Why was I speaking in Spanish? For that I blame my dear friend Aren. We were talking about what people say when they're drugged. The last time I was given general anesthesia (also for oral surgery) I told the A.L. all about that summer's Youth Conference crush. I expressed my fears to Aren about how maybe I'd have the same verbal diarrhea. He told me to go into the surgery planning on speaking Spanish when I woke up. Lo and behold, Spanish was the only thing I could speak when I came too. I got rather frustrated with Mom when I had to switch to English repeatedly to get my point across.