More Novocain, Please

Today I had to go to the dentist to have a cavity filled. I am an incredibly big baby when it comes to such matters, and while my very sweet and very patient dentist, Dr. Mohamed, drilled the hell out of my tooth, I hunkered down in the chair, gripping the arm rests for dear life and mewling like a sick cat.

My noisemaking was so disturbing that Dr. Mohamed had to stop halfway through the process and shoot me up with more Novocain just to quiet me down. The kind dental assistant, in between handing the doctor his many evil drills, patted my hand and said my name in a reassuring way that at once comforted me and made me feel like I was about five years old.

I have to get a grip. I understand this.

Well, I thought as I hopped the 6 train back to the office, my face swollen from the drilling and the drugs, at least this is the worst thing that will happen to me today.

Then I checked my email.

There, in my inbox, was an innocuous-looking message from the party rental place I’m dealing with for the wedding. They had promised to send over the final rental contract and pricing today.

I clicked the email open with my right hand, using my left hand to support the left side of my face, which, after the double dose of Novocain, felt as though it was about to slide off of my skull and land in a nasty skin puddle on the floor.

But once I opened the email, my jaw hit the floor anyway.

Who knew that renting tables and chairs and dishes would cost so much?

Or wine glasses?

Or linens?

I mean, they’re FUCKING LINENS, people!

If I really wanted to fritter away my hard-earned paycheck on something completely useless, why would I want to spend it on red linen napkins that my wedding guests will end up blowing their noses in, when for the same price I could buy these glorious shoes:













Or this cute puppy:


















Anyway. I frantically scanned through pages and pages of price lists and small print, through itemization charts and bullshit “damage waiver fees,” searching for the total price.

I finally found it, at the very bottom of the contract, right next to the dotted line upon which I was expected to sign my life away.

The total price stood out in bold, mocking me from the computer screen. I stared at it hard. If this were a movie, the camera would have zoomed in, blurring out everything except the final price.

Then, clutching my Novocain-filled face, I hunkered down in my chair for the second time today, gripping the arm rests for dear life and mewling like a sick cat.