Ugly Betty

I promised I wouldn’t but I’m going to write about my teeth. Again. I just have to.

To recap, in October I got super-dooper, space age, American braces on my teeth which had started to go the way of the Bowie. Vampires may be ridiculously in fashion with all that Twilight stuff right now but only the really hardcore Goths want fangs, so something had to be done. I’m ten weeks into the experience and here’s what I’ve noticed:

One: they work really fast, the change is amazing already, and
Two: People freak out when they see me.

Even yesterday a child who is a friend of my niece was locked in a trance, staring at me and whispering “What’s that..what’s those ...what’re those things...what..are...what???” manically to her little friend until I stepped in and put an end to the freak out by explaining who, and indeed, what I am.

I don’t actually mind the braces that much but sometimes I feel like someone has drawn a felt tip penis on my cheek whilst I was sleeping or stuck a note to my back with the word “spaz” written on it, like used to happen at school. People stare at them but only kids actually mention them.

Take people I associate with, both in my working life and my social life. Some people knew I was getting them, but most didn’t. For example, I’m in work in the week or so after the metal-ware got fitted and countless times during that week people have reason to speak to me and suddenly yet very slowly their eyeline moves until is is fixed directly on my teeth. They barely manage to conceal a wrapt fascination as to what the blazes is going on in my mouth, yet they say nothing about what they are staring at. It's ridiculous- they'd mention a new haircut, they'd mention a pair of glasses but these things..noooo. Do they not want to mention the metallic blight for fear I’d not really noticed what had happened to me? Did they not want to mention it because they felt it would be like saying, “Hey man, I can’t help noticing that’s a cool wheelchair you’re in!” to a paraplegic?

Eventually I realise that I’m going to have to introduce the braces formally, for no reason other than to relieve the palpable tension. “I see you’ve noticed my braces. Don’t worry, I am not a mental. I will be back to normal in six months and it’s all going to be O...K....” The standard response to this being the hearty lie of "Oh I hardly noticed them!"

Suddenly I feel tremendous sorrow for the everyday lives of those people with one wonky eye, a big hairy mole or a facial tic. Or that woman who used to work in Glasgow University Library when I studied there who had a full grey beard.

On the upside, the braces have put paid to the tedious attentions of the office letch. The office letch is known for accosting the ladies of the office whenever they go near the water cooler or the coffee machine or anywhere near his office. This stereotype of modern office life, once zoned in on you, locks the unsuspecting female colleague in a situation where he will talk at them, whilst standing that crucial ten centimetres too close to their person, until such a time that they can find an excuse to depart from the vicinity. In the past I have actually fabricated meetings that I had to go to, just to get away from him. On one occasion I actually drove my car out of the car park to follow the lie through.

So, there I am a good week after the braces go on, getting a glass of water from the cooler when I see him approaching in my peripheral vision. I quickly call up a ready excuse should I need it. Maybe something about an ill friend or a pie I've forgotten about in some faraway oven.

“I hear you’ve been in the States, Misssy. Enjoy it, did you?”

The man’s in it for the long haul- he’s physically blocking my escape. But in a nanosecond it all changes.

“Yes, great,” I say, as I turn around. Now, facing him, I grin full face and blind him with the sun glinting off my orthodontic pervert deflectors. He stares at me, clearly horrified and the fifteen minute diatribe about the trip he took to the self same holiday destination is suddenly stuck in his throat unable to fly free. “That’s, um, good,” he says gingerly, actually backing away from me and simultaneously breaking his personal record for the amount of time he has ever held a female co-worker captive. I watch him, still grinning, for maximum effect, as I wonder if he’s actually going to break into a sprint back to his office and lock the door behind him.

So for the next four months I can relax secure in the knowledge that the Ugly Bettys will do their work and that I will be the only female in the office left in comparative peace. However, in addition to my night-time retainer that I will have to wear to keep the pearlies in place after the braces come off in May I have requested my dentist also order in a shitty stick to beat the office perv away with. It’s either that or I pretend to have a fake leg.

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Excuses, excuses

Don't you hate it when you read a blog and the blogger in question gives a long and boring explanation as to why she's not been posting much/her blog's turned to a complete sack of crap? (Delete as appropriate).

Don't you also hate it when the reason they give for this lack of attention to, let's face it, something that very few people could actually give a stuff about, is something nauseatingly self congratulatory? Something like "Sorry for not posting, people, but I've been so busy with spending my lottery win..." or "Sorry for not posting people, it's just that what with that affair I'm having with (insert actor of choice here-used to be Brad Pitt was a popular choice, suddenly not so much now he's grown a raggedy old beard. Gerard Butler, then. Except don't you think he looks like a potato?) I'm lucky if I can make my way to the computer for physical exhaustion".

Well, I am that nauseating blogger. The Misssives have suffered of late. Effectively they've suffered for the whole of this year, and my attendance on some of your blogs has also been pitiful. Nauseating reason? Well it's because I wrote a book with a certain other recently sloppy blogger called Emma. It was a lot of work, we had our ups and downs, like finding an agent, then finding out she was a crappy agent, and and feeling very sorry for ourselves, but then carrying on anyway. But then, last month, a rather splendid Australian publishing company with impeccable taste bought our book. So the nauseating reason is, we wrote a book called Cocktails at Naptime and it's getting published. With illustrations and everything! Huzzah!


I promise not to turn into one of those awful people who bang on about their book all the time, but I will let you know when it's out there (November 2010) in case you want to shoplift a copy.

I'm editing it just now (because there are loads of shit bits that have to be made not shit) so again posting may be light for the next couple of months. Just wanted to tell you my news and let you know that I really appreciate the people who still do read the blog and comment occasionally. It will go back to being a worthwhile read soon, I promise.

C'mon it's not that bad, I could have been blogging about the state of my teeth every week (doing fine with the braces, by the way- amazing improvement- I look like Marie Osmond) or my dog (The Black Menace is fine, he's still pulling me off my feet and biting the face off the odd soft toy, but otherwise he's a little champione) or my husband (Meeester got singled out by the dame in a panto we went to on Saturday and ridiculed- it made his day. He now wants to be a pantomime dame. Those reading this who know him will be able to visualise this). Or what my kids are up to (that's them at the top of the post standing next to the dead sperm whale that washed up on the beach beside us-. We know how to entertain them kids, we really do. You've never smelled anything like it in your puff).

And, so, how are you?

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