Justin had a dentist appointment last week that ended with a bit of oral surgery on an ornery old wisdom tooth.
He handled it like a champ, riding home on the subway, ice pack held in place on his swollen cheek.
Thankfully, his dentist was a total rockstar, quite the opposite of the whack job dentist I walked out on several months back.
Something about dirty needles on the doctor's office floor spelled s h a d y to me.
But I digress.
We love our new dentist. He doesn't leave skeevy needles on the floor.
Once home, my sweet patient had one request.
I panicked a little.
If I were in my Southern home state, grits would be a total staple in our pantry, but in NYC?
All I wanted was to make my man happy and all he wanted was grits and green gatorade.
So I set out for the market with a wish and a prayer and lo and behold, I found the tasty little grain.
Not the preferred brand, but I was in no position to be choosy.
J spent the rest of the weekend napping and enjoying his buttery grits and even managed one tweet whilst under the influence of pain meds.
He was certainly proud of himself for that. I confiscated his phone.
Lastly, I learned you'll only come close to swallowing gauze once, and you'll do anything to avoid it the next time.