Last night I bleached my teeth again.
Excuse me?
Dental bleaching. I know it sounds like S&M for dental hygienists but it's not. It's as close as I'm getting to cosmetic surgery. The thing is, I had my teeth professionally whitened a year ago and as part of the monthly upkeep, I have to wear bleach filled dental trays overnight.
It's not as bad as it sounds.
It's worse.
I have to psyche myself up for the task. I take painkillers: oral and topical. Then I put on these bleach filled plastic trays molded to match my top and bottom teeth. The bleach comes in a gel, which has a sicky lemon taste. Then I will myself to sleep knowing that I'll wake up in the middle of the night from the pain in my teeth. It starts off with a dull ache and develops into a mind grabbing jabbing pain.
In the morning, I take the trays out of my mouth and use Sensodyne toothpaste. (The one they advertise with "normal people" talking about how sensitive there teeth are...) It's pink and tastes gross (everyone knows toothpaste should taste minty). But it does the trick! The pain subsides.
Until I have something to eat. Or to drink. Hot. Or cold. Or at room temperature.
My teeth start to ache again.
It's an odd type of pain in that it feels slightly disassociated from my body. A bit like saying that the ends of your hair ache. Are you with me?
I become incredibly sensitive to noise. Because it goes straight to my teeth. Rustling paper, metal on metal... it all feels like someone's running their nails across a black board.
The ache lasts all day. Although it usually subsides in time for dinner, I know I have a few days of intermittent jabs of sensitivity to look forward to.
As you can imagine this does not make me particularly relaxed or sociable. It puts me on edge. Literally. Short fuse and all. I call that state of being: toothy. As in, "I'm a bit toothy today."
The thing is. It's not the discomfort that I dread. It's the memory of the discomfort that gets to me: knowing what the next 24 hours will hold.
Wait. That's not all.
There's more to it than that. I've also stopped drinking tea. And coffee. And eating anything too yellow or red or brown. So I eat a lot of hummus. And no chocolate. It's a bit like the voice diet (see the Notes from the Fridge blog) but colour based.
Am I insane? No.
Driven? Yes, but not sure where to.
So is it worth it? I think so. As an actress it makes sense to have a good smile. Especially in the American market. (Oh, I didn't know you'd been working in the US. I haven't.)
Here's to the next 10 hours of toothiness and pearly whites!
Wednesday, 25 March 2009
Tuesday, 24 March 2009
I'm not licking that.
I had two auditions today. But first, let me tell you what happened at the post office.
I was back in there today. (Sometimes it feels like this mailing project will never end.) I had 3 identical letters for the US, 3 for Ireland, and 1 for France. I was served by a dead ringer for the character in the latest Royal Mail advertising campaign. You know (for those of you who live in the UK), the one with the inept employees who monkey about in their eternally empty post office... when they're not serving Joan Collins.
He's an unpleasant, unattractive character of undetermined age (I'm talking about the guy who served me this morning). He's trouble. A lethal combination of limited intelligence and power derived from the Royal Mail Book of Rules.
What normally happens is that you weigh the enveloppes and they print out a self-adhesive postage label. Quick, painless, efficient.
"I'm not putting the stamps on for you. You'll have to do it yourself." "Excuse me?" "You'll have to put the stamps on yourself." "But I don't need stamps. Aren't you going to print some postage labels?" "Not for that many enveloppes." "But there's only 7, and they're all the same size. 4 going to Europe. Three to the US."
That was my first mistake. I had engaged with the angry potato. Tried to reason with it.
"We don't do labels for that many envelopes. You'll have to put the stamps on yourself." "But your colleagues do labels all the time." "Well that's not the rule." "Fine!" (Me in my best passive-aggressive mode.)
So we did stamps. He, metting them out at snail pace. Me, licking them onto my enveloppes at high speed with mounting PMT-fuelled fury. I could have killed him.
As I inserted my credit card into the terminal, I tried to make amends. "Look, I'm sorry. I'm a bit frustrated (!) because your colleagues do it differently." "Move to the side please to lick your stamps, you're holding up the line and I could be serving the next customer." I bristled."My card is still being processed so I'm not holding anything up..." And them my parting shot: "Printing some postage labels would have been faster... "
As I said, I could have killed him. Instead, I'm going to blank him. From now on, I'll pass my turn in the queue to avoid being served by him. He is an ugly stain on The Public Service.
Anyway, brimming with barely restrained fury, I took myself to my first audition of the day. Blah blah blah. 7 hours later. I'm home, watching "To Save the King" - with the inimmitable Ian Richardson. It's part of the "House of Cards" trilogy. If you've never seen it, do check it out. It's brilliant.
I was back in there today. (Sometimes it feels like this mailing project will never end.) I had 3 identical letters for the US, 3 for Ireland, and 1 for France. I was served by a dead ringer for the character in the latest Royal Mail advertising campaign. You know (for those of you who live in the UK), the one with the inept employees who monkey about in their eternally empty post office... when they're not serving Joan Collins.
He's an unpleasant, unattractive character of undetermined age (I'm talking about the guy who served me this morning). He's trouble. A lethal combination of limited intelligence and power derived from the Royal Mail Book of Rules.
What normally happens is that you weigh the enveloppes and they print out a self-adhesive postage label. Quick, painless, efficient.
"I'm not putting the stamps on for you. You'll have to do it yourself." "Excuse me?" "You'll have to put the stamps on yourself." "But I don't need stamps. Aren't you going to print some postage labels?" "Not for that many enveloppes." "But there's only 7, and they're all the same size. 4 going to Europe. Three to the US."
That was my first mistake. I had engaged with the angry potato. Tried to reason with it.
"We don't do labels for that many envelopes. You'll have to put the stamps on yourself." "But your colleagues do labels all the time." "Well that's not the rule." "Fine!" (Me in my best passive-aggressive mode.)
So we did stamps. He, metting them out at snail pace. Me, licking them onto my enveloppes at high speed with mounting PMT-fuelled fury. I could have killed him.
As I inserted my credit card into the terminal, I tried to make amends. "Look, I'm sorry. I'm a bit frustrated (!) because your colleagues do it differently." "Move to the side please to lick your stamps, you're holding up the line and I could be serving the next customer." I bristled."My card is still being processed so I'm not holding anything up..." And them my parting shot: "Printing some postage labels would have been faster... "
As I said, I could have killed him. Instead, I'm going to blank him. From now on, I'll pass my turn in the queue to avoid being served by him. He is an ugly stain on The Public Service.
Anyway, brimming with barely restrained fury, I took myself to my first audition of the day. Blah blah blah. 7 hours later. I'm home, watching "To Save the King" - with the inimmitable Ian Richardson. It's part of the "House of Cards" trilogy. If you've never seen it, do check it out. It's brilliant.
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