I thought gravity was taking a toll on me, but at least I haven't simply fallen in the street without warning (or wind, rain, rhyme or reason). Recently, anyway.
I found my dentist a few years ago after eating nachos and breaking a molar on a Thursday night. Apparently, the Dentist Union prevents them from working on Fridays, but after about twenty calls, I found one willing to see me. I'm a model patient, flossing daily, drinking wine with a straw, and paying for appointments every six months, even when my insurance is particularly fickle about their portion of our payment plan.
How to scare your patient in 3, 2, 1...: my dentist walked up from behind, warning me not to be alarmed. Why? He'd had a face lift last week and was still recovering, with some major hematomas on his neck. He then proceeded to show me the stitches around both sides of his face, around his hairy ears, down his chin, and across the back side of his head. I nodded and checked out the medical wizardry, but it all looked like something that should be healing within the confines of his own home. He then explained that beauty was painful, but he'd be getting a breast reduction next. I can only hope my timing gets better.
My favorite place in Las Vegas looks a lot like Italy. Caesars Palace is a newer, cleaner version of Rome, with more glitz, gambling and palm trees. You can even find gelato.