It all started normally enough. The husband and I spent a few hours at the fair late Saturday afternoon and into dusk. I had my annual corn dog and an ice-cold, draft Fat Tire. We wandered and people watched. I met some animals. I got bit by a camel and a donkey, because I can’t not pet them and feed them. I also got kissed on the forehead by a goat.

After we got home we stayed up late watching tv while I worked on my online portfolio. See, we’re hoping to move to Kansas City, MO, sooner rather than later. But that’s another story.

As we were finally getting ready to turn in, my husband appeared with a handful of Skittles. I grabbed four or five and popped them in my mouth. A few minutes later I noticed I no longer had a tooth in the very back of my mouth. At midnight. On a Saturday. I panicked as I felt some pointy bits sticking out of my gums. Oh, that’s right, I got a crown last year after I broke the tooth on a Starbucks bagel.

I guess the crown went down the hatch with the Skittles. Luckily, our dentist is an old friend of my husband’s, so a Facebook message was sent, just to ask what to do until I could see him on Monday.

Sunday morning came with a reply to meet him at his office at 11:30 a.m. So we did. I hugged him and we thanked him, and he promptly put me in the chair and got me prepped. And by prepped I mean he got me high. “Nitrous oxide brunch!” he laughed. He knows that I’m a big pansy when it comes to all things dentistry, so he gave me a topical muscle relaxer to rub into my wrists.

Then came the Novacain shots, the drilling and the prep work. He made scans of my mouth and made me new crown in a magical machine while we watched. Tiny diamond cutters and water, like a tile saw, and in less than 10 minutes, a new crown.

Unfortunately with only one set of hands, it was impossible to get it to set properly. After a few attempts it was decided I’d come in Monday morning for the installation.

I went home and slept. I woke up to pain. Anything cold is excruciating. After a very delicately eaten dinner, I took the closest thing to a pain killer I have and crawled back in bed. Nothing. Another two hours later. Nothing.

An hour ago, just as I was getting a little drowsy, my 16-year-old Lab woke us up when he couldn’t get traction on the floor. He had an accident in the process. We cleaned him up. Now he’s curled up, sound asleep, on his rug in the hallway. My husband is dead to the world. The other dog is snoozing a few feet away.

I’m wide awake, despite the Klonopin I added to the pile. And despite the crime-scene level of post-poop cleaning and sanitizing, it’s all I can smell.

It’s 2:22 a.m. now. I have to get up in three hours and 23 minutes. I have to be at physical therapy at 7 a.m. Also another story for another time. Work at 8 a.m., flu shot at 9 a.m., then finally I get crowned at 11 a.m.

I hope that brings sleep to the beginning of what will be a very long, eventful week.