(More than) Fourinarow.net

Truly.  It is.  What are the chances?

No, I didn’t win the lottery.  Dammit.  (Gotta buy a ticket to win.)

On Saturday night, we participated in a school dodge-ball tournament.  (No, that’s not the unbelievable part, although I can see why you might think so.)  Dan actually played on a team.  I spectated and drank beer.  Actually, EVERYone drank beer.  Hey – it was a fundraiser!  With the money going toward teacher bonuses!  We were obligated to drink beer.  Plus, it was dodge-ball.  Who would do that without beer?

Anyhow, Dan (lucky guy that he is) left the house at 6:30 to meet up with his team for a strategy session.  I stayed home to take care of the children and get most of them to bed before the sitter arrived.  I headed to the party tournament around 8:15 or so.

After paying my fee, I was shown to the keg, where my dentist (head of the Father’s Club) poured me a beer. Yum.

The dodge-ball was brutal.  The costumes were hilariously 70′s.  Fun was being had by all.  I made my way around the room, talked to friends, met spouses and got the stats on the tournament.  (Some people took it VERY seriously.)

At one point, Dan motioned me over and introduced me to a fellow running club member.  I knew who she was, but we’d never been introduced.  As I chatted with this tall, beautiful, hard-bodied marathoner, dodge-ball player and roller derby queen (for real), I felt something weird going on in my mouth.  I nodded and smiled (closed-mouthed) to this mother-of-five-but-you’d-never-know-it-in-a-million-years and backed away to a dark corner.

Where I spit a tooth into my hand.  A front tooth.

Horrors!  As my grandmother would say.

Or, $%$@*!  As I would say (if I could talk coherently with a missing tooth.)

Tooth in hand, alarm on my face, I made my way back to the keg.  Not to drown my sorrows of such a horrifyingly embarrassing event, but to see my dentist.  I tapped him on the shoulder, uncurled my hand, and showed him my tooth.

Lucky for me, he was serving and not drinking.  He found a replacement server, drove me to his office down the street, glued my tooth back in (it’s a bridge) and brought me back 30 minutes later, where he poured me another beer.

I caught up with Dan, learned who the winners and losers were and talked to a few more people before my young sitter called to say my baby needed me.

I would complain about my evening out, but what are the chances that your dentist is at the same weekend social event you are when your tooth falls out?  And then rushes off with you to immediately fix it?

Me?  Complain?  No way.

At least not until the bill comes.