Magic Beans

I always wondered how those Dr. Phil Show soccer moms turned addicts. Then I got a prescription for hydrocodone.  That's the generic name for Vicodin, though I believe it's the fruit of Jack's beanstalk.
I only had two wisdom teeth.  (So...I'm half as smart as everyone else?)  One was on the top left, and was abscessed and infected and excruciating and inflammatory.  The other was on the bottom right, and was silent and hidden and complacent and hibernating.
When I visited the dentist to beg for removal of my top left, he said that when one's wisdom teeth are mellow like my bottom right, they pull them if you're under age thirty and leave them if you're over age thirty.  I was right at age thirty.  This meant I got to choose whether, when I had the top left pulled, to have the bottom right pulled at the same time, or leave it and hope it would behave for the rest of its life.  Or at least mine.  After the misery my top left had wreaked in my head, I opted to lose the bottom right lest it later commit acts of terrorism within my skull as well.
I was also given the option of being awake or asleep for the surgery.  Being tough and cool, I opted out of being put under.  (What a fool.)
When the surgery was over, and I was done arguing with the receptionist through my cotton wads because she demanded the entire brizillion dollars immediately but I didn't have it, and mopped up Hunneypunkin off the parking lot after he'd melted down because I'd just written a check for half a brizillion dollars to the oral surgeon but we didn't have it, I got my magic bean prescription filled.
Angels sang.
I turned into June Cleaver and Mr. Clean all rolled into one.  Pain did not exist, anywhere.  Not in my face, my head, my back, my neck, the butt, or even my sore foot.  My children smiled and their teeth sparkled like Crest toothpaste commercials.  No one bickered.  Nighttime insomnia vanished, and daytime fatigue did too.  The house was clean.  Dinner was served.  Everyone on earth looked like Jeremy Renner.  (And I didn't even know who he was, at the time.  The whole thing makes so much more sense to me, since Bourne.)
I told Hunneypunkin I didn't need the one refill I was allowed but I was considering getting it just in case.  Hunneypunkin said I was high.  "I am not," I said, "I just finally feel like a regular healthy normal person should feel."  Hunneypunkin patted my shoulder and said, "That's because you're stoned."
The Precious had his wisdom teeth removed last week.  I dutifully went to the pharmacy to get him his own magic beans.  Now, in my kitchen, stands a little green bottle that holds the answer to all my problems.  But alas, they are there to solve The Precious' problems, and I must abstain.