I was at the dentist’s yesterday. It wasn’t one of those social calls, you realise, I was in pain. I have a condition many refer to as “sensitive tooth”. It actually has a more technical term, but you don’t get to know that until they have stuck some funny strip in your mouth, asked you to bite hard and cautioned you on how it “may be a ‘little’ uncomfortable”. You have got to love the professionalism of the service sector.
So anyway, I went to see the dentist yesterday. Great guy, incidentally, the only thing I have against him is the amount of pain I suffer at his hands. To be fair, its actually my fault. I like stuff that has a reputation for messing up teeth. I brush my teeth and all, but whenever I visit the dentist, he pulls out this big ass mirror and shines this light as bright as the sun into my mouth and points out that I missed a spot. It goes without saying I am usually deeply offended, so he proceeds to present this little hook ended thing and then he digs into my mouth. At that point, a section of my tooth dramatically transforms into tiny food residue. I’m not exaggerating. I tried to skip meals and feed myself only toothpaste and toothbrush bristles, but that shit didn’t work.
I concluded that either;
- my teeth have magical powers and can transform into food when they feel like it, or (more likely)
- the dentist actually sneaks some food residue onto his little silver toothpick when I am shielding my eyes from the rays of his portable sun.
My visits usually involve conversating for a while, then we move on to the anesthetic bit during which a flavoured cotton bud is placed on my gum to create the illusion that only good things are happening. Shortly after that the syringe, which to be honest looks more lethal than any I’ve seen, is introduced. It’s a very brief meeting between gum and said syringe, because syringe is easily excitable and spits when done.
For a while nothing happens. Nothing serious anyway, but soon the numbness sets in, apologising for taking its sweet time about getting there. My gum wonders what he heck just happened and then my dentist returns with his business face. Which is generally his regular face with a mask that suggests that he doesn’t want stuff to squirt on him. You know, like blood.
I’m still not panicky at this point. Then the a suction thing comes in to play. I can’t imagine how someone got this idea approved. Granted it’s necessary and all, but shit, all that sloshing makes me want to gag. And I can’t because I have this stupid thing stuck in there. (shut up! do not compare this to that sexual act!)
I am still not panicky. That is, until the drill rears its ugly noisy head. That messes me up. I honestly think that on top of the flavored cotton bud of numbeness, dentists should provide ear muffs or Ipods with Celine Dion music. The drill sounds like an angry troll.
To help soothe my nerves, the dentist and I conversate during this whole thing. Well, he does most of the talking and all I can do is try to mumble.
After what seems like a day or so, the ordeal is over and I am left with a puffy feeling face and some dread at the prospect of having to come back soon.
Sorry, I keep derailing, yesterday I went over to see the dentist, and after we identified the cause of my discomfort (yes, we! it was a collaborative effort, he used his fancy machines and I squirmed!) it was decided that I need a filling and some RCT.
I figured I knew what the first two letters stood for, but that last one was bugging me. There was no way it would be THAT obvious. It was. I am due for Root Canal Treatment or Therapy. Don’t know when exactly, but I’ve been asked to stay off the alcohol, just in case.
My brother from another mother says I should take it lightly. I seriously don’t know what he means. I know that complications arise from this shit, but it is through no fault of the tooth’s owner.
Baz says I should have the damn thing yanked out. I honestly can’t see why not, aside from, you know, developing some odd speech impediment which has me sneeze everytime I utter a word with the letter “T” in it.
Let’s see how this goes.
Is “taking matters into one’s own hands” the politically correct way of saying “masturbating”?