Dentist

Marathon Woman

A couple of weeks ago, I was at the dentist. I got a clean bill of health, as well as a few good show recommendations from my hygienist, the lovely Harmony (Unknown Number: The High School Catfish was as riveting and bizarre as she’d promised). “But,” the new dentist said to me, “you have some areas on two of your molars where the enamel is quite worn. You should make an appointment to get those patched.” At my look of panic, not having had ANY kind of dental procedure in years, he assured me, “You won’t need any freezing. I just have to rough up the surface a little and then apply a compound.” That sounded easy enough so I made the appointment.

On Thursday, I got to the dentist in plenty of time, and I sat in the waiting room listening to some random dude talking very loudly on his phone to someone about a woman who apparently wasn’t supposed to be in his apartment, but he KNEW she’d been there because he had set the thermostat to a sensible 72 degrees when he left and when he got back, the thermostat was now at 73 degrees, so it had to be her. Apparently, it was JUST LIKE HER to turn the heat up. The whole thing was befuddling–like why does she still have a key if her whimsical thermostat meddling is such a problem, and does she just go into his apartment, turn up the heat and then sit there for a while? But it was entertaining, and a good distraction from the fact that the dentist was running late.

When he finally came in, he greeted me as if we’d never met before, and greeted me thusly:

Dentist: How are you doing? Taking a break from work?
Me: (laughs): Oh no, I’m retired.
Dentist: You’re retired?! But you’re so young!
Me (foolishly thinking he was complimenting me): Oh, haha, I’m going to be 60 in a couple of weeks.
Dentist: I thought people in this country couldn’t retire until they turn 65. You’re so lucky! I’d love to be retired.
Assistant: Retired so young, yes, I’d like that too. Lucky you.

And I so badly wanted to say, “Lucky?! Do you think I won ‘retirement’ at poker, instead of working for over 30 years, paying almost half my salary into a pension plan, yet still having to work part-time to afford things like GOING TO THE DENTIST?!” But I didn’t say anything because it didn’t seem like a good idea to antagonize someone who would shortly have his fingers in my mouth.

We were all quiet for a minute while I guess they were fantasizing about being retired, then the dentist asked the assistant, “What are we doing today? Ah, OK.” And then he said to me, who was lying prone with a stupid bib and plastic sunglasses on, “We’re just going to start with a little freezing” and I realized he was holding a needle, and I immediately said, very loudly, “NO.”

“Oh, it’s just to help with the pain,” he said. “We don’t want it to hurt, right?” And I responded by squeezing my lips shut and forcefully shaking my head, like a very small child refusing to eat beets or whatnot.

“You don’t want any freezing? But I have to drill into your teeth. It might not hurt THAT much but I can’t be sure.”

I stared at him, and said, “You told me I wouldn’t need any freezing. I don’t want to do this.”

He sighed. “I can try doing the drilling without the freezing. Just put your hand in the air if it hurts and you want to stop.”

And so he started drilling into my teeth. And it DID hurt. And I knew exactly how Dustin Hoffman felt as I waved my hand wildly in the air.

“A little sensitive, is it?” the dentist said. “Just a tiny bit more and we’ll be all done.” So I dug my fingernails into my palms until the drilling stopped, and he patched my stupid teeth with his stupid compound and I tried not to hit him when he stupidly said, “At least you don’t have to go back to work after this.”

And then I went to pay, and it cost $482 for a procedure that took less than 10 minutes from beginning to end. So at that rate, I guess he’ll be able to win retirement soon too.

In other, more pleasant news, here’s the miniature room that I made for my parents, who love classical music. I think it turned out pretty nicely, and there was no drilling involved.

Pearl(y White)s of Wisdom

On Thursday, I had to go to the dentist for a check-up. Like most people, it’s not something I enjoy, especially since my favourite hygienist, Harmony, only works Monday to Wednesday and our schedules don’t line up anymore. Two visits ago, my new hygienist claimed to be a former Olympic-level figure skater (I looked her up but couldn’t find her listed on any Canadian team at any point in time), and despite the fact that we had never met before, she insisted on spending the entire appointment regaling me with the tales of abuse that caused her to leave the sport and gave her PTSD. Then, at the end of the appointment, she told me that fluoride was poison, and she could recommend several “documentaries” that had uncovered the insidious and evil fluoride conspiracy.  The next time I went, in February, I had a different hygienist who was only slightly better, in that she said ABSOLUTELY NOTHING to me throughout the entire appointment. But at the end she gave me extra floss, which was nice, and did NOT try to push any bizarre conspiracy theories about the world of dentistry. I showed up for my appointment on Thursday, fearing the worst and hoping for the best, when a familiar face came around the corner to call me in.

“Harmony!” I exclaimed, overjoyed. She had switched days last week for some reason and, lucky me, I would get to spend my time in the chair discussing new favourite shows to binge-watch because we have the exact same taste in TV, plus she has excellent timing when it comes to asking a question and then letting me answer without slicing open my gums with her pick. It was just like old times, and at the end of the appointment, I actually felt relaxed. And then I discovered we had another thing in common:

Me: I heard Dr. Morton is going to retire soon.
Harmony: He’s getting there.
Me: He’s been my dentist for a really long time. Can you tell from my chart how long?
Harmony: Hang on…looks like your first appointment was in 2009.
Me: Wow! So like 24 years?
Harmony: Uh huh.

Then there was a long pause while I, and most likely you, dear reader, re-did the mental calculation that led to my pronouncement.

Me: Wait…no, I think that’s only 13 years. I’m so bad at math.
Harmony: Me too. That’s why I just said Uh huh, and went along with you. But 13 sounds correct.

And yes, at some point after the conversation, while I was shopping for a new outfit for my book launch for The Devil You Know which was taking place later that night, I realized that 13 years was also completely wrong, and that Harmony was either being very nice to me, or she was indeed as bad at math as me. Regardless, she will always be my favourite hygienist.

The book launch went really well, by the way. Here’s a picture of me wearing my new outfit:

In other news, here’s the cover reveal for the DarkWinter Press inaugural publication, The basement on Biella: a poetry collection by Bill Garvey. Bill is a brilliant poet who divides his time between Toronto and Nova Scotia, and DarkWinter is so happy to be publishing this collection! I had a moment of nervous excitement right before I hit ‘publish’ and now it’s available for Kindle pre-order! The paperback will be released most likely the beginning of next week, but if you’re interested in the Kindle version, order now and it will land in your e-reader on Monday! Here’s the link and the front cover:

Cleanliness Is Next To Craziness

On Thursday, I had to go to the dentist for a cleaning. I used to have this awesome hygienist named Harmony, who was as serene as her name, and we loved all the same TV shows. She did most of the talking but we had a good rhythm where she would take out the pick so that I could quickly reply about things like which series had the best ending, Breaking Bad or Dexter? But Harmony was off for a while and now she doesn’t work on Thursdays and Fridays, which are the only days that I have available now that I work at an antique market. So my last few appointments were with hygienists that I didn’t know. The one who cleaned my teeth a couple of years ago was hilarious and told me how she hides chocolate in Tampax boxes so her husband won’t find it, and the one I saw in the summer was very nice and not-crazy at all, but the one on Thursday was a legit nutbar. It started when she came out to get me:

Hygienist: Susan?
Me: It’s Suzanne.
Hygienist: What’s the difference?
Me: Aside from them being two completely different names, they’re spelled differently.
Hygienist: How do you spell ‘Susan’?

After we’d sorted out the Suzanne/Susan debacle (seriously, it’s like seeing the name Derek and insisting that the person’s name is Drake), she got to work. And immediately launched into her life story, which I will break down here:

She used to be a world class professional athlete in a sport that I won’t name and she travelled the world from the age of 11 and lived with families in a variety of countries but came home rarely because her father was a mentally and emotionally abusive narcissist who only loved her when she was winning. She quit the sport because it was toxic and destroying her health and the people who are competing in the Olympics right now are the same people she trained with (which I thought was strange since she looked ((from the mask up)) about forty) and she is full of regret and devasted that she can no longer compete. Also, she hates being a dental hygienist because she doesn’t believe in dentistry—

At which point, I interrupted to point out that it was very important to one’s physical health to clean one’s teeth regularly—

Yes, she knew that but it was all the other stuff about dentistry she didn’t believe in, like fluoride for example, which is like a poison that will kill you and she doesn’t even use toothpaste with flouride in it and that I should watch this documentary from the 1970s that proves flouride is superdangerous, by the way, did I want fluoride this visit? ( I didn’t, not because it’s poisonous but because it’s sticky and I don’t like the banana flavour they use, and I don’t want to get into a debate with ANYONE about fluoride), and that people say that everything is meant to be but she doesn’t believe that because her life is truly awful, and people don’t realize that when they look at the sport she used to compete in how awful it is, and she did things that she thought were normal but now she knows that they weren’t, and what’s your favourite colour?( purple) so here’s a purple toothbrush and some floss for you to take home.

And I don’t want to sound judge-y because she was truly an unhappy soul but I DON’T KNOW HER and it was EXHAUSTING. Then the dentist came in, and despite the fact that my chart clearly, and for the last TWENTY YEARS, says I’m allergic to latex, he went for my mouth with latex gloves on. I stopped him and reminded him, and he did what he always does, which is to make a huge fuss about having to take the latex gloves off, re-sanitize his hands and put on vinyl—“Oh, my hands!”—to which I replied, “Your hands? Well, wait until you see my mouth after you put your latexy fingers in them. By the way, is my EpiPen close by?”

And even though I had no cavities, I didn’t even get a f*cking lollipop because the four-year-old ahead of me took the last one. At least I don’t have to go back for six months.

Thanks For Sharing

Well, it’s Thanksgiving weekend here in Canada, and I’m grateful for many things, not the least of which is no longer having a strange man taking up residence in my kitchen. “A strange man?” I hear you say. “How intriguing!” Let me assure you that it was not. Here’s the story:

A few weeks ago, I got sick of looking at how worn my kitchen cabinets looked. They’re painted white but chipping everywhere because the original owners of the house didn’t get them properly primed. The cost of replacing all the cabinets was astronomical, so we hired a company to paint them. Enter Mike, he of the numerous tattoos, faux-hawk, effusive personality, and, despite him being the same age as Ken and me, numerous children under the age of 5 who kept him “running around like crazy”. Mike assured us when we signed the contract that in 3 days, with his spray technology and oil-based lacquer, we would have “a brand new kitchen.” But on the night before he was due to start painting, he called to tell me that he had come down with shingles and was running behind schedule. Bear in mind that we had to take every single thing out of the kitchen to prepare for the spraying and the house now looked like a disaster zone:

Me: I’m so sorry to hear that.
Mike: Ya, it’s super painful. Worst pain I’ve ever experienced and I’ve broken every bone in my body,
Me: Wow.
Mike: Ya. And if I can be honest with you, I MANSCAPE, and let me tell you, it hurts like hell.
Me:

And I don’t know what it is about me that compels people to tell me very private things, things that I really don’t want to know, but it happens all the time

Like the tattoo artist that Kate and I went to (my fifth tattoo—the Tree of Life, and her first, a cool graphic she designed herself). It was a reputable parlour, but the artist himself was a little off kilter. My appointment was before hers, and the tattooist, a very short man with a slight build, regaled me with stories about his “Chippendales dancing days”, where he claimed that he “didn’t have a great body like the rest of the guys”, but he “had the best moves”. I was like “Uh huh” and silently begging him not to demonstrate. Then when he was tattooing Kate, he launched into this gem:

Tattoo Guy: My sixteen-year-old stepson just got his first girlfriend.
Me: Oh, that’s nice.
Tattoo Guy: Yeah, I found a condom wrapper on the floor of his room.
Me: Gosh.
Tattoo Guy: So I said, “Where did you get a condom from, anyway?” And he said, “I found it on the path.” So I told him, “NEVER use a condom that you found on the path.”
Me: Words to live by, that’s for sure.
Tattoo Guy: I know, right?

Then there was the last time I went to the dentist. I’ve been going to the same dentist for years, but I didn’t realize that they have a completely different staff on Saturdays. The receptionist WASN’T Nina, for starters, although the Saturday receptionist seemed quite nice. But when the hygienist, Cindy, came out, I became more suspicious. “Where’s Serenity?” I asked. Let me just tell you that Serenity has been my hygienist for many years. She’s a lovely woman, and completely suits her name. We like all the same TV shows, and she has a wonderful knack of carrying on a two-sided conversation about Sons of Anarchy or Better Call Saul with me, even with her hands in my mouth, kind of like this:

“Did you see the latest episode of _____?”

“Eh—i wa o ood”

“I know, right? Could you believe it when____?”

“I ow. I uz azy.”

The new, unfamiliar hygienist said, in a very bubbly voice, “Oh, she’s on her honeymoon. But she doesn’t work Saturdays anyway.”

Well, all right. Cindy seemed very professional and competent, so I decided to give it a go. I got comfortably seated, and then the deluge began. By the time we were done, I literally knew EVERYTHING about Cindy’s life: where she went to high school, how she met her husband, his career ups and downs, their respective families and where they all lived…she was very entertaining, and the appointment just flew by. I don’t think she actually took a breath for 25 minutes. But the best part was this:

“So my husband lost over 80 pounds in the last year. I’d known him for so long that the weight just crept up on us, then one day, he decided to lose 30 pounds, but I think he got addicted to weight loss because now he’s really thin and worries about his skin flaps but I just keep telling him to tone up and not worry about the weight. He ran his first marathon last year. The only thing is that I REALLY like to snack and I NEVER gain weight, but if there’s snack food in the house, he’ll binge-eat it all so I have to hide it. I had this really great hiding place in the baking cupboard, but somehow he found it and ate everything and I know he MUST have been looking for it because why would he be in the baking cupboard since he never bakes, right? So then I was hiding all my snack food in the car, but now it’s getting too warm and I’m worried things will melt or go bad. So the other day, I found the perfect spot, and if he finds it, I’ll KNOW he’s been deliberately looking, because I put everything in a TAMPAX BOX IN THE GUESTROOM BATHROOM. If those chocolate bars disappear, I’ll know he was searching the house for food, because why would he want a tampon, right? My only worry is that I might have a girlfriend staying over and she might need a tampon, and then she’d be like, “Is this what you’ve been using? How does THAT work?”

I didn’t know who to feel more sorry for—her, her poor snackless husband, or the unsuspecting house guest. At any rate, I was laughing so hard that I barely felt my gums being ripped open by the assortment of picks in her arsenal. And I had no cavities. Yay me.

As for the kitchen, despite Mike’s promises, he didn’t finish until end of day Friday. The cabinets look great, all fresh and white. Some areas of the walls are also white, as is the perimeter of the ceiling and a lot of the window panes because the one thing Mike DIDN’T tell me was that he was an indiscriminate sprayer. Which, I suppose, I should be grateful for.

And please don’t feel sorry for that sad-looking puppy. He just ate, and thinks if he pushes his empty food bowl into the middle of the floor, someone will feed him again. He’s such a little trickster:-)

My Week 163: Titus Has a Hallowe’en Surprise For Us

Hallowe’en Surprise

Me: I can’t believe that, out of all the candy you gave out, all we have left are a bunch of mini-Mr. Goodbars and Wunderbars. I’ve never even heard of either of them. What happened to all the Aeros and Kitkats?!
 Ken: I don’t know. I tried to be random…
Me: What the hell is a Wunderbar anyway?
Ken: Ooh, it’s yummy. It tastes like chocolate and butter.
Me: What?! That’s gross. Give me one…ohhh, that’s actually quite tasty. But still. What happened to all the candy?
Ken: I left some packets of Swedish berries on the counter for you. Just because you ate them already, don’t get mad at me.
Me: No, you didn’t. There were ZERO packages of any type of decent candy on the counter.
Ken: Yes, I DID. They were right there…
Titus (clears throat): Ahem. I thought those were for me.
Me: You ate my Swedish Berries?
Titus: Were they yours? They were delicious.
Me: Were there any Fuzzy Peaches?
Titus: There may or may not have been some Fuzzy Peaches.
Me: Dammit—I love the Fuzzy Peaches!
Ken: What happened to the wrappers? I don’t see them anywhere.
Titus: Oh, you’ll be seeing them eventually. Trick or treat.