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LAURA ON LIFE
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A DENTAL VISIT
I went to visit the dentist today. That was fun. They call it a dentist "visit" to make it sound more appealing. Of all the words I can think of right now, "appealing" is not one of the words I would have picked to describe our "visit". After a two-magazine wait, it was finally my turn to "visit" with him. He must be as popular as Queen Elizabeth if he can get people to wait that long for their "visit" with him.
When I was finally ushered into his presence, I asked him how his day was going and he said fine and then proceeded to tell me all about the nefarious plans he had for the inside of my mouth. And I was being perfectly civil to him! It was like talking to the Queen about the weather and she yells, "Off with her head!" Well, that's the last time I'm going to be nice to him!
So, as a pretty, young, hygienist with perfect teeth shows me the way to The Chair, I ponder how I could have avoided this execution. Later, she tells me, "Well, if you had just flossed more often…" I smile and nod as if I'd never flossed in my life, because, well, it makes her feel good to chastise me that way. I thought, "You know, little girl, when you get to be my age and all of your teeth start falling out of your head, you come talk to me and tell me how much flossing helped you." Of course by then, I'll be aimlessly hobbling around drugstores, looking for a dental form of Krazy Glue that will actually keep my "teeth" attached to my mouth for the entire length of time it takes to eat my bowl of oatmeal and prunes.
My grandmother had a set of dentures. She was very vain as well. So she never admitted to anyone that she had them. We all knew, however, due to the fact that every time she would fall asleep on the Lazy-boy on Thanksgiving, her mouth hanging wide open, those bad boys would be hanging down like Christmas garland in a cave. It was an alarming sight to kids who didn't know how grandma's teeth could separate themselves from her gums without even waking her up. We knew how painful it was when we were losing one of our own teeth. We had to invent ways to rid ourselves of the loose tooth without all the pain. We made sure everyone knew we were losing a tooth. Grandma never said a word! We thought maybe she died and her teeth were the first thing to go.
Anyway, when His Royal Highness, the dentist, finally deigned to come back to "visit" with me, the first thing he did was stick a needle in my mouth while I glared at him. Behind that mask he wore, I swear he was smiling. He didn't even ask me how I was doing until he had both hands, up to his elbows, in my mouth. All I could do was grunt.
He used a variety of Tools of Torment as he rooted around my mouth, but the only one I liked was the one my childhood dentist used to call Mr. Slurpee. To this day, that's the only name I know it by. Mr. Slurpee always did a good job of cleaning out the excess spit and keeping it from dribbling down my chin. But the hygienist kept pulling it out before all the spit was gone and a long line of it would stretch out and dribble down my chin anyway. "Now, now, what's a visit to the dentist without a little dribble to show for it?"
I'm sure His Royal Highness expected a polite "Thank you for this wonderful visit, I hope to see you again soon", when I was finished, but I'm not likely to encourage this kind of "visit" ever again, thank you. So, I muttered a few words of acknowledgment to his post-torture instructions and I beat a hasty retreat.
Laura Snyder may be reached at lsnyder@lauraonlife.com
Or check her website www.lauraonlife.com for archived columns
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