Musings from the dental chair
Though I have filled a swear jar with all my quarters, I don’t think I have a dirty mouth.
I do, however, get my teeth cleaned every three months. For the record, the hygienist does not wash my mouth out with soap. Maybe she should. I could go to more all-ages open mic nights.
My trips to the dentist every three months seem excessive. I should get frequent flyer miles in that dental chair. My next cavity should be free. I’d settle on a travel-sized tube of Crest or Colgate.
Emily, my dental hygienist (we’re on a first-name basis), leaned me back in the chair, shone the big, bright light in my face, and started scraping.
Let me paint the entire picture: the dentist’s office is across from South Hills Village. I sit in the chair and stare out the window directly at the big bullseye on the Target building. Instead of concentrating on the “scratch, scratch” sound she’s making with her long, silver scaler, I stare at the clouds and find shapes and animals.
“That one looks like a seahorse. That one looks like a bunny.”
Google: pareidolia.
Here are my other musings from the dental chair.
As someone who regularly goes to the dentist, you would think I wouldn’t eat popcorn the night before. Even after brushing and flossing, she pulled tiny, translucent hulls from my teeth.
The hygienist remarked, “Maybe the day after you eat popcorn is the best time to go!”
She’s logical.
She was in there, pulling on my lips, rubbing her finger along my gumline, and jabbing me with her sharp metal implements of torture. I asked, “Has anyone ever bitten your finger?”
She answered, “Not on purpose.”
To which I responded, “I should hope not!” But it sounded more like, “I shoub hob nob,” because her fingers were in my mouth.
I would hate to think some deviant is out there waiting to chomp down on some fingers, dentists, hygienists, or whomever else might stick their fingers in said sicko’s mouth. While you might expect this behavior from a puppy or a 2-year-old, don’t let adults bite adults unless it’s consensual.
She ran the polisher over my teeth while “Sister Golden Hair” played on the radio in the background. I hadn’t heard that song in a while … and still didn’t hear it over the sound of the polisher humming inside my mouth. Regrettably, she had finished polishing my teeth when a twangy country song came on the office PA system.
Side note: I don’t like country music. I do like world music. Apparently, I like country music as long as it’s from other countries.
But I digress, like I do. The dentist popped in at the end of the visit. He’s very congenial when you consider the sadistic nature of his chosen profession.
I like to think I’m his favorite patient. I’m pretty sure I have donated generously to his children’s college fund. After all, I have more crowns than King Charles III.