So today I went to the dentist. While I'll admit it's not my favorite place to go, I always like that clean feeling after having my teeth cleaned and I always leave there promising myself to floss each and every day and not only once in a while and to occasionally scale my teeth with the pathetic dental instrument they sell at Walmart that is nothing like the instruments they use in the office that if I had the nerve, I might swipe just one so that when they do that prodding exam at the beginning of the visit, I'd pass with flying colors.
Plus, I get to meet new staff because every time I go, there is somebody new there and the dentist is great, but he does maintain a well-lubed revolving door when it comes to his staff.
So today, I met the new hygienist because my most favorite hygienist, Darlene, left to be home with her little boy. She actually would still be there, except her husband was deployed to Iraq and it made more sense for her to leave, although I'm certain there would always be a job for her there if the opportunity ever represented itself (as it had once before), and I'm hoping it will soon. In the meantime, Jenn is getting her feet wet and if she has thick enough skin, she'll be there when I return in six months.
Anyway, before she got started, she offered me a pair of glasses. Eye protection. I had never been offered eye protection before, so right away, I saw a red flag. It was going to be a simple cleaning and why did I need glasses to protect me from flying debris -- debris that came from my own mouth?
Okay, so they were optional but just to be safe, I put them on. Then she began the prodding part of the exam. Only in this case, it was more like jabbing and poking. In the past, an assistant would record the numbers for the hygienist, but she did it alone, and silently. I usually get 1s, 2s and 3s but I couldn't help but think she was coming up with 4s and 5s because she surely had to be drawing blood with every poke to my gums.
The second red flag went up when she kept alternating poking and jabbing with recording the numbers and leaving me there in limbo. No suction, no rinse. I know she drew blood because three times, I was forced to swallow and I certainly know the taste of blood.
Onward to the cleaning, and apparently she was impressed and commented more than once about it, thankful that she wasn't challenged with me. She was happy she could even take an early lunch.
She finished up and proceeded to polish and asked me what flavor I wanted. When I couldn't answer, she realized why and I finally met Mr. Slurpee! Don't think I didn't kiss him more than it was necessary.
I don't have to return until August, a time that is so difficult to even imagine on a day when it felt like I was living at the South Pole. Yes, South. Read up on your geography and you'll see that it's colder than where Santa and his elves live. But by then, maybe I'll muster up the courage to swipe a dental tool to scale my teeth. Because they sell plastic pathetic instruments at Walmart.
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