As I age, I’d like to say gracefully here but that’s for pussies, my list of things I hate just keeps on growing. I’m practicing for my curmudgeonly matron routine here…you know, the one to match Himself’s sweater-wearing, shuffling old fart routine. He’s already achieved that status, but let’s keep that on the down low, shall we. By the time I’m considered old, I think that’s 41 according to my offspring, I’ll have the routine down pat.
There are some things that have absolutely no business in polite society. Some might say I’m one of them, what with my snarkiness and potty mouth, but let’s face it, I make life just a tad more interesting for the uber-mommies scrunched into their blinged out blue jeans and high-stepping it into their gas guzzlers in the school pickup line. I’m talking about things like Steven Segal movies, pot-bellied hairy men in speedos, Uggs, and dentists.
I hate dentists.
His Awesomeness’ first dentist happened to be Himself’s childhood dentist. Can you say ‘ancient’? Yeah, like Stonehenge ancient. The man was an absolute turd who wouldn’t let me go back to sit with my son on his very first dental visit. We never went back. Good riddance.
The next kid dentist was a chirpy lass with a perpetual smile, bright white teeth and a happy-happy-joy-joy jibber-jabber that made me want to grind glass with my back teeth. No one’s that happy, especially one who deals all day with squirmy, sometimes screaming children, without the benefit of pharmaceuticals. I bet she went home and pulled the wings off flies, y’all.
My own childhood dentist was about an hour away. I always knew when Mother chim-chimed about taking a trip to Temple that the proverbial poop was about to hit the fan. To this day, I hate that city. You suck, Temple!
My love for dentists has obviously not grown over time. Unfortunately they’re a necessary evil, like mothers-in-law and tampons.
I had the pleasure on Friday of an emergency visit as I thought I’d broken a tooth. Yippee.
The office is home to three male dentists/orthodontists and a bevy of young buxom ladies who man (ha-ha) the front office. Let me be frank, I’d be a heckava lot more inclined to show up all cheery like for a visit if they’d put a muscle-bound lad (minus the steroid gap between his front teeth) at the front desk. But I digress.
I sat in the spacious waiting area so long I could feel my arteries hardening. When I finally got to the back, I discovered the dentist du jour would be the short, condescending little putz who makes me yearn for the fat, hairy dude in a speedo on the Southern Comfort commercial. This guy is a wiseacre.
‘So you broke your tooth?’
No, I think I broke it. You’re supposed to figure out if it’s fact or fiction.
‘What makes you think you broke it?’
It’s just an idea I randomly pulled from my nether region. And you know, I had some extra cash and thought, hey it’s Friday and I’m at work and naturally I wanted to use some of my precious vacation time to be here looking at your smug little puss instead of staring at culture plates of someone’s mucus.
He poked about in my mouth for a bit before announcing to the hygienist that he’d be needing the ‘vitality meter’. Mind you, I hadn’t had a Xanax so the ominous tone with which he announced ‘vitality meter’ made me pucker a bit. I don’t mean my mouth.
As it turns out, ‘vitality meter’ is dental code for ‘oral cattle prod’. I’m not sure if it’s electricity or vibrations he shot through several of my teeth, but I’ve decided if he ever wants to try it again, there will be ground rules. Or should I say ‘rule’?
You wanna use that thing on me again, I’m going to have a handful of your most prized personal accoutrements. Instead of me raising my hand to let you know ‘when I feel something’, I’ll let you choose between a jerk, a twist, a yank or my fingernails attempting to turn you into a eunuch. Your choice.
God visited the plagues on Egypt. He should’ve sent dentists, too.