Don’t talk to me. I went to the dentist today, and let me tell you, I don’t care how soft spoken he is, how double-hand-clasping when he shakes my hand, how “Gee, that’s neat,” dentists come straight from Medieval Purgatory art. I’m talkin’ intestines-on-a-spit, Beelzebub chewing your heart type stuff. And I have good teeth. Well, at least I don’t have cavities, I brush and I try not to eat Oreos for at least a week before visiting. You’d think that’d give me some extra points, but apparently dentists are also “glass-half-empty” people.
This is what I hate. Just making the appointment, you know you’re in trouble. It’s their job to make your gums bleed. They call it “scraping below the gum” but we know it’s really latent homicidal tendencies. And, not only do they feel the need to prick very sensitive skin, but they talk while they do it. Do they discuss the weather? Do they quote Plato? Do they sing along to Michael Bolton? Oh, no. They talk about your teeth. Specifically, the myriad things you do wrong. You don’t floss enough or correctly, you don’t brush in small circles or rinse with the right stuff. For 20 minutes, you have to sit there, mouth open, blood swishing down your throat, listening to Mother Superior lecture you on the plague of gingivitis that will surely descend if you don’t repent. And you can’t even spit your mouth full of blood at the blasted woman because she’s got sharp objects in your mouth that she’s already proven she can use.
Not even my underground book group’s discussion on Johnny Depp can soothe these wounds. I bet his hygienist doesn’t lecture him.