So, I went to the dentist yesterday.
It has been, ahem, a while since I last visited the dentist.
I don’t want to say exactly how long, but if you are thinking double digits – and I’m not talking months here – you are on the right track.
I KNOW! And I’m not even a hillbilly!
It’s just that I have this policy against allowing people to come at my open mouth with sharpened metal objects. WITH HOOKS ON THE END!
Don’t try to tell me they don’t sharpen those pokers at night after all the victims have gone home. I’ve seen fishing lures in my husband’s tackle box that look similar to what they use.
Don’t get me wrong. I love my dentist. (Hi, Elizabeth!) That is, when I’m not hating her for being tall and thin and knock out gorgeous with a wardrobe to die for.
I just can’t get past those metal pokers. The hooks. The scrapers. They may as well use a jagged lid from a can of tuna. I would be about as relaxed either way.
Call me crazy, but I’m a nervous wreck when someone else has their hands in my mouth. I get all sweaty, and flinch and involuntarily push their hands out of the way while saying in a shrill whisper, “BE CAREFUL! DON’T TOUCH IT! NO!”
And then there’s the ice cold water they try to shoot down your throat while saying “Relax! It’s not so bad!”. I believe the CIA calls this “water boarding”, but I could be wrong.
Needless to say, I take VERY good care of my teeth, so I can justify getting a check up only once a decade.
When I got home, my husband asked me how it went, and I told him I was okay after they hooked me up with the giggle juice. (I may or may not have asked for a to-go canister when I left.)
“So you had to get a cavity filled?” he asked.
“No, not a single cavity. She said my teeth looked great.”
“Then why did you need laughing gas?”
“For the cleaning! Duh!”
If you can believe it, he is sick enough to not even mind getting his teeth cleaned! BY A PERSON HOLDING A SHARP METAL HOOK!
He couldn’t believe that I, a woman who has given birth SIX times without any drugs, would need nitrous oxide for a routine cleaning. I think he mumbled something about me being a crybaby, but I was too busy plotting to stab him in the mouth with a fish hook tonight while he sleeps.
How do you like me now, CRYBABY?!