This morning, I enjoyed one of my favorite pastimes. I went to the dentist to have the Accumulated Crud scraped off my teeth. It’s Prophylaxis Time!
I’m not a big fan of Mr. Dr. Dentist, but I like chewing food with my own teeth, so I try to take care of the ones I have. I had all four wisdom teeth yanked out at the same time five years ago, so that leaves twenty-eight various molars, incisors, bicuspids, and whatnots. The odds, I hope, are with me: My paternal grandmother kept every single one of her teeth until she died at the age of 94.
The appointment started off with the hygienist shooting a full set of X-rays, the first in six years. Sixteen films. I love how they jam those sumbitches into every crevice of your face.
Then came the cleaning proper, a 45-minute ordeal involving the little metal scrapy-thing, the Infamous Cavitron, the Sandblaster, and, finally, a thorough flossing. The Cavitron is my least-favorite part of all this, feeling like someone has wired an ultrasonic dog-whistle right into my forebrain. Yeef. Then the Blaster, with finely-divided baking soda being blown at my teeth at Typhoon Force, simultaneously giving me my week’s requirement of sodium...up my nose.
The only part that freaks me out a little is when they get out the Dremel with the polishing discs.
After all this, the usual procedure is for Mr. Dr. Dentist to poke and probe a little with his Magickal Dentickal Icepick...but there was a hitch. The X-ray developing machine had choked, causing my entire set of 16 films to cack. This meant a reshoot. Fuck!
Best yet, for the reshoot, they found another hygienist, a sweet young thing with the nastiest breath this side of Zombieville. Mmmmm Boy, that was fun.
The good news was that, after all that misery, I got a clean bill of health.
But I wasn’t done, no, no. I needed some trays cast, which meant another 20 minutes of having my mouth packed with several gallons of gag-inducing fast-hardening rubberoid goop. Feh.
And now I’m home, with no desire to have lunch. Who wants to eat, if it means messing up those nice clean choppers?
I’m not a big fan of Mr. Dr. Dentist, but I like chewing food with my own teeth, so I try to take care of the ones I have. I had all four wisdom teeth yanked out at the same time five years ago, so that leaves twenty-eight various molars, incisors, bicuspids, and whatnots. The odds, I hope, are with me: My paternal grandmother kept every single one of her teeth until she died at the age of 94.
The appointment started off with the hygienist shooting a full set of X-rays, the first in six years. Sixteen films. I love how they jam those sumbitches into every crevice of your face.
Then came the cleaning proper, a 45-minute ordeal involving the little metal scrapy-thing, the Infamous Cavitron, the Sandblaster, and, finally, a thorough flossing. The Cavitron is my least-favorite part of all this, feeling like someone has wired an ultrasonic dog-whistle right into my forebrain. Yeef. Then the Blaster, with finely-divided baking soda being blown at my teeth at Typhoon Force, simultaneously giving me my week’s requirement of sodium...up my nose.
The only part that freaks me out a little is when they get out the Dremel with the polishing discs.
After all this, the usual procedure is for Mr. Dr. Dentist to poke and probe a little with his Magickal Dentickal Icepick...but there was a hitch. The X-ray developing machine had choked, causing my entire set of 16 films to cack. This meant a reshoot. Fuck!
Best yet, for the reshoot, they found another hygienist, a sweet young thing with the nastiest breath this side of Zombieville. Mmmmm Boy, that was fun.
The good news was that, after all that misery, I got a clean bill of health.
But I wasn’t done, no, no. I needed some trays cast, which meant another 20 minutes of having my mouth packed with several gallons of gag-inducing fast-hardening rubberoid goop. Feh.
And now I’m home, with no desire to have lunch. Who wants to eat, if it means messing up those nice clean choppers?
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