IHateMyTeeth. IHateMyTeeth. IHateMyTeeth. IHateMyTeeth.
How old do I have to be to trade all of my teeth in for some fakes? Although my Grandmother used to thoroughly freak me out (and make me a bit jealous of her mysterious talents) when she would pop her teeth in and out to impress us grandkids, this stuff never looked so good as it does now:
So. I had ANOTHER root canal yesterday. That would make five.
I’m pretty sure I’ve broken the Guinness Book of World Records for number of fillings and root canals for a twenty-seven year old.
And yes, my dentist called it a rooty-tooty. Again. Which compels me to communicate:
Dear Dr. G:
You’re a great dentist, and I really like you (although I’m not really impressed with how you sell yourself to women by promoting your, um, “attractiveness” on huge billboards and mall advertisements.)
BUT making a root canal sound like candy does NOT make it fun and tasty like candy. It just makes me wish I were eating candy rather than being shot in the ROOF OF MY MOUTH and my cheek, drilled, stuffed, cauterized, filled, and in general tortured by you.
(Then again, maybe my desire to eat candy is where all of these problems originated from anyway.)
And now that I think about it, your whole torture chamber motif kinda takes away from the whole attractiveness thing that you’re going for on all your fancy-shmancy signage. Just sayin’.
Your Fully Rootified and Tootified Patient, Rachel
I feel better now.
Besides the rooty-tooty fun itself, other things that made this dental visit “shpeshul” included:
X-Ray tech comes in to take an x-ray.
“Upper left side, correct?”
Then she proceeds to x-ray my upper RIGHT side. By the time I realize what she is doing, she has my mouth crammed full of x-ray-cut-your-mouth-open-if-you-move-“but-oh-can-you-please-bite-down-a-bit-harder?”-sharp-and-cruel-objects.
She takes said incorrect x-ray, and then I timidly say (worried that she had just used some new backwards x-ray –technology and I was going to look like that obnoxious know-it-all yet WRONG patient), ‘”Umm, wasn’t that the wrong side?”
”No – you said left, right?”
”Yeah…but that was my right side…”
”No it wasn’t..that was your………….OHMYGOODNESS!!! I haven’t done that in two years!! I’m so sorry!!!”
She then commences my second dose of x-ray-cut-your-mouth-open-if-you-move-“but-oh-can-you-please-bite-down-a-bit-harder?”-sharp-and-cruel-object torture.
After my lovely rooty-tooty was all fresh n’ fruity, my dentist gave me my prescriptions, including pain meds. I told him that I couldn’t take them without puking, and would he mind prescribing me some Phenergan to go with?
“Sure, but what CAN you take without it? I’ll just prescribe you that instead!”
“Uh, nothing. It all makes me puke. I promise.”
But apparently, his usual Phenergan brand name was discontinued, so he went behind the reception area to look up a new one.
A minute later, he calls out happily, “Hey, would you like that in a suppository?”
(Dentist-ey giggles ensue from the back room)
It’s good to know that between his rooty-tooty vocabulary and his potty-ish sense of humor, my Dentist is beating the odds of his profession’s rate of depression.
And that just makes me feel rooty-tooty.