Nazis, Floss & IUDs

I’m not exactly sure when my dental phobia started. I don’t remember being afraid as a kid; but somehow, over time I have come to think of dental offices like little Guantanamo Bays. You’re there to get your teeth cleaned, but go ahead and ask for my PIN number and how many people I’ve slept with while you’re at it, because let’s face it, this is one step from ‘enhanced interrogation’ (both my PIN and the other number are very low for your information). Maybe it was watching Marathon Man? I recall watching that and Silence of the Lambs on a date night with an old boyfriend. That’s a bad idea (the boyfriend and the first movie choice). Stick to Buffalo Bill and putting the lotion in the basket but avoid Nazi Dentist plot lines. Trust me.

I’m pretty sure that Brittany wasn’t a Nazi dentist. I’m also pretty sure that Brittany wasn’t old enough to buy Plan B without parental consent. I don’t feel old. I don’t think I look old? That is, until, Brittany, who just got through reading “Are you there God? It’s me, Margaret” during her lunch break, calls me back from the waiting room.

Eff!!! Where’s the usual broad? The one that talks too much and ends every sentence with a tone that sounds like a question. “It’s so nice outside?.?.?.” Asking or telling? Asking or telling? Every conversation with her has been awkward for two reasons. One, her hand is in my mouth. Two, I have no idea if she needs a response or is stating fact. I thought she was horrible, but now, Britt Britt wants to go poking around in my mouthhole. A gift horse is always greener? How does that go? Yeah, I shouldn’t have mentally eye-rolled during my last visit, because now, karma is here to kick my ass.

“Sooooo, I’m Brittany, I’m like a temp, just fillin’ in. If it looks like I’m fumbling arrround, it’s cause I don’t know where they keeeeep things, but TRUST me, I totally know what I’m doing.”

Perfect. I’m totally at ease, Britt.

I immediately begin every hygienist conversation with a disclaimer that I don’t floss enough. And, of course, I will floss more. Yes, I know how important it is. Yes, I know how to do it. No, you don’t need to demonstrate. I swear I will quit throwing glass in the cardboard recycling, call my grandmothers more often and floss. Jesus Christ. Leave me alone.

But this time, the disclaimer is legit. “So, since having the baby, I feel like I’m lucky if I brush my teeth twice a day, so I know I’m not flossing enough.” (Old Question Talker hygienist had kids so she would have laughed, gave me the ‘mommy’ nod and said something stupid but she would have known that I actually DO BRUSH MY TEETH TWICE A DAY.)

“Ohhh, you should reeallly brush your teeth twice a day. I’m so serious. AND you reeeally should floss. It helps, like sooo much. Seriously, it totally does. Annnd, the baby gets better bacteria from your mouth if you have better bacteria in your mouth so you want better bacteria in your mouth, you know?”

I want to kill you. And your parents for having you.

“Soooo, I see that you want gassss?”

“Yep.”

“For a cleaning? It’s like not a filling or anything. Do you get nervous? Are you nervous? Do you get nervous? Is it like, anxiety? You must get nervous? Are you nervous? Here, let me take your blood pressure.”

148/98.

“Oh, you are nervous.”

By this time, I’m no longer nervous….more homicidal than anything. And then I let her in on a little bit of what’s been rolling around in my head for the last 4 ½ minutes.

“I just came from the gynecologist’s office, where….they tried, tried….to place an IUD, BUT!! Hahaha!!! My “iron clad” cervix wouldn’t allow it! BUT! Not for lack of trying!! Sounds awesome, right? Sure does! Thanks, Britt! And, I’m a new mom, so I never sleep or get to drink or take drugs….so more than anything, ANYTHING, I want to feel a little loose, you know what I mean? (No, she doesn’t, because kids don’t use that term for what I’m getting at) I want the gas so I can just chill the fuck out. That would be super!”

I thought using a swear word would ‘connect’ us; like an older sister letting a little sister see behind the curtain. Look, we could be gal pals, B! I’ll throw down an F bomb and she will immediately friend request me and ask if I wanted to go to Happy Hour. Totes funsies.

Yeah. That didn’t happen. Instead, she turned into a Nazi dentist. Oh, she gave me the gas alright. But just enough so I could tell it was on, but not enough to do anything. What a bitch. The old lady used to turn that shit up as high as I wanted. I always denied feeling anything (a trick my brilliant father taught me) and eventually when my face was beet red and my eyes were rolling back in my head, Question Talker would go to work.

Instead, Brittany tried to place that IUD……in my gums.

I miss you Question Talker. Statement, not query.