I just got back from a checkup at my dentist’s office. The hygienist said my teeth were looking good and needed minimal cleaning. My dentist checked her work and said everything was just dandy, so that was good. I told them that my nightly red wine wash was obviously working. They agreed, somewhat reluctantly. I asked if they had free bacon flavored mouthwash. No deal. But they laughed. All that plain vanilla cheer and professionalism made me nostalgic for the dentist I had when we lived in Georgia. He was funny. Irreverent. And excellent. We carried on conversations much like the one that follows, and I am not making this up.
Dentist: “Well, John, time to get that filling taken care of.”
Me: “Might as well. No one’s hurt me so far today. You might as well start it off.”
Dentist: “I’ve been dreaming of the opportunity to test your pain threshold. Are you good and numb now?”
Dentist: “Too bad, I was hoping it would hurt a little bit, just for my amusement.”
He begins poking around in my mouth.
Me: “Looks like you’re catching up on your instruments. But I miss the chisel and 5-pound sledge hammer.”
Dentist: “Hmmm, I don’t think I should have nicked that gray thingy in there. Say, John, did that hurt?”
Me: “No, but I’m numb from my chest down.”
Dentist (aside to his secretary): “Oh, Margie, would you call my lawyer, please?”
He works around inside my mouth some more.
Dentist: “Hmmmm, I didn’t think you would bleed quite that much. Interesting. A little more suction, Susie,” he says to the hygienist assisting.
Me: “I’m feeling faint. And I haven’t even seen your bill yet.”
And so on. It’s fun having a noir dentist, and I miss him.