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Prosser, Washington, United States
artist, writer, un-organizer, cat snuggler, hug smuggler, red lipstick wearing giddy sassbag of a card peddling nerdface.

Thursday, April 28, 2011

root canals and happy endings.

If someone were to ask me, “hey, Roz, what is the stupidest thing you’ve done in the past five years?” I would first, weigh in the time I mixed copious amounts of beer, wine and tequila before sitting my carsick-prone self in the back seat of a vehicle, and the other time I mistook Nyquil for daytime cold relief, but in the end, not poking my head in for regular dentist visits would top the list.

That's right, lovers! Two uninsured root canals and one filing later, I’ll be saying a misty eyed farewell to both of my ovaries and possibly one of my kidneys as they must be sold and dispersed on the black market. Who needs ‘em?? My back teeth are of paramount importance to me! I need them for night time grinding and lettuce masticating. Not to mention all of those beer bottle caps that would thus go unopened!

My amiable dentist is a big, Star Wars loving Canadian. I asked him about the challenges of becoming a doctor without the ability to read or write. Were the textbooks all full of pictures and paint by numbers? And, yes, before he shaved his head, he proudly sported a mullet.

To open the root canal experience, I said I knew it wasn’t standard procedure, but could I please get a morphine drip? And, hell, let’s get a round of morphine drips for everyone in the building! It’s on me today!

At this dentist office, for whatever reason (possibly just to annoy the hygenists who, I am sure, have better things to do), they offer a paraffin hand treatment, warm neck roll, massaging chair, and unlimited cable tv watching during your treatment. My dentist said they would do everything to not only make me comfortable, but to "pamper" me.

In that case, I asked if he would massage my feet and play with my hair while the rubber mould for my shiny new faux tooth was setting. He said body rubs were not part of the service. I enlightened him to the fact that there is no way he can ensure my “comfort”, if he has no idea what makes me comfortable.

Pushing a long needle into my gums, he answered my next question before I could ask it, “And sorry, Roz, no Happy Endings.”

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