I just got back from the dentist’s office, where we spent 10 minutes comparing our trips to PEI this summer (TOLD you everyone from Ottawa was there), and then 10 minutes talking about our kids’ first week at school, then 3 minutes replacing the world’s smallest filling. I love my dentist, she’s just so incredibly nice and friendly, and also, so gentle I could practically sleep in the chair.
Sadly, however, my hygienist, while being a super, super nice lady, is a little too aggressive with my teeth, I find, and often after a cleaning I am sore afterwards. Right now I have an aching tooth that has been bothering me for six weeks, since (bingo!) I had my last cleaning, but the dentist today couldn’t find anything wrong with it, just general inflammation. You know how Elaine on Seinfeld got a reputation for being a “difficult patient” and then no doctor in New York would see her? I’m on like, my fifth dentist in this town and I am not interested in changing, but I do wish switching to one of the other hygienists – all five of us in the family have a different hygienist – wasn’t such an awkward etiquette issue, you know?
Also, it is REMOTELY possible I am an overly sensitive Problem Patient. But I DOUBT IT.
(Sideline to this post: discovered that I have been spelling “hygienist” wrong for the past 40 years. MY LIFE HAS NO MEANING.)
In other traumas, Sir Monkeypants and I started watching Orange is the New Black last night. It’s an excellent show, gripping and engrossing and compelling, and yet, SO FREAKING HORRIFYING. I would definitely be dead after three days in jail. Dead from the stress alone. I now live in complete fear that I’m going to randomly touch a stranger’s bag in a store and end up with cocaine on my hands and have to go to prison. THEY DON’T LET YOU BLOG FROM PRISON. Dead, I tell you. Three days max.
(But I wonder if they have a good dentist. Hm.)