SASSY
adventures in sassydom
of course
I Floss
...and other lies I tell my dentist!
By: Jane Suter
Warning: what you are about to read is a breath of fresh, crazy, hilarious air in the midst of our professional businesswomen's magazine. It is not for the faint of heart or for those with no sense of humor. If you're afraid of a massive attack of laughter, proceed with caution. ~The Sassy Magazine Administration
L
ast month my employer announced they were giving us dental insurance coverage. In that instant I became drunk with power and immediately made an appointment for my 6-month cleaning. The appointment was today and I said yes to everything the hygienist threw at me. Stuff I could never afford before like X-rays, fluoride treatments, crowns, bridges and mouth guards. Junk I didn't even need – but who cares? It's covered, right? My laissez-faire attitude ended the moment I lay down in the remote-controlled recliner. Then it suddenly got all real and junk. By the way, just because I care about my teeth doesn't mean I actually enjoy going to the Dentist. In fact, the entire experience is horrifying to me. Thankfully, I'm not as bad as my friend. She has to be knocked out with nitrous just to make it through the parking lot. Me? I only require two things: My fave hygienist Krissey and Dr. McHandsomePants. I'll get to him later, promise, but for now I am in Krissey's gentle hands ... She began with bite-wings for the x-rays. In essence, this is a jumbo chip-clip crammed inside a Ziplock bag with a giant satellite dish attached to it. I held as still as any person could, 4 TIMES, 22 november 2013 | SASSY
with a TV station jutting out of the side of my face. Thankfully the torture was short-lived and she began my cleaning. The word "cleaning" sounds like a nice thing, but in a dental office it's anything but. Armed with a metal squirt gun so entirely powerful it can blast a hole through the Hoover Dam the size of a quarter in roughly 45 seconds, Krissey began her assault. Stressed-out-of-my-mind and clutching my chest from the mild stroke I just suffered, my feet hovered in mid-air as I did my best to endure. However, I was no match for the pistol. I winced. I cringed. I performed wild hand gestures and did creepy glaring-eye signals to alert her to the fact that I needed a break to breathe and to spit. Yeah, spit. Like a Sherriff in an old western movie, I am now disgusting. I'm also drooling like a St. Bernard. Who's wearing a bib. Nevertheless, I was certainly getting an amazing workout. I had no idea I was capable of doing these Billy Blanks/Pilates moves. I will definitely have abs of steel by the end of this procedure, based on the constant ab-curls to reach the spittoon. I bet you cash money that if I went in for a cleaning once a week, I would not only have iridescent teeth, but
also the body of a twenty-year-old. So I tolerated the procedure as the tarter-shrapnel ricochets off my tongue and uvula like it's being pinned down by Al Qaeda. Worse than childbirth, my bare hands bent the steel armrests into upside-down J's as that sound pierced the air. Is there anything more nerveshattering than the din of dental equipment? ACKK! It reminds me of a gang of ally cats fighting on my pillow ... but WAY less comforting. So I did what I had to do and went on the defensive. I began fighting her with the only thing I had at my disposal -- my lower lip. The reality of the mismatch became apparent almost immediately. Her delicate pinky finger was the Arnold Schwarzenegger of antagonists to my fey, nerd lip. (Note to self: Take your lame, bleeping face to the gym and bulk it up, Sistah!!) Just as I was at the end of my rope, she put away the water saber and went old school. Yes, that ancient metal scraper thing met daylight. *Crunch! Chisel! Scrrraaappe* In my head it sounded as if she was sculpting Mount Rushmore in there, but I didn't care. It was far better than the high-pitched timbre of the last mechanism. Or was it? Say hello to the rubber