Wednesday, June 11, 2014

Finding love at the dentist's office.

Many, many years ago, I loosened a molar. I actually remember doing it - I spent a lot of time grinding and clenching to keep from losing my goddamn mind during the throes of post-partum depression. One day, there was a shift in the back of my mouth, and I thought, "Well, great, now I'll be a toothless crone, too."

In the years since, my molar has pretty much stayed in place. It wiggled a bit, and my dentist worried about it, but I kept avoiding dealing with it, because the movement was actually kind of comforting. Finally, after about 7,304,320 instances of my dentist telling me I should get it checked, I made an appointment with a periodontist.

Oh, what had a I waited for?

Now, I already love people who clean my teeth. I'm saving up for a bunch of those poke-y metal things and want, desperately, to get a water and suction duo that I can use not only in the bathroom but also while lounging and watching tv. Come on. Rinsing and then not having to worry about spitting or swallowing? It's a dream. [Get your minds out of the gutter.]

But the periodontist? Hoo-boy, I am smitten. I was laying back in the dental chair when this gravely old Southern voice said, "Well, darlin', what are we seein' ya for?" and boom, I was done for. A man who will make my teeth awesome AND speaks all Southern sexy? Yes, please, I'll take two.
He took care of my tooth [grinding off part of it so it lines up right] and I get to go back and see him ALL THE TIME - ok, a few times so he can check to see how it's doing - and you'd better believe that I dress pretty fancy and make sure my teeth are clean and I'm wearing perfume and there's no eyeliner gunk in the corner of my eye.

I also may or may not have told the girl, "Oh, yeah, I love my periodontist - 'You need to put your fingers in my mouth? You go right ahead.'" Because if she's going to get a new daddy, I want her to know that mommy is very, very happy about it.


  1. Snort. No way did you tell your daughter that.

  2. My only visit with the periodontist came because of a finicky molar. As a kid, I had a sealant placed on my molars, improperly. Shit happened & one of my teeth was FULL of metal by the time I was 16.

    A few years ago, said metal just popped out of my tooth . . . hmmmm, I thought, that shouldn't happen. So I called my dentist. He said "it's time for a crown" and I was all "fuck yeah, it's about time people gave me my due," but, apparently, a crown is something where you keep your tooth but have a special addition to your tooth, too. Or something.

    So my dentist gave me a temporary crown and called a periodontist . . . and I came back in a few weeks. The dentist had to put the permanent crown on, but my gum line was too close to the tooth for things to stick, so the periodontist had to remove part of the gumline, right then & there.

    It was all awesome. Totes awesome.

    And now I'm the king of Norway or some shit like that.


Every time you comment, I get a lady boner.