To the Dentist's Office We Go

Yesterday, I got to go to the dentist's office. That's right, I said "got to." I love going to my dentist's office. Just to be clear, I do NOT love getting my teeth cleaned. What fool with a metal sharpie, a water pic, and a God complex came up with the concept of semi-annual torture sessions in your mouth? This does not, however, keep me from thoroughly enjoying my time at the dentist's office. The cleaning is just a little thing they make me do before I can leave. Really, I go there to socialize.

True? Absolutely. I've been going to my dentist for about 11 years, and I've had the same dental hygenist for most of that time. My Marie, for I do feel somewhat possessive of my time with her, may be one of the funniest people I've ever met. Marie keeps me laughing the entire time she's cleaning my teeth, which you would think would make her job more difficult. Tall, with wild, curly hair and a smile from ear to ear, she catches me up on tales of her husband and daughter, as well as the cats, dogs, donkeys, and other various and sundry animals that live at her house in the country. When I saw her the other day, Marie tipped me back in my chair, pulled my hair to make me scoot up (she's tried adjusting her chair for my short frame, but this is the best she could come up with), and recounted her daughter's recent Day Off from first grade. When the school called her to report that her daughter was in the nurse's office threatening to throw up, Marie immediately called her husband, who was working at home, to pick her up. Rushing over to school, Daddy asked all the requisite questions. Are you all right? Where does it hurt? Do you have a temperature? Do you think you can eat a little something? Their daughter nodded, agreeing that maybe something to eat would be okay. Expecting to run through the McDonald's drive-through, Daddy asked what his little girl would like for lunch. Considering this a moment, she looked him straight in the eye and said "I'd like to go to the Angus Barn Steakhouse, please." Truly precious. I spit out my toothpaste. It's hard to keep up with Marie, and her cleaning my teeth while trying to do so only makes it more difficult.

Eventually, as much fun as we're having, Marie has to call in one of the dentists. I see Dentist and Son, and while I know Dentist the Elder better, Dentist the Younger is not hard to look at, so either way, I'm getting a good deal. Dentist the Elder says I keep them in stitches, but really, I think it's the other way around. This time I got Dentist the Younger, who spent five minutes bantering with me that his drive between Raleigh and Chapel Hill is worse than mine because he goes in the opposite direction. He began describing how Sports Radio keeps him interested and busy while he puts up with the traffic until he can get home to his wife and two-year-old, but I stopped listening somewhere around the word "sports." Nevertheless, he thoroughly checked my teeth while I tried to imagine bunny shadow puppets on the screen with my X-rays. Satisfied, he subtly suggested that I actually consider wearing the night guard for which I paid a great deal of money. With a smile that only a guy with a dentist for a father could have, cute Dentist the Younger was gone.

No party is complete without a goody bag. Marie handed me a paper bag filled with two rolls of dental floss (I'm pretty sure she's trying to tell me I need to floss more), two toothbrushes (a regular one and a children's one because I'm special. Okay, because I complain that the regular one is too big), two mini-tubes of toothpaste (because I need different flavors in case I don't like one of them), and some kind of new dental pick to keep in my purse, as she wants me to be prepared for any situation. Gee, in high school they used to give us something different to keep in our purses to be prepared for any situation. With a hug, she sent me off to the front desk.

The front desk is where I catch up with Libby, master of scheduling, and get a book report. Libby belongs to a book club, in addition to reading a good bit on her own, and since I live to comment on what other people are reading, this can take a while. This week Libby reported that her club is reading Gone Girl, which I told her was an uninspired choice, as everyone in the free world is reading it. She quickly grabbed her calendar to see if the group would soon be reading something else that met my approval. Settling on some worthy titles, it was my turn to give a book report. I convinced her that she and her club need to read The Devil in Pew Number Seven (more in another blog entry), an eminently discussable title involving churches, bombs, and mental hospitals. Writing this down, Libby and I began to say our goodbyes, only realizing that we hadn't actually scheduled my next appointment until I began walking out the door. And a good thing she called me back, as this was when Terri, the keeper of the insurance payments, called out of her office "Is that Tracy? Tell her "hi." Three patients on the other side of the desk looked up, presumably wondering why they were being called "Tracy."

Six whole months before I get to see these guys again! I miss them already.