(What Bat Mitzvah?)
So, I have a new dentist. Apparently.
I spend an awful lot of time at the dentist. This is something I can easily blame on bad genetics. (See also: my delicate wrist bones, my funky hiatal hernia and my Eastern European thighs, lovingly referred to around here as pulkes. Which, ps, my children also call chicken legs, the only part of the chicken they will come close to eating.) It’s true, though. Because, you see, I’m somewhat OCD about brushing my teeth. I floss, I brush, I even wear a goddamn nightguard (I’m nothing if not a sexy, sexy beast) The only three times in my life I wouldn’t consider myself capable of medaling in tooth brushing was when I was pregnant and the mere thought of sticking anything in my gob got my gag reflex going (rawr).
But even still, I have had a root canal, at least once. I had all four of my wisdom teeth removed. I have crumbling teeth (actual teeth that are crumbling. Just falling apart, as I’m sitting here writing this. CRUMBLING.), I have several crowns (yet I still can’t get my kids to call me Your Ladyship). I have to have something called crown lengthening in my near future in order to re-do a crown that needs improvement. I have terrible crowding due to a prematurely removed braces situation that involved stolen pliers. I have discoloration.
Basically, my mouth is a mess.
So, going to the dentist for a cleaning usually means I will be booking several more appointments. April 18th at 10am? Sure. October 22nd at noon? Why not? I’m probably free! Book, book, book. I use my google calendar on my phone for exactly two things—my book club and my dentist appointments. Everything else is written in a day planner from 2011—I’m basically Lelaina Pierce.
Yesterday I went for a cleaning and got a few lovely presents out of it. I got another appointment for Friday to fix a filling. And I got another dentist.
Yes. It’s true. Apparently, my dentist is gone without a trace and a new dentist is in her place. It was slightly surprising that he didn’t, you know, have a pair of boobs.
Not that I mind, to be honest. As long as he doesn’t cackle maniacally like Orin Scrivello D.D.S. when his hands are inside of my mouth, and as long as he continues to supply all of my toothbrushes and my floss, I’m okay with it.
I’m sure he’s okay with it too. Since I’ll likely be paying his children’s tuition for the next six(teen) years.