I mentioned to Jon, my former virtual landlord, that I’d been to the dentist this morning for a scaling. Somehow this went straight to the hidden blogging streak he’s been concealing for the last few years:
Every three months? Wow — that’s aggressive. You’re showing that plaque who’s boss, I guess.
[We] picked up a set of powered toothbrushes — I think they might be the Arm and Hammer brand — and we’ve been using them for several months now. I think the powered brush has made a noticeable difference in icky build-up and in the time it takes the dental assistant to pry said ick from my stumps.
Previously, the inside surface of the lower stumps would become noticeably grainy as the dental appointment approached, and that’s the area in which the most scaling work is usually done. You can really hear it when the ultrasonic pointy-ouch machine digs in to the ick — the pitch of the tool changes from that of stepped-on marmot to roto-tilled kitten.
The brush seems to be able to reduce all that — I don’t notice an accumulation of crud on the bottom teef, and the scaling at the last appointment went very quickly. Which was a bit of a disappointment, really, as it reduced my face time with the dental assistant’s lovely bosom. Oh, yes — there is a trade-off for everything. A normal scaling may mean having to hold your mouth open uncomfortably wide whilst a machine making a sound like a flayed kitten dipped in hot oil digs around your gums, spewing forth a geyser of spit and blood and pus and plaque and tissue and soul which spatters all over your shirt and pants and shoes and the wall opposite whilst your fingernails splinter as you shred the arms of the chair with a grip that would turn coal to cubic zirconia, but all is forgotten as the young dental assistant nestles your head in her firm yet alluringly soft and ever-so-subtly yielding breasts. You know what? I can feel the plaque hardening on my teeth even now, just thinking about my next cleaning.
I think I blew it last time, though, when she paused in the ultrasonic inquisition to ask if I was OK. “Oh god, yes”, I replied. “More! More!”
But there was to be no more. We were done.
And when it’s over, the dental hygienist returns to her normal upright position. Then she politely offers you a tissue, dismissively. As you wipe yourself off she peels away and disposes of the latex gloves lathered with frothy saliva from your probing tongue during the past forty minutes.
What’s the going hourly rate for a good dental nymphist in down town these days? Might be worth booking a few hours for a root canal or walking into the corner of a brick wall to chip a tooth. If only to get your money’s worth of pain and torture. So you can watch her pass stainless steel instruments of unpleasantness to a masked man who enjoys humming Ride of the Valkyrie and is surely smiling behind his mask when he says “Oh, does that hurt?” each time he makes somebody flinch.
As you try not to wonder if that’s stuffing from thte chair spiralling up the length of drill bit whirring inside your mouth, and running amuck in one of your bicuspids, you can once again imagine the taste of her latex gloves and her mischievous and apologetic giggle each time she plunged the six billion PSI water jet below your receded gum line.
Comment by Douglas — January 13, 2010 @ 17:22
Jon, did you know your wife reads this blog?
Comment by Da Wife — January 13, 2010 @ 21:05
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