Today I had an appointment at Dr. David Suttie's Dental Office. Now, as a kid, I used to be fooled by the bright colors and buttons, and stickers and prizes. The scented gloves and the nurses with patterned scrubs, and the Doctor, who spoke with a frighteningly accurate impersonation of Donald Duck. I was once fooled by the color. But not anymore. I have come to learn and expose this hell hole for what it really is: A hell hole.
Maybe it's because I look too old to be in childrens' dental facility, maybe it's because I look like an overbearing and obnoxious teenager. Either way, no one smiled at me when I walked it. Which is a little bit upsetting when you are about to have someone prodding metal instruments in your mouth. But I walked right in. Like an imbecile. I sat in the yellow chair, and waited for a friendly nurse. Mistake number two. Never expect the friendly nurse, because you'll end up with the crazy, bipolar, demon-nurse instead.
She seemed nice enough. Comforting white hair, rolled into some sort of awkward half-bun, half-braid combination. But as soon as she started accusing me of my lack of flossing I knew it was going to be a long 45 minutes.
I am a devoted flosser, up until Oklahoma! performances began, I would floss at least twice a day. For her to say my flossing technique was mediocre at best made me want to punch her. What does she know anyways, she's the nurse!?! Who gave her the authority to critique my dental hygiene! Gad. Then she put that gross purple stuff on my teeth and tried to find plaque. Good luck with that jerk face! Too bad I brushed my teeth for ten minutes straight before I came so you wouldn't have the satisfaction of dropping my grade a letter. The nerve. She tried to craft some convoluted lie that there was pink on my far left molar. I disagreed, she glared at me and said that it must have been a glare. Nice try. Then she reluctantly gave me an "A" on my brushing. Take that you evil piece of toothpaste spit!
Then she started cleaning my teeth. Pretty sure she replaced the toothpaste with sand, because that's what it felt like on my gums. I mean Mary, Jesus, Joseph, and a Camel lady! Take it easy. I'm not going anywhere. Then she stuck the mirror down my throat and assured me that I don't have gingivitis. Excellent. Then with a reassuring, high pitched, drilling sound from the other room, she shared that her 16-year-old daughter was having two cavities filled. That's gotta hurt. Your own daughter, turning to the dark side. Maybe that's why she took all her anger out on me. The poor, innocent, dedicated, flosser. Who didn't even leave with a sticker.
Good riddance you cotton-headed-molar-buddies.
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