Thursday, December 13, 2012


My dentist is a man (!) and he looks exactly like a dentist should. If they made ads in which they showed the dentist's face they, the dentists, would look like Richard, my dentist.

I call him "my dentist" even though I'm certain he sees other patients. I don't mind. I wouldn't want him to dig around in my mouth full time because I suffer from being deathly afraid of going to the dentist. Despite Richard.

I've seen Richard three, or is it four times now, and when I hiked off this morning, daughter in tow because she was also seeing my dentist (I told you he sees other patients!) I was suffering from the most horrible panic attack. I wanted to down a whole bottle for Remy Martin fine champagne cognac (guaranteed to make you lose consciousness and any will to care even in the smallest quantities) just to get through it but I resorted to prescription drugs.

It was a bit of a duh-moment when the drugs kicked in and I realized, or rather remembered, that I'm deathly afraid of going to the dentist and that is why I was having a panic attack. It wasn't because of some unknown reason or some sort of existential breakdown (I think I am therefore I must be imagining me), I was just having a run of the mill experience related to fear of having some guy doing stuff to my teeth.

I feel a little foolish when these things happen especially since Richard is a kick-arse dentist who doesn't hurt you and who likes to teach you to brush your teeth well even though it means less business for him. I came through it all OK. I didn't have anything nasty in my teeth and now I have a really nice smile because he polished my pegs too.

Also, in other news, his goth dental nurse, who never smiles, laid eyes on my pink hair and Dr Martens and her face broke into what is bound to be a historical smile. For a brief moment we were sisters and she was happy to see me. It was a bonus I didn't count on, kind of like an early Christmas present.

I'm just saying. *Smile*

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