Dreaded Dentist

Today I went to the dentist. I hate going to the dentist. It's not so much that I hate the dentist himself, I hate what the dental hygeniest always does to my mouth and to my face. All of the stretching and pulling and shoving her hands into my little mouth. Any Mary Kay consultant surely would not approve of such an abuse of my skin and delicate facial muscles.

The most feared dental hygeniest was Duquessa. Fortunately, we have changed dentists and I no longer have to surrender myself to her aggressive techniques with the electric tooth polisher. Despite routinely being told I have great teeth, witnessing the hygeniest's shock when she finds out I never had braces, and rarely having cavities, I still despise the dentist. But I survived today.

My dentist has his office at the hospital. As I drove away, passing the Emergency Room sign, I realized I hate hospitals in general. In elementary school I made my parents take me to the emergency room. I swore I was having a heart attack and was dying. We parked; I puked in the bushes while my parents went in and started talking to Peter Barth's mom, who was on duty in the emergency room that night. Amazingly enough, after puking I felt great (almost) and we went home where I slept on the floor next to a bucket and a plastic baggie with ice chips.

Other times we've actually waited in the emergency room. All night. I got lost in Huntington Memorial Hospital once looking for some food because we had been stuck in the emergency room for hours. It's pretty eerie wandering around a hospital by yourself at night and then getting locked out. Thank goodness I stay pretty healthy, and that going to the doctor is still a step above going to the DMV (and hopefully it will stay that way, but I'm doubtful). Thanks to my private insurance company being stingy with dental visits, I'm officially free from check-ups for six months. Until then...