This is what happens when I procrastinate. I have fifteen minutes to write about the dentist. The freaking dentist!<\/p>\n
I hate going to to the dentist. So much so, that I didn’t go to the dentist in about a half a dozen years. In hindsight, not so much all that smart. It resulted in cavities. Many, many cavities. I got to know my dentist well. All too well. I went back week after week after week. And then they (finally) said that my cavities were filled. And I did a happy dance. And thought about flossing more.<\/p>\n
I thought about it. That has to count for something, right?<\/p>\n
I think that my hatred of all things dental related comes from when I had my wisdom teeth pulled when I was 13. With only\u00a0Novocain. By the quackiest quack whoever quacked for a living. Let’s just say that his waiting room was filled with a lot of people holding bloody bandages to their faces. And he used metal forceps to hold my mouth open. And then he sewed me up with cotton stitches.<\/p>\n
You know what cotton does in warm, moist environments? It shrinks, that’s what it does. Those freaking things got tighter and tighter and tighter. I didn’t know that they were getting tighter. I just knew that my mouth was getting more and more ouchie. Ouchie! (that’s a technical term, btw) I found out about the whole cotton stitches of doooooom thing when my Dad’s dentist friend removed my stitches for me.<\/p>\n
And he gasped in horror.\u00a0<\/p>\n
At the cotton stitches of doooooooom.\u00a0<\/p>\n
Did I mention that all of this took place over Christmas vacation?<\/p>\n
There’s nothing like a Christmas dinner comprised entirely of mashed potatoes.<\/p>\n
So, I’d say that I come by my dental hatred naturally.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
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