I’m beginning to feel like Bill Murray’s masochist character from Little Shop of Horrors. Today marked my third trip to the dentist in about as many weeks. Sigh. to recap, I had a filling fall out at the end of January, so I signed up with the dentist that my brother goes to. Then he found two more small cavities so I had another appointment last week Thursday. Thought that’d be it but no…
So what happened? Do I just love the reclining seat? Do I enjoy the art deco novocaine needle the guy uses?
So last night, Jenny and Jory and Rick and I went out with a bunch of Jenny’s work friends. We went to Delilah’s, this eclectic little bar. Found a new beer (served in goblets. Goblets!) Had a good time. Came back and I was pretty tipsy. I wanted hangover bracer so I had Jenny drop me at BK for a latenight value meal.
Carried it back to the apartment and the food was everything my drunk mind had hoped it would be. I glommed into the burger with gusto.
Crack. I had gotten some little piece of bone that had made it through the mixer. I swallowed. Finished my onion rings. I was licking my teeth when I realized that my right final molar hurt. Hurt a lot. And my tongue was fitting into a place that it hadn’t fit before.
Oh shit, I thought.
Sigh.
So, went to the dentist today. The assistant told me they were going to start charging me rent soon. Went through the drill. Came out with a new tooth.
But here’s the thing. I used to be so proud of my teeth. I mean, not proud in a “ran a mile in 5 minute” sort of way, but proud at not having gone through the rigors of adolescence with bands of steel wrapped arond my bicuspids. Proud at having pretty good chompers, out of the box.
I just don’t trust my teeth anymore.