Yes, yes, I know. I started this ebulliently last week (1 2, and then fell by the wayside, seemingly never to command again. The whole point was to be to highlight my rapidly approaching birtdayand build up to it with appropriate panache, but I forgot that it was still hellandbusy at work, and that my beloved laptop beloved was going to be away for most of the week with the laptop he graciously lets me use.
Also in a daze, I must say. Having learnt at the dentist yesterday that I olny have one more appointment to take (yay), I also learnt that, having paid a balance of almost a months rent on the treatment so far, its going to cost almost a months WAGE for the last one-hour appointment. Boo. Blimey. I dont know what these Crown things are, but theyd better be made of diamonds and programmed to sing little happy songs when I get sad for this price.
Thou shalt always look after thateeth
Quite the phrase. Look after your teeth. Familiar, though; I seem to be constantly looking after mine, look after them gradually disappearing over the horizon followed by large clouds of cash.
But what could I have done? Where did I go wrong? Ive always brushed my teeth thoroughly, and many times a day (well, two) and I hardly eat sweet things, havent done for many years.
Granted, this may all be the fault of my parents, and I did *try* to get my hands on a new set of dental genes a while ago, but frankly I was laughed out of the Gap. Appearently they dont sell dental genes. Just other genes. And they spell them Jeans. Yes, I know you got this joke three sentences ago, but sometimes I like to kick a horse when its dead. Or something.
So due to too many childhood chewy bars and adolescent alcopops, and, in fact, just pops in general, I now find myself getting awfully familar in the late afternoons with nice men in small rooms above shops, who probe me with foreign objects until I scream. Gosh that sounds a bit like prostitution. Unfortunately, the money goes the other way in prostitution. Lucky hookers.
Hooker. Sounds like a dental tool. Having been to so many appointments with the Gentle Dentist treating me at the moment, I now am able to make conversation, and even jokes. You dont understand how massive a change this is – six appointments ago I was lying there, tears pooling in my ears, shaking so violently and so unconsciously that I only noticed when I heard a strange noise and realised it was my hands banging agaist the chair.
But the Gentle Dentist is nice, and slow, and careful, and tells me how much time I have left of the drilling, and that hes not trying to bore trough to my brain though he knows thats what Im thinking.
However, not even he can make the whole process pleasant. Its not a process well fitted for making pleasant, as I noticed yesterday when he leant over and asked his assistant for the Carver.
Golly, I thought. I really dont like the sound of a Carver. Maybe it is named after its inventor, rather than after its function. Maybe. Here it comes. Well, it doesnt have Carver written on it. Oh, no, I was right not to like the sound of the Carver. He seems to be carving things with it.
And then I started giggling.
Yes, youre right. He said, when I explained why. We dont name things poetically in detistry. Can you pass the grinding tip, please Yasmin?
I swear that one day Ill be lying there and hear him ask for The Mutilator.
Or the Ultra-Whiney Needle Drill
Or the Cash Extractor.
The Twelve Commandments of Stuff: Commadment the ThirdThous shalt always look after thateeth. Or really, really fucking regret it later.