I went to the dentist yesterday. Because my mouth is ridiculously messed up, I'm not a huge fan of the dentist. I do like my oral surgeon, but only because he gives me benzos surgery drugs. Unfortunately, I only get to see him when I need horrible old-people things done like molar implants (screws in your jaw anyone?) or gum grafts (let's slice off the roof of your mouth and stitch it to your gums shall we?). He stabs me with giant horse-needles and he doesn't laugh at my jokes, but he's a good surgeon. My perfect new gums are a true testament of his skills.
But, the real story is not a love letter to Dr. K. This story is about my visit to Sweetpea, the Dentist.
The dental hygienist cleaned my teeth, carrying on a conversation with me while she did. She always asks me the same things: Are you the one who does hair? No. How's work? Crap. and Do you floss? Crap. No. When she isn't chatting with me, I get the chance to eavesdrop on the conversations Sweetpea is having with the other patients.
This particular evening, one patient was talking about the love of my life, (sorry, Bear) National Public Radio. She said she liked it because they always broadcast different stories and facts that you couldn't hear anywhere else. I nodded to myself. She then brought up the story she'd recently heard about kidnapped Mexican babies. I started laughing. The hygienist pulled her hands out of my mouth to ask what was funny.
"Oh, my family makes fun of me because I like NPR. They call me 90-Years-Old. I heard the story she's talking about driving over here. It was interesting."
"Well," the hygienist said. "She's only about 60 if that makes you feel better."
"Not really."
"Maybe that can be your goal, Whitney. You should try to act younger."
Now, on top of giving up laziness and scrawniness, I should give up my NPR?
Maybe I am a 90 year old woman?
I might be alright with that. My almost 90 year old California gramma kicks ass.
But, the real story is not a love letter to Dr. K. This story is about my visit to Sweetpea, the Dentist.
The dental hygienist cleaned my teeth, carrying on a conversation with me while she did. She always asks me the same things: Are you the one who does hair? No. How's work? Crap. and Do you floss? Crap. No. When she isn't chatting with me, I get the chance to eavesdrop on the conversations Sweetpea is having with the other patients.
This particular evening, one patient was talking about the love of my life, (sorry, Bear) National Public Radio. She said she liked it because they always broadcast different stories and facts that you couldn't hear anywhere else. I nodded to myself. She then brought up the story she'd recently heard about kidnapped Mexican babies. I started laughing. The hygienist pulled her hands out of my mouth to ask what was funny.
"Oh, my family makes fun of me because I like NPR. They call me 90-Years-Old. I heard the story she's talking about driving over here. It was interesting."
"Well," the hygienist said. "She's only about 60 if that makes you feel better."
"Not really."
"Maybe that can be your goal, Whitney. You should try to act younger."
Now, on top of giving up laziness and scrawniness, I should give up my NPR?
Maybe I am a 90 year old woman?
I might be alright with that. My almost 90 year old California gramma kicks ass.
1 comments:
On the other hand, permission to act younger could include things like eating more cupcakes, wearing face paint a la Ke$ha, and watching reruns of Doug and Even Stevens.
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