My dentist is a very nice man, very similar in appearance and chill-beats to that of Moby. He motioned towards the chair in which I would sit whilst he filled my unholy teeth, and nervously I sat. He asked me “How are you?” I replied “Nervous.” He alarmed, “Still? Do not worry. Here”. And he handed me a set of headphones and nodded towards the television set mounted to the wall in front of the dental throne. I flipped through some channels as the Dr. Dentist prepared some tools. I settled on Star Trek: The Next Generation, hoping that he and his assistant wouldn’t judge me based on my material of dental distraction. “I can just listen to this and ignore you? That’s alright?” I asked. “Of course!” he replied, with a booming Polish laugh. I lay back in the chair, never before realizing how comfortable it actually was, and lost myself in a tear of the space-time continuum through which Picard, Data, and Troi had to navigate. Thrilling, my friends. Anyway, I barely felt the drill of doom, and was out of that chair before the episode had even ended! Faboo.
My post-filling dream was quickly interrupted by the baneful beast who wields the most bitter of listerines and the most relentless floss: The Hygienist. I was herded into another room, where I was NOT given control of the screen on the wall, nor was I offered any headphones. The television channel did not move from CP24, and as the cruel beast began to scrape away at my until now serene pearly whites, I could only read partial subtitles as my eyes filled with tears of betrayal. The Moby Dentist had shown me kindness and gentle concern and tender practice. This new cacophonous villain showed no mercy, and pulled and scraped and marred until my faith in the dental practice was once again broken. And all the while she was humming. Humming a merry little tune as if she were weeding her very own garden of blue hydrangea!
And thus was my dental day of doom, displeasure, and heretofore dread now turned to utter disdain. Damn you, dental dictators.
Stardate 59369.3
MP’s log.
After a prolonged battle with several scholastic enterprises, I bid farewell to my hub of education mid-afternoon and awaited the arrival of the extended motorized people-mover to take me to the depository of underground travel. It was a lengthy and benumbing interim whereupon I discovered the shoddy manufacturing of my recently purchased gloves. Further contemplation of my arctic extremities led me to the conclusion that I would not have been a good person to take along on a journey to discover the North West Passage. Indeed, I would have suggested mutiny at the Tropic of Cancer. I’m just not into that whole mind-over-matter “thing”. Fuck matter. Matter sucks. I need new gloves.
This is not a bandwagon and I am not jumping on nor off of it. That’s right, this ain’t no emo-ipod-faux fur-zombie movie-botox-pilates-hot yoga-low carb-nalgene toting fad fest. No siree. I am back to “blogging” simply because I want to write more. I want to be able to get into that zone where words flow like gin on Sundays, and metaphors abound and thrive. I used to write like a fiend. I was an official word junkie. I want that back. I want to be less jaded and down on myself for being seemingly inelegant in my articulation. I want literary grace and awareness. I want to be able to tell a story, and will train myself like a marathon runner until then. I’ve heard that interval training is the way to go. In through the nose, out through the mouth.
And now I must say this. I hate the term blog. I hate “blogging.” I hate calling it that, because I feel that it implies that I may possibly be a wanna-be tech savvy net gen chump who thinks that the world really does care what I did today, and why my teeth hurt. Or maybe I’m just being too conscious of the blogspot service. I’m sure my feelings will change when my site is available online instead of just on my local harddrive. Ho hum. And now one giant L on my forehead.
“You’re in my nightmares.” This is what I told my new dentist this morning as I lay in his chair with drool running down my chin. It was the first time in a couple years I had opened wide for the purposes of dental practice. It wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be. After having a fear of the dentist instilled in me by several very condescending Tooth Butchers (who wrenched 10 teeth from my delicate jaw by the time I turned 11 years old), I was not happy to be there; to listen to the muffled words of oral superciliousness coming from behind the blue mask of doom. “Wider. WIDER! Uh oh. I think we may have found a little something”. Ugh. But this dentist was different. He was kind and gentle, with an air of quiet understanding and sympathy for ME instead of just my teeth. Also, he has cable. That’s right, cable. TBS, TLC, A&E, you name it, he’s got it. Whilst I endured this adventure in oral hygiene, I also enjoyed a little Price is Right followed by a little Dawson’s Creek. All my old dentist had was an anger management problem and a heinous Norman Rockwell painting. I must say, I like this new dentist. I like the cut of his jib. And I’m not entirely dreading my return to his medical room turned living room next week when we’re going to fill some cavities (see ‘My Teeth Weep for Thee’ below and you will understand why this must happen). Actually, they’re not even cavities yet. They’re just some potential problem areas that we’re going to seal up – there won’t even be any freezing involved. Woo! Note how I say “we”, when really, it’ll just be him doing all the work while I take in some more TBS programming. No matter, because my dentist and me, we’re a partnership, a team. A well oiled machine of maxillofacial bliss.
And then the snow came down, and I didn’t go to school. A self-declared snow day for this MP. Instead, the Trend and ventured into the Tunnels of Toronto and made our way to the Eaton Center in search of a birthday present for my Dad. After several laps around the chasm of consumer chaos, we found our way to a pub with both Strongbow and Keith’s on tap. This makes for a happy MP and Jonny T. After numerous french fries and a couple pints, we were joined by the always entertaining Colleen. She told us many interesting things about the digestive functions of cows. They certainly DO have four stomachs, but GET THIS! They also have some bacteria in a couple of them, which help them digest their food. HOWEVER, this bacteria is in turn digested by the cow thus providing it with protein. That Colleen… she’s like a walking science centre, except without a jumping bridge. Gotta love that jumping bridge.
Top 5 Reasons why I want to be a Goonie:
1. Truffle Shuffle
2. “Jerk Alert”
3. Pinchers of Peril
4. Sloth love Chunk
5. Lickery kiss
Top 5 Things I want to integrate into my everyday vocabulary:
1. Truffle Shuffle
2. “Jerk Alert”
3. Pinchers of Peril
4. Sloth love Chunk
5. Lickery kiss
Recent Comments