The dentist.

All my early life, going to the dentist never was a problem for me. I went to the same dentist as my dad; a friendly guy, who was an easygoing guy. Despite having the cavity, and eventually having my upper wisdom teeth pulled, I never dreaded going to his office.

Until at some point he took in a new partner. A tiny guy, who for some odd reason reminded me of my old highschool economy teacher. A little creep, with a big sadist streak. He started off by asking me how old I was, which at the time must have been 23 or 24. Due to the childish way in which he asked me, I responded by counting it out on my fingers, the way a 6 year old would hold up a full hand and just showing one finger from the other. The tone had been set.

He went on to check my mouth, fihnally remarking that I had some calculus under my gums, and he'd have to clean this. With a big grin, he added this was a very bloody and painful experience. It seemed as if he was thoroguhly excited, wrining his hands, and almost hopping from one foot to another. I asked him if he could just knock me out with anesthetics foor the procedure, to which he produced a big grin, and gleefully replied: "No!".

Great. My dentists' new partner was one of them guys who dissappeared after the war, only to resurface years later when the trials were all over.

I promised to make a new appointment to get the procedure done, and never did. For ten years, I stuck to brushing frantically, and figuring the occassional shot of whisky swished thoroughly around in the mouth would kill of anything in it. All of this went well for years, with the only one whining to me about the dentist every now and then being my beloved wife. Then, last Christmas, one of my gifts from her was an electric toothbrush, and an appointment at the dentist. WTF? I know men who got concert tickets, or other pleasurable gifts from their wives. Mine gave me the dental equivalent of an enema instead.

After running out of viable excuses, I reluctantly went along to her new dentist closeby. They were actually quite nice, and complimented me on my good teeth. Apparently, in ten years of not visiting a dentist, I only got a single cavity. They did confirm the calculus would need to be removed as well, though, ut they assured me that anesthetics is an option. My appointment for that is tomorrow morning, and I am fresh out of Jack Daniels, which will make the visit to the dentist hardly as much fun as before.

I'd hereby like to ask you, the reader, to help me come up with an equally nasty surprise for coming Christmas. for Lykke :D A blindfolder parachute jump, tickets for a marathon session of "Sex in the City", or a drumkit for me, and earmuffs for her? Alternatively, feel free to let me know a good excuse to pull out from tomorrow morning's appointment. Despite everything, I have to admit that the thought of visiting a dentist still scares me something fierce.

 

Heh. So I made it all the way into the dentist's chair. She told me to open my mouth so she could give me the shot. And I fucking lost it. I told her I wanted to leave. I almost could see a spark of desperation in her eyes. The dentist is not exactly a tall woman, and there'd be no way she'd be able to restrain me if I had bolted (when I was around 16, i hadn't properly started growing yet, most likely due to a narrow piece in my aorta I was born with and had extensive surgery for when I was 2. At the time I was 16, I must have been around 1.60m, and morifited by needles and injections. My doctor told me they wanted to take some blood, and it took 4 grown-ups sitting on my to keep me on the table). I'm now around 1.90m, and quite a bit bulkier than I was back then.

Her and her assistant managed to calm me down, and about an hour later, we were all done. One less cavity, half a kilo of calculus gone, and I could still play the guitar (i asked them, and they said that what they did should not matter). I contemplated letting Lykke sweat it and wonder how things went, by only calling her at 12:00, but decided against that, and rang her anyway.

I then cycled home, but was foolish enough to not bring my gloves (Lykke dropped me and the bike off at the dentist). By the time I got hoe, my fingers fellt like popsicles, and as if someone was constantly poking hot needles into them. It hurt so badly that I was feeling nauseous over it. It was unlike anything I ever felt before, and looking back, I think I went into a minor shock or something over it. I literally would rather have my teeth pulled than ever experiencing that again.

Damn Danish cold weather. I've been trying to convince Lykke we should move to Texas, but she's not yet ready for that, despite my promises I'd only buy two shotguns, and a 9MM. Any tips on how to convince your wife to move to somewhere warmer?