THIS
Went to the dentist yesterday. Thank my lucky genes, my teeth are fabulous. Honestly, I’ve never had a cavity in my life.
It helped, I guess, that I grew up in a locale where the tap water was fluoridated. I drank water like a fish as a kid. While all the other kids were hydrating with Cokes and other tooth enamel-annihilating bevs, I was bending over those great Chicago Park District concrete water fountains. Nothing in my life has ever tasted as good as my first sip of water fountain water on a hot July day after playing baseball on a dusty, dry, rock-hard Riis or Amundsen park diamond.
The actual sitting-in-the-chair is not the worst part of a visit to the dentist. It’s the week or so leading up to it. For pity’s sake, my dentist’s office sent me countless messages reminding me of my upcoming appointment. My phone was non-stop buzzing. Calls. Texts. Hell, I even got emails, You have an appointment Monday, October 6th…. What is going on? Are these people insecure, or what?
Let me answer that. Yes, they are insecure. Because, now that the visit is over, I’ll be inundated with messages demanding to know how I enjoyed my visit. It’s like they’re desperate to know: Do you like me, huh, do ya?
Funny thing is, I started ignoring all those pre-appointment messages immediately after the first one. I did so to my own detriment. Because I’m a heart patient, a cancer-remission patient, and I’ve had a couple of artificial joint replacements, I have to take a heavy antibiotic dose every time I see the dentist. His office did indeed send me a reminder to pick it up at my pharmacy but I missed it because it was just another one in an endless series of stalk-y, annoying, infuriating, ignored messages. It was like the boy who cried wolf. The receptionist asked me if I took my antibiotic and I said, no, I forgot. She shook her head and looked at me as if I’d belched in her face.
I wanted to scream, If you hadn’t pestered me with a thousand messages, I wouldn’t have forgotten!
To top it off, every time I see my dentist (I go, religiously, every six months) the receptionist demands that I fill out a lengthy questionnaire on a tablet. Dozens and dozens of questions and checklists, exactly the same as I answered the last time I was in. One question was, Are you under the care of a physician?
What in the hell kind of a question is that? I have a doctor. Like everybody else on Earth. Of course I’m under the care of a physician. I answered: I have no idea what this question means.
Then they wanted the name, address and phone number of my primary care physician. All I know is his name. That’s it. Look it up if you’re so curious about him.
So, anyway, my exam completed, I dashed over to my headquarters at Hopscotch on Dodds Street to begin my day’s writing. I ran into an old pal, Dana Habeeb, a professor of urban environmental issues. When I told her I’d just come from the dentist, she launched, unprompted, into her own screed about how her dentist’s questionnaire is so ridiculous and how his office harasses her in the lead-up to her visit. Turns out she sees my dentist. We commiserated like a couple of PTSD sufferers.
Anyway, I got a new toothbrush (soft bristles), one of those little floss dispensers, and a tiny tube of toothpaste, all free, out of the deal. Now I don’t have to worry about my dentist’s harrassments and nosy questionnaires for another six months.
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THAT
Tristra Newyear’s and my new podcast episode has dropped. Our re-jiggered effort is called Fish on a Dome and for our inaugural drop in this new iteration, we interview audio book narrator and outhouse archeologist Jessica Marchbank, plus we chat with and play a track from Iraqi-American musician Dena El Saffar.
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