Son, Be a Dentist: Part Deux

I have made my feelings for dentists quite clear. I do not dislike the dentists' chair, I loathe it. In the "detest it with a mad and fiery passion" sense of the word. Loathe.

However, I must be fair. My current dentists rock. Yes, that's plural because they share a practice. And you can choose to see one of them, or you can take what you get when your filling falls out and the hole where it was is open to the nerve and the pain is bad enough that you think of Tom Hanks and find yourself shuffling towards the garage on the look out for pliers because they will be so much easier than a skate. Can I have an amen? Either way, you are in great hands. With these dentists. Not with the pliers. Or the skate.

Which is a good thing, as my jacked up teeth will be sitting in the chair for no less than 37 years. At which point, they will complete the final dental work and promptly begin to yank them all and fit me for dentures. Couldn't we just skip a step or 30? Preferably the ones involving the scraping and the prodding and the grinding away of pieces of my body with a look of joy on your face?

Well, there are a few pieces of my body I'm willing to part with. . .with joy on my face. . .

But you don't have to take my word for it. Evan, Tyler and I all went to the dentist today. I saw both dentists while the boys each saw one. I win! Evan said he has never had better shots. What? A child praising long pointy objects being rammed into the tender flesh of his mouth? ROCK ON! And Tyler said, "You know mom, I really hate getting shots in my mouth, but I can't decide who does them best, Dr Sorge or Dr Fox." OK, I'm lying a little. He's only ever seen Dr Fox. Who looks 12, but listens to good music, so he gets my vote for the good dentist bit. But I've had shots from both dentists and not hated them either time. Another first.

In the attitude of full disclosure, I feel compelled to warn you that although Dr Sorge is kind enough to make an ipod with rocking Bose headphone available to drown out the sounds of his incessant (but to be fair, not off key) humming, the tunes themselves are a little less than rocking. Michael Buble, Norah Jones. Boston. He's killing me. I believe he was trying to lull me into a soft jazzy pop stupor so I would forget to bite him when he stabbed me with the sharp pointy probe that dentists love to stick in every soft place in your mouth. I realize I'm probably the only person in the blogoshpere that cannot stand "More Than a Feeling" playing in my ears while the drill kicks tooth dust into my nose, but I was finally forced to rescue my itouch from Tyler before Boston melted my brain into a gelatinous mess. I insisted on using the Bose 'phones. And to be fair again, there were no sharp objects randomly poked into soft flesh in my mouth. Other than the shots I barely felt. But if he reads this post, I'm betting there will be the next time I see him. Which I believe is tomorrow.

Honestly, if you don't hold his music against him-and the praise from my son has me about 3/4 of the way there- you should totally go to these dentists. They have been. . .dare I say excellent? Wait. I take that back. I don't want to be fighting all y'all for chair time for the next 37 years. And no, you can't borrow my ipod.

(Note: Neither of these dentists did the painful root canal that I wrote about a few weeks ago and then linked to in the first line of this post. Different guy. Whom I won't ever go back to because Sorge and Fox are better.)