Over Charging And Why I Won't Be Seen On Friday.

missemilysmom commented in my last post that she would see me on Friday when she gets back from her conference. And I just put $100.00 on my Visa. I shouldn't be charging anything right now and missemilysmom is not going to see me on Friday. Nor is anyone else near and dear to my heart.

The only one who will see me is my old friend, Dr. DeSade, DMD (not his real name, dontcha know...). Bright and early Friday morning I will be clenching the arms of the chair of doom whilst the good doctor continues his painful and pricey correction of The Sheep's choppers. Dr. DeSade is not near and dear to my heart.

And thus we come to the charging. It all hit me today as I was heading home and running my usual Thursday school errands a day early. I panicked. I needed to drop some cash...and fast. It's the only form of indulgence I have left. I pulled the truck into a hard right and headed to my local Kohl's to rummage through the clearance racks and try to bring some solace and peace to my shattered soul. In my panic, I somehow managed to purchase thongs and belts. I know. I'm confused by this, too. There is little logic associated with these purchases. I'm not logical right now. Sue me.

Speaking of blood from a stone, Dr. D's office left a message for me today claiming that they don't have a correct address through which to bill The Sheep. Could I call to correct this little matter right away? Why certainly. It's at the top of my "to do" list. Right after huddling in the corner in the fetal position and trying to find something with which I might conceivable wear a belt. (I sort of don't really have a waist...)

At the heart of this panic attack is a rather horrid realization. This whole dental process has been a nightmare. One which friends and coworkers have patiently tolerated throughout the gibbering and moaning to which they have been subjected. I have written enough blog entries to warrant spam from various and sundry dental sites. I have laid all the blame firmly and squarely at the feet of my dentist. But here's the thing:

Deep, deep down where the floss gets stuck between my too-close-together teeth I know the truth. This mess is really all my own fault.

There. It's said. For a variety of reasons, some good, some not, I put off getting the old ivories checked out as regularly as I should. While I admit, Dr. DeSade and I are never going to be mani/pedi buddies, he's probably just doing his job and is, in fact, not actually the antichrist. The vote is still out on whether he was hugged enough as a child, but that doesn't necessarily make him evil incarnate.

I'm sure he's just some dude who mows his lawn and signs his kids report cards like everyone else. It is highly unlikely that he devours the souls of small children for breakfast and strategizes ways to make my appointments as painful as humanly possible.

It is not his fault that I am one of the small majority for whom traditional pain blockers are less effective. He probably has poor hearing in the ear that was closest to me when I mentioned that in the first appointment. Since the root canal from hell, he has actually tried to inject enough of the sweet stuff into my hapless jaws. Give the man some credit. It's not his fault. It's mine. And it is highly unlikely that any dentist could be doing this level of work without causing a wee bit of discomfort. He makes it easy to blame him. That's probably a good thing, because hating a super sweet dentist who agrees with all my opinions and thoughts on world matters would probably give me a case of the guilts that Freud himself couldn't work through.

I still think he owes me the hundred bucks, though. I only spent it out of dental stress. Who do I call about that?

SA