Smoke And Mirrors...And Pointy Things

Thanks to all for your consolation on the scratchy sweater issues. To have come so very far on the project before finally just accepting that I am allergic to this particular wool was disheartening. I've used this fiber before without problems and I don't seem to react to anything else this way. But the dry winter skin is making me all sensitive and delicate. I'm really a fragile Sheepie. I require a gentle touch...

And it's all just a distraction anyway. A means for avoiding yet another, more unpleasant little event that awaits me in the very near future. A place where the hope of a gentle touch is for naught. All you clever commenters who happened to glance at the sidebar are correct. My doom awaits. I am mere days away from that most horriblest of appointments. A thing that is worse than vegetables, scratchy wool and and regular exercise combined.

I am going to the dentist.


I never used to have a problem with the dentist. I had my share of dental interventions in my youth and came through with flying colors. I even opted on several occasions to skip the Novocaine and just tough out the fillings. It all worked out...I liked my dentist. He was a good guy who listened to a little lambie and let me make some of the decisions about how we were going to go about this stuff.

Not so with Dr. DeSade, DMD. To be fair, he is not the one who is responsible for my needing so much work on the choppers last year. That was all me. I'll own it. I let some stuff go. The root canal, the fillings, the endless rounds of x-rays, the hundreds and hundreds of dollars...all my own fault.

But, he is mean. And grumpy. And aggressive in his dentistry. And mean...did I mention, "mean?" He makes comments about the state of education and "suggestions" as to how I might be a better teacher. He likes to talk politics. He pokes me with very sharp things then invites me to disagree with his opinions. I decline each and every time. I have not had good experiences with the expression of dissension from the depths of the dental chair.

The dentist's office is not a good place for me. I get the stress. That bright light they shine on patients is not good for a middle aged complexion and makes me feel like I'm being sweated for information by third rate detectives. I take the day off from work to deal.

So now I've got an unwearable sweater and have to somehow cram six month's worth of flossing into the next two days. No problem. I can cope. I will set the alarm for hourly intervals for the next two nights and work the waxy string betwixt my choppers and see if I can't simulate a daily commitment to this most healthy of activities.

And I'll resurrect the Comfort Sock that was begun during the angst-filled days before the removal of The Mole Of Disturbing Dimensions. This soft, squishy and huggable little number is most soothing to a Sheep who is suffering from Sweater Curses and Dental Drama.

And I've already picked up the heel stitches so that whole stress-fest is over!

I'll survive. It's only the dentist, after all. But I can't promise that I will be a brave little soldier. I will spend some quality time chewing on that hangnail that I always gnaw on when the going gets tough. I will force my staff to listen to endless tales of dentist visits past and will reenact the root-canal-without-painkillers experience until they can mouth the dialogue along with me. I will frighten the children in my class with cautionary tales of the dentist and there will probably be phone calls from irate parents who have to sit up with their nightmaring offspring. I will make the usual promises to lay off the Mountain Dew and caramels in order that I might appease the Dental Deities.

None of these things really work and I'm just lying about the soda and candy. I'll be picking them up on the way back from the dentist's office and noshing until I'm sick. But I am a creature of habit and I'll revert to the little rituals despite their lack of any real effectiveness. What else can you do, really?

I'll go. But I don't have to like it. And I'm bringing the knitting needles. In a truly fair fight, both combatants get sharp, pointy things.

I wonder if the good doctor would like a sweater? I happen to have a nice scratchy one here that might go nicely with his chairside manner...

SA