Not the Beach

It started simply enough. Dental appointments for myself and the boys (yes, a shudder is appropriate here). Pick, pick, scrape, scrape, polish, polish, and out. Right?

Except I started my appointment with "can you have the Dr. look at my crown she did a month or so ago? There seems to be a chip on the porcelain."

Anyone who knows me well knows that dental appointments are some of my least favorite. In the last 3 years, I've had 3 porcelain crowns put on to replace cracked and aging fillings from 20-30 years ago. Which is a bitch on the mouth and the pocketbook. I can't do it without Valium, and from dental appointments alone I have a stock of Valium to rival Pauly.

The dentist took a look. "Yeah, looks like the porcelain was too thin there and chipped off the metal. I can put a new one on for you for free and I'll do a rush on the crown. Just be back here at 12:30 pm to get a mold made and a temporary put on."

* * * * *

She says it like "stop by and grab a sandwich with me" but I know her sadistic little mind is whirling. She mentions sedation, etc., but I'm thinking she means when she puts the new crown on. I'm thinking "cool, extra Valium." I run home, do some work, write down some numbers, and run back to the dentist office ready for my appointment.

"You need nitrous?" the little assistant asks.

"No other way to do it," I comment, as she straps on that piggy nose. I inhale deeply.

Ten minutes later she stops by and asks "how is the nitrous working?"

I have a count system when I take nitrous. One margarita, two margarita, three margarita, floor . . . I was honest with her and explained the count system. "You usually can't start work on me until I'm on 'three margarita' and I don't even feel like I've had my first sip."

She looks at the dials. "Ooops." I was getting only oxygen. The nitrous part of the oxide was turned off. "Here, this should help."

The Dr. comes by. Perky little Asian woman. "What time did you take your medicine?" My blank stare is not lost on her. "The Valium?"

I admit I thought that was the plan for next time. She arches an eyebrow, then puts on her poker face. "Well, we have to do a little drilling." She looks at the nitrous oxide gauge, and leans over to make an adjustment.

She must have cranked it a little extra. It was like IV margaritas, and the next thing I know I was sitting there with a pair of cheap black plastic shades and fingers in my mouth.

* * * * *

I was lounging in the chair. The temperature was perfect. I could feel the buzz of the margaritas. I inhaled deeply. So relaxed. Too hard to lift my head, or my body. Couldn't remember if I put on sunscreen.

Pity my beach scene was being drowned out by some terrible racket. Sounded like construction. High-pitched machines and drills and such. You'd think such a nice resort area wouldn't do construction in the middle of the day while I was lounging and relaxing.

And where was my margarita? I can feel I've been drinking them, but there doesn't seem to be one close at hand. I can hardly hear the music over that damn construction noise. Maybe I should call the cabana boy.

But there are fingers and stuff in my mouth and I can't talk. How did that happen? Where did I put the damn margarita?

And why is there a large bird sitting on my head? I can't see it, but I can feel it. His weight, concentrated in the middle of my forehead pressing down. Damn bird. Ruining my siesta. So heavy on my head.

And where is my margarita? And the cabana boy? What was his name? Alejandro? Jorge? Delicious? And the music? Why can't I hear the music? What is that incessant whining of machinery?

There's a cute little Asian chick next to me. Maybe she's here to help. But she's wearing a mask. Mexico . . . swine flu . . . she's talking. Not Spanish. Good. Don't want to think so hard. Translating is hard. She's talking again.

"Ok, a little pinch."

Pinch of salt? For my margarita? Before I can ask, I feel the left side of my face slide a little lower in my lounge chair. Come on cheek, back up next to your partner. I need you both high and tight if we're going to get Juan's attention when he comes back with that margarita. But I can't see him, because cute Asian chick with the mask is in the way. Wielding something in her hand. Fingers in my mouth.

I don't think this is how resorts treat their guests. But my tongue won't make those words. She keeps her hand in my mouth. Says something. I respond in my mind, but apparently the words stop somewhere between there and my mouth. Breathing through my nose. Margaritas are good.

The construction noise is like bees in my ears. I think I hear a truck backing up. A saw cutting through something. Water splashing on me. Maybe Carlos is cleaning the pool. I want to look up but can't lift my head. Damn bird. Damn construction.

Cute Asian chick says "Did you feel that, Mrs. Chako?" I get a rush, like flight or fight. Something tells me that's a bad question. But I don't know why. When I don't respond, she sticks her fingers in again. She's close to me. I can she her diamond necklace. Dangling, so close. Maybe she's going to kiss me. Where is Javier?

But its just her fingers in my mouth. And still no margarita. And still I can't hear the music.

* * * * *

The music starts to come back. I have an ache in my jaw. But the bird is gone. So is the construction noise. And cute Asian chick.

Now I'm left with average-looking Russian chick. With her fingers in my mouth. Making the ache worse. Pushing, prodding, pulling. My head hurts.

I start to get that tired, icky feeling. Like you've stayed to long at the bar. And notice the guy you've been talking too all night in the bright lights after last call. And he's not Jorge or Alejandro or Javier or Carlos and he's not wearing a tight pair of shorts and carrying a margarita. He's named Bob and he's losing his hair on his head and growing it in his ears and drinking an old Milwaukee and didn't buy you one and wearing too much cologne because he's convinced that's why his wife left him. And your friends are gone, leaving you to go home by yourself or with Bob.

And I'm not on the beach and the cheap sunglasses I'm wearing are pressing too hard on my forehead and there are no drinks. And she's still got her fingers in my mouth jamming a temporary crown on as the Novocaine wears off and the nerves start to talk. She wipes some extraneous spit and cement from the corner of my mouth like I'm a baby, and pulls off the pig nose thing.

"There," she says cheerily. "You've been breathing oxygen for the last 10 minutes or so. You should feel back to normal."

But I don't feel normal. I feel like I just french-kissed Bob in the back of some yucky dive bar and then got punched in the mouth in the alley by his ex-wife who was ticked off about the child support and I'm nowhere near the beach in Mexico and I've got to be able to talk coherently for a critical conference call in 30 minutes.

Maybe now I need some Valium.

* * * * *

Editor's post-script #1: Dental work is ALWAYS better with Valium.

Editor's post-script #2: Beware dentists offering free crown replacement. Sadistic bitches.

Editor's post-script #3: Getting a crown suck. Getting a crown replaced sucks worse. Apparently the glue they use the first time is really meant to hold a LIFETIME.

* * * * *

Respectfully submitted,

The Wife