Brushalot

OK.
I have gotten enough text messages and been asked enough at work, that I thought my trip to the dentist deserved it's own entry.

A little history.

Once upon a time, there was an 11 year old run about freak of a child named Fran. One day, Fran was jumping up and down on her bed, like you do, when she slipped and slammed her face into the footboard. Many tears were shed and she chipped her front tooth. That tooth soon died (awwww)
Fran's mom took her to a dentist who hated children (hissssssssssssssssssssssssss). He was mean to Fran. So Fran decided all dentists suck ass and refused to ever go back. She wore her temporary crown well into her 20's.
Luckily Fran inherited decent genes and her teeth didn't fall out for lack of dental care. (yay!)
Fast Forward
Our heroine moved to NYC and landed her first Broadway show. She decided even though she hated/feared dentists, she hated her ugly temporary crown more, but had no insurance and limited funds. She went to a hackjob place and had a hackjob crown put on. BUT it was still better than the one she had so she was happy!
Fast Forward
Luckily Fran inherited decent genes and her teeth didnt fall out for lack of dental care.
Now our girl is in her 30's, a well established Broadway member and earning a good living. She is starting to face her mortality and realizes she had better start taking care of her teeth before they start falling out for lack of dental care.
She sucks it up and goes to a dentist in her neighborhood of Park Slope Brooklyn. By some miracle, she only has 2 cavities and a crap job of a crown. This dentist isn't mean, and she thinks that maybe he might be ok. So she takes his advice and drops 3 grand on her two front teeth. (as well as gets, god bless that hygenist, a teeth cleaning.)
Fran turns over a new leaf and starts being vigilant about going to the ever feared dentist.
And she, and her teeth, lived Happily Ever After.

That was until she woke up 2 years later, in St. Paul Minnesota with a crack in her tooth and completely wigged.

Enter our hero Dr. Paul Klausen. ( cue: enter Scandanavian dude in white lab coat to the sound of the Cavalry)

Actually, all my blabbing about my tooth paid off because a woman in our cast knew someone who had a good dentist in Minneapolis. She gives me a number to call, I figure it is his service or his office or something. So I call and he answers.
I wasn't expecting that. I thought I would have to leave a voice mail, or a message.
Dr. Paul has the voice of a radio personality. That very smoooooth jazzzzzzz sort of tonality. I told him that when I met him. I was apparently not the first person who had said that to him, and I think he has a bright future in car commercials if he ever gets sick of people who refuse to floss.
So I blather on about my tooth and he is wicked cool about getting me in. No doubt my neurosis completely translated over the phone. Then he says " Hold ona second, I am at the liquor store picking up some beer"

(cue: choirs of angels singing as the clouds part and a James Earl Jones voice from on high says "FRAN THIS IS YOUR DENTIST")

I think to myself,
Self
This is the man to go to!

He talks me off the ledge, convinces me that I will make it until Monday with a wiggly front tooth.
I get through Sunday ( having to call another dentist back who actually wanted to see me on Sunday afternoon, but there was no WAY I was not going to go to a dentist who not only came highly recommended, but had the honesty to admit he was out buying beer.)

So I go on Monday, shaking in my Espadrill wedgie platforms with my stress zit throbbing, because I freaking HATE going to the dentist. (those shoes make me 6 ft. VERY important when asserting yourself to be tall)
You have to admit, besides the Gyno, there is no other annual doctor you really have to submit to. ANY other doctor, you still have an element of control. "Open your mouth and say ahhhhhhhhh" has nothing on the sound of a dental drill as a rubber gloved hand moves over your face and smoke and bits of your own teeth start hitting your cheek. There is an element of trust there that I think people overlook when appraising the importance of a good dentist.

ANYWAY
I get there ridiculously early, as is my way when I am nervous.
As I am filling out the standard forms, it occurs to me that I hear Led Zepplin cranked up in the back.
That was it.
I was sold.
Wha???? A dentist who buys beer and drills peoples teeth with Robert Plant singing Misty Mountain Hop in the background????!!!!
WHAT IS THIS PLACE? I thought.

Then everything gets a little blurry because it was TIME, and I didn't even hear Robert Plant anymore over the sound of my own breathing as I was brought into the back. Honestly, once I was in that chair my powers of observation went out the window. Not only that but my understanding of the English language was dodgy at best. I distinctly remember being told to do something and I was so twitchy and scared I am fairly certain I did the opposite. I could not get a handle on the suction tube thing. Dr Paul would tell me to spit into it, but all I could think, was how the hell do you spit into a teeny tube???? a teeny tube that is sucking???? LOL. Then, of course, there is my over achieving neurosis which had me analyzing the damn thing. I was determined to understand and spit perfectly into it. On some other level I wanted to see everything that was happening, as if I had ANY knowledge or ability in the dental arts that would be able to assist me in discerning anything that was going on.
I kill me.

The thing is, everyone in that office is hilarious. All of them. Dr. Paul is that kind of dry swaggery funny that makes you laugh as you slap your forehead. (well I would have if I hadn't been white knuckle gripping the arms of the chair). I was sitting there with a mouth full of cotton, a quarter of my tooth missing, asking his assistant Jennifer about her boyfriend, who isn't her boyfriend, that my dentist is clearly mocking her out about. That's a perfect shot of Jennifer's elbow. I don't know for sure, but I believe she is in the Witness Protection Program

The kicker was when Dr. Paul asked me if I had ever been told I grind my teeth.
NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO.
Apparently my crowns were doomed. My Brooklyn dentist, being more concerned with how the smile looked, made my crowns without taking this grinding thing into consideration. I must have cracked it in the night while working out my inner stress.
I immediately thought of Kricka and her mouth guard that she wears. As a matter of fact, most of my really close friends grind their teeth and wear mouth guards at night. Can't be so bad...right?

So after that bomb was dropped and my teeth were fixed and looking as if nothing had ever gone wrong, I was passed off to Barb, the hygenist. She told me she had been working in Dr. Klausen's office for 20 years. Damn Swedes and their genetics. god. Look at her?! I asked her if she started when she was 12.
Not for nothin people, but we all know how getting your teeth cleaned can be a very abraisive, uncomfortable experience. Barb was seriously the most gentle hygenist ever in the history of hygentistry. When she was done I looked at her and said "Who ARE you people???" How am I supposed to ever let anyone else ever clean my teeth?
Doesn't Barb look happy holding my bank card?

The coolest part was that when it came down to brass tacks, and Dr. Klausen was really in my teeth, there was a point where my fear was really starting to dominate me and I was trying to just stay still and let him do his job. I could actually feel myself quaking and he checks in with me and only says "Fran?" I was just silent. He didn't say anything more. Not a quip, or even a reasonable question. He just kept working silently and let me just concentrate on keeping control.

And then started mocking me once the hard part (for me) was over.

Now that's a good doc.

I guess it is obvious that I am in love with the whole office. Great. Just Great. Now anytime I need dental work I am going to have to fly to Minneapolis.