Category Archives: dentist

Various. Also, Sundry

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Been there, done them.

I think the long nightmare of my Bone Hole TM saga may be drawing to a close. If you were lucky enough to miss my whining about this, my Bone Hole TM is an actual hole in my jaw bone that led to an absolutely baroque series of dental procedures up to and including pulling the stupid tooth above it. Since the tooth next to it had been removed years ago for a crown, I wound up with a sizable gap in that neighborhood. Last week, I got a “removable partial” to deal with that and, please baby jeebus, finish up with the whole sorry mess.

I hadn’t realized when discussing this with my dentist that the “partial” in “removable partial” is short for “partial denture.” A denture. Yes, one more entry in our exciting If You Don’t Die, You Get Old sitcom. I also hadn’t realized how massive this bitch would turn out. I lost another tooth 40 years ago on the other side of my mouth. You couldn’t see it, it was the tiny tooth behind the canine so I just ignored it all these years, but my current dentist decided he would include a replacement for it as an anchor for the new partial. That means the structure reaches across my mouth behind my lower incisors and is enormous. Even I, who am fairly casual about sticking big things in my maw, am intimidated by it. When I manage to wrestle it in, it feels a lot like I had taken a whim to swallow a car’s dashboard but gotten stuck on the turn signal.

Of course, it helps a lot in chewing, but comfort is not a big part of its profile. I decided early on I would just put up with it when I’m eating, but I keep forgetting to put it in, so it spends most of the time lurking in the cabinet, silently rebuking me. Since I get enough of that from Saki, I’m considering a life of pudding and cottage cheese.

Changing gears, I’d like to address the plague of the all white room. I spend a fair chunk of time idly scrolling through Tumblr, mostly harvesting pictures of attractive, if scantily clothed young men for these posts. Perhaps you’ve noticed.

Who doesn’t love a good tanline?

Lately though, my Tumblr feed has been choked with image after image of these insipid white-on-white-on-white rooms, a design decision that I loathe. It’s nothing particularly new, this is the at least the fourth big go-round it’s had since the 1980s, but just because something won’t die doesn’t mean it’s a good idea.

As far as I can tell, its appeal lies with it being easy to do on the cheap (anyone with access to a bucket of white paint has most of the look nailed down) and that it comforts namby pambies who are afraid of picking colors. I love color in decorating, strong, bright, dramatic hues especially. Here’s a secret: if you don’t like a color, you can change it. I know painting is a hassle, but do you really think trying to live with white floors isn’t?

These rooms are so insipid, so bloodless. I believe their current popularity rises in part from the de-cluttering gospel that writer Marie Kondo has passed on to her cult. Her motto is “Discard anything that doesn’t spark joy” which is fine with me, People cling to too much crap. Got it, and agree with it, but the problem is adhering to passionately to it brings you to these anemic spaces.

This sparks joy for someone? It would be like living in a tidy refrigerator. This type of decorating is committed to an absence of knick knacks, art, books, everything that adds warmth and color and personality to a room. Who would want to live without them?

Speaking of dealing with the gorgeous clutter that a full book case brings:

I’m not sure if they were trying to be ironic, but that image upsets me so much, so fills me with a disturbing rage, I can understand what opponents of pornography must feel when faced with something as beautiful as this

A personal problem, I think.

Lastly:

I loved my garden, but I’m tepid towards house plants. Even if I wasn’t I would still feel strongly against dragging in large, semi-tropical plants like birds of paradise or bananas, such as here to an environment where they will jsut suffer a lingering death. Indoor plants need to be able to tolerate the temperatures we like inside, the arid dryness of our homes and the insufficient light that comes from not being outside, and bananas are not going to do that. Knock it off.

But it’s not all complaints about teeth and bad design decisions around here. California has re-opened from our last round of lockdown, which I honestly expected to last until April, so yay. Because of that, I was able to spend part of this afternoon out on Peet’s cafe’s outside parklette knocking back a latte and a muffin. In these sad times, that’s what constitutes decadence. Also, I have a haircut appointment scheduled whihc is plenty enough to get me in a good mood.

Helping with good moods, our latest selection of mens

My motto. You got a problem with that?

The aptly named Dick Huge.

You know how I love a ginger.

Mike Branson, discovered back in the vaults, from a time when dinosaurs roamed the porn aisle.

Oh, he’s an angel.

Meaty.

I don’t understand how people get their butt do that. And how do you live with it once you do? How do you sit in a chair, or maneuver down the grocery aisle, or pull your fucking pants up? For that matter, how do people behind you in line at Starbucks resist just reaching over and squeezing it to see if it’s real? Anyway, we salute you, Butt Man.

More Dental Drama

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I had to go back to the dentist again today. Readers might remember I have shared with them numerous visits over the last 2 years of varying annoyance, discomfort, and expense. I have now spent more time with my dentist (actually, make that plural, I have two because I am just that special) more time with my dentists than I have with my friends, thank you quarantine. We have shared so much time together I have to assume we qualify for domestic partners benefits.

Today’s trip was the conclusion of two previous adventures. One was a simple little root canal (I am alarmed that I have become so inured to dental torture that I classify root canals as “simple”) that I had last month and for which I got the crown today. The other is just the latest installment in a tooth opera which began in February of 2018. 2 0 1 8. Does anyone else remember 2018? Have unfinished business from then?

To recap for those of you not paying attention, and I know there are plenty of you, I developed a hole in my jaw bone. The tooth above the Bone Hole TM required a root canal (do you see a pattern here?) which then had to be filled and then refilled every other month for a year. Hilarious. Finally, I don’t know, the dentists got bored or something and they pulled the tooth. They also had to pull the tooth and crown next to it because the Bone HoleTM tooth had anchored a bridge. Which brings us to today where I was being fitted for a removable partial bridge to deal with the gaping maw in my lower teeth. Altogether, 3 hours in the chair today, which turns out to outlast the Xanax I started with.

I have not taken up a new sideline in creampie porn. That’s the dried goop from the mould for the bridge. Shut up

Oddly, I was lucky enough to have almost no tooth problems during most of my so-called adult years. I’d go in and get my cleaning, they’d say “Lookin’ good, mrpeenee.” “You too Mr. dentist,” I’d reply as I returned to a life of excessive pastries. All that changed when I crossed the magic barrier of age 50. Fifty, when your prostate swells, your mouth revolts and declares itself the Glorious Independent Republic of Oralslovakia, and those darn kids will not stay off your lawn.

Proving my theory that my dentist and mouth are conspiring against me, while finishing the crown, the serene highness dentist discovered a tooth just rotted away, but which had been hiding it’s decay behind the crowned tooth. “Oh, that’s going to have to go,” the dear little man said. Have my teeth decided to abandon ship? Are things that bad? Fine. See you next time.

Toothsome young mens:

A work of art.

We must have just missed the vampire.

Yet another example of mrpeenee’s love for the Big Lug.

Uptown funk gonna give it to you

Just hangin’ around in the toilet, office.

The disagreement over cut versus uncut will never be solved, but everybody likes great big nuts.

Finally, here’s a cheerful farewell. The vaccine is on its way, lockdown cannot last forever, enjoy the weekend.

Musical mrpeenee

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I had dinner the other night at Fable, one of my all time favorite restaurants, and was assailed by their music selection.  Since I was dining alone, I had no one with whom to share my insight that the only thing more annoying than old timey rap is French old timey rap.

What is with French people and popular music?  They’ve had 60 years of rock and roll, just like the rest of us, and they still can’t get it.  I have a theory that their love of rules means they’re still looking for a pop music owners’ manual.  Tragically, my theory will never be examined because I find their music too irritating to listen to long enough to find out.

But wait, there’s more.  Yesterday I had my teeth cleaned (and found out I have to have a root canal next week) with a new dental tech.  My former one was efficient and no nonsense and accepted my blithe answer that I pretty much never floss with a curt “At least you don’t lie about it.”  Her replacement is overwhelmingly cheerful and never shuts up.

The music in the office has changed from some very nice classical to something that vaguely resembles mellow jazz, but has no breaks between what might be songs.  I assume it’s some algorithm that creates noise influenced by the dreaded Kenny G.  Bad enough, but the dental technician only ever stopped yammering in order to hum along with it.  Yes, she was singing along to musical gibberish.

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Mens to help me calm down:

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Cheery.  That’s what I need after a punishing dental session.

In Which mrpeenee Reports In

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It’s been a rather trying couple of weeks around here.  I had a colonoscopy, a teeth cleaning and a birthday.  It’s not exactly been leaping from heights to heights.

I can sense my longtime readers tensing up, readying themselves for a colonoscopy blow-by-blow, but I’ll spare us all that, mostly because I was completely knocked out, at my insistence, and have nothing to report.  “One step short of zombie” was my actual instruction to the nice little anesthesiologist and he came through.  I have to say, the drugs are very effective, but I remember them being more amusing last time.

My later chat with my regular doctor about the results weren’t that much more enlightening.  He brought up photos from the scan on the computer even though I insisted I was not interested in a slide show.  Since he’s also an old friend he felt free to make cracks about how a gay man shouldn’t make such a fuss over a delivery to the rear entrance, so to speak.  I felt free to mention how he should shut the fuck up.  Our conversation ended with him remarking, in a genuinely startled tone, “Wow they really went way up there.”  Great.  Maybe they were looking for gerbils, I don’t know.  I wasn’t there at the time.

Also: teeth cleaning.  I’ve always been a star pupil at my dentists, breezing through the hygienist’s scraping and sawing, lalalalahla.  This time, though, my toothy luck ran out.   My tooth girl, Penny, seemed unhappy.  Apparently, it was like the Red Wedding up in there.  I tried to think of a way to blame it all on my cat, but she wasn’t having it.  Penny was disappointed, sad and disappointed in me.  I felt bad, my gums had let her down.  Had she announced my dental hygiene would henceforth include a rosary and five extra Hail Marys, I would have been rattling those beads quicker than you could say knife.

After all that, I have to say my birthday was quite a relief.  Balmy and blue, the kind of perfect San Francisco day that reminds us why we pay so very much to live here.  Secret Agent Fred and I repaired to Neiman’s for a lovely tea.  Mine was bolstered by a couple of Vicodins and a concoction called the Lady in Red cocktail.  The menu listed several harmless ingredients, but it turned out to be basically a glass of vodka stained magenta.  Perfect.  One assumes the ladies who lunch crowd that frequents Neiman’s are serious about their cocktails.  Fine with me.

Afterwards Fred and I went off to some tasteful haberdashery for to me buy some birthday socks.  A very attractive sales clerk, a lanky doe-eyed beauty, rolled out drawersful of the most dazzling stockings.  I should mention I had all afternoon been interspersing my conversation with Fred with the announcement “It’s m’burthday, bitch.”  It seemed to excuse any possible lapse, such as when I was jauntily pointing out socks and gaily instructing the dreamboat clerk “I’ll take that and that and a box of those.  It’s m’burthday, bitch.”  He didn’t even bat one of his lustrous and thick eyelashes.  “Happy birthday, sir,” he murmmered.   It was a slow Tuesday afternoon in the store, I was the only customer and if it took being addressed as “bitch” to make a sale, well, a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.

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Socks.  Always an appropriate gift.

Dental Hygiene Hijinx

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Oh dear. I have this gigantic piece of dental architecture taking up space in my mouth. More than a bridge, it’s kind of a civil works project. To floss it, I have to thread the dental floss in this stupid flexible plastic needle, shove that between the bridge and my gum, pull it through and then saw away with the floss.
Of course, I should only do this in the privacy of a small, dark, LOCKED closet for privacy sake (or, at the very least, the men’s room. Same thing) but when I have half a pound of goddam burrito stuck under there, I figure “What the hell, nobody’s coming by my desk, I’ll just knock this out real quick and no one will ever know.” No one except for the prissy Lady from all the way across the office who chose that moment to pop in and ask me something about schedules. “Oh, I’m SO sorry. Let me get back to you when I don’t have a couple of feet of dental floss dangling from my mouth.”

Fabulous.

It’s All Relative

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Teeth cleaning Thursday morning! Woo to the hoo!

Every time I go in, I have to struggle against the urge to ask my hygienist if she thinks she and I are related. She’s a big, tough gal who looks like she would know her way around a beer joint, a description which covers most of my sainted mother’s kith and kin. Her family, the Baldridges, ran to women who could chew up men like crushed ice, but just rolled their eyes at masculine foolishness and made babies instead.

This hygienist looks like all of them sort rolled up into one formidable package. And yet, I just can’t imagine explaining to a woman who brings in carpenter tools to work on my mouth that she reminds me of the trashiest line of my white trash heritage. I mean, despite what many of my friends will be only too glad to tell you, I’m not crazy.

Tooth Time

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O boy, a trip to the dentist in the middle of a Monday following a week long absence from work. What more could a high living gal like me ask for? My mouth numb and achy at the same time, with a sense that the achy part is going to win out and the valium I take to make the whole thing less anxious turning me into more of a zombie than usual. And a big chunk of change I would rather have put towards a new couch now residing in mouth. My theory with dental work is that the more it hurts, the more it costs. Doesn’t that just seem wrong? For $1,400 I want a muscular asian rentboy using his mouth to distract me from my mouth, but no such luck.

And, of course, with my mouth half-paralyzed, my entire office now wants to drop by and chat. “What’s going on with the start-up kit edit?” they ask. “Mmmbf arrmmn ooosslllh,” I reply. The odd thing is no one seems to notice. Hmmm.

My dentist is a very sweet man, with charming big brown eyes. I try to concentrate on them as he’s digging away. Have you noticed the position you achieve in the dental chair is very snuggly? You recline practically into his lap and turn your cheek into his shoulder, as if you two were about to exchange tender confessions. “Rinse and spit,” he says, but isn’t that the way most dates turn out?

Tooth Time

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I spent the morning at the dentist getting a new crown. He’s very sweet and complimented me afterward about being such a good patient, so calm. For a moment, I thought he was going to pat me on the head. He seemed very struck when I explained it was the Valium I had popped on the way in. Sweetie, I didn’t make it through both the 70s and the 80s without learning the value of drugs. Most striking was his new assistant, a creature so nell as to make me look like a lumberjack. I kept expecting him to break into his tribute to Dame Shirley Bassey, but he must have been saving that for the after-lunch crowd.