“Dead Robot? Hi! I don’t think we’ve had each other yet. I’m Dirtygreasyhair.”

That’s not her name but if we lived in an alternate universe where our names constantly changed to the first thing someone else notices about you, I would have to bestow her that moniker.

She’s my new dental hygienist. Apparently the lady I’ve had for 8 years now has been assimilated by the Borg or has been drinking Jonestown KoolAid or has just gone on holiday early – nobody bothered to tell me. She’s not available. Instead I’m left to the designs of Dirtygreasyhair.

2 minutes into the cleaning, I knew it wasn’t going to be a pleasant visit when she let the spit and spray from her sonic descale tool build up in my mouth. I’m what CSI professionals would call a “Secreeter” – get anything near my mouth and I generate so much spit I can drown a rat. I think there’s a super hero power in there somewhere (“Drop the atomic bomb, Villain! Or I, El Spitto will stop you!”). So with her tool and her multitude of fingers clumsily pushing back my lips AND her inability to see that I was drowning in my own spit, I let loose with a colossal gag.

She gets the message and turns on the suction. But places the nozzle on my tongue. So useful!

She’s so fidgety that she jumps from one tooth to a tooth opposite, not bothering to go in any real discernible patter, like oh… ONE TOOTH AT A TIME.

Then the talking started. “Finished your gift buying?” or “Are you going away for the holidays?” Yes. Questions. Questions you can’t hope to answer because your mouth is full of rubber covered digits. Why is this cliche happening to me?

And so it goes. In my head I’m thinking she’s not been doing this long. Her manner of tool jockeying and bizarre head angles suggests she’s not comfortable with looking into someone’s head. My previous hygienist would use the mirror constantly to avoid having her fingers in my mouth and kept the chatter to a minimum (Never asked questions, at least). But this one was so far into my mouth she made me feel like she was a gold reseller on a slow day.

Then she made me gag again. Without warning she started into the polishing (no choice of cherry, orange or mint!), slapped the gritty paste onto my teeth and started up the polisher, brushing it up against my top molars. Surprised, I felt a chunk of the polish fly off and land on the back of my tongue. I involuntarily react and hoark out spit as I bolt upright.

“Did I do that?”

Did. You. Do. That.

Seriously.

No the TV just announced a sale at Old Navy. Holy crap what a thing to say.

I guess I went to my “laughing place” after that because I don’t remember much else. I closed down to get through it.

The dentist walks in and asks if I’m ready for the holidays. Without waiting for a response he whirls around and looks at my x-ray.

“What’s that?” he asks.

“Nothing. Probably the X-ray. When you’re in there you can’t see anything on the tooth,” Dirtygreasyhair responds as she wipes down her station. “In there”, like I was some mystical Chinese puzzle box.

My dentist dives in. “It’s a cavity. We’ll be seeing you again soon, Dead Robot.”

After, I take the free goody bag of teeth torture implements offered from Dirtygreasyhair. “You have a great holiday,” I seeth.

“Oh and you too! Go easy on the sweets!”

This is SharkBoy’s side of a conversation with a telemarketer just now. Read all this in ultra monotone:

Hello?

Yes?

Who’s calling?

No. I think you don’t want to talk to us.

We don’t live here.

No. From Montreal. We’re visiting.

And not having a good time.

We hate this city.

Yes.

Terrible time.

I hope things turn around too.

Bye.