My Friends Are Not Dentists

Going to the dentist sucks. Going to the dentist is fucking torture at seven a.m. What was I thinking? While I was waiting, Jude and Rugelah tipped over and back in their seats, eyeballs dipping to the floor, shoulders sagging in grave disappointment. Their mother was the conduit between life and early morning misery. In an effort to repress my guilt, I scanned a magazine casually. I came across a questionnaire for bipolar disorder. Another opportunity for self-diagnosis - oh boy! Then I realized, as I sucked in the faint detergent smell of a "clean" office, that I almost fit the bill, and that I had blogged about it. So for the three of you our there reading this, including my dog, I am not thinking I can jump off buildings, I am not arguing with people over nothing, and I am not calling friends in the middle of the night with ideas about new inventions. I am not manic, but it definitely sounds worthy of a short story, or at least a wacky dream.

However, last night I went with Beccato see Friends with Money, and there was a character who seemed to be heading toward a froth, perhaps even a manic episode. No more revealed, but I do love a humane portrayal of people who are fucked up. The movie was excellent because it actually built a plot on complex relationships between people with varied personalities and sensibilities, the most compelling of which was portrayed by Jennifer Aniston! Now this is a new discovery. I hereby renounce my former 'what's-the-big-deal' attitude about this actress. She was the topic, and she almost stole the show from her formidable colleagues: Frances MacDormand (love her), Joan Cusack (loved her for years), and Catherine Keener (just discovered her and love her).

This is what I noticed second about Ms. Aniston, after her facial expressions: the texture of her skin. She looked very beautiful, and one could see her actual skin, as if she was more human than her friends somehow. I'd only seen her prettied up, but in the film, she was vivid. I was with Becca, as noted above, and it was a bit hard not to reflect on the movie in contrast to our lives. I will leave the more personal reflection for another place, but it is notable when one can forget a parking stub, lose the parking stub, find the parking stub as friend gets dough from ATM, and end up being treated to french fries and martini as a result. That's what happens when you have friends with money.

Five hours later, in the dentist's chair, the lovely hygeinist, Smiling Torture Lady, is brushing my teeth with a little brush that feels like dry cotton on dry teeth and it makes me wanna shout "pleh pleh pleh" or maybe "get that outta my mouth, bitch," to the otherwise perfectly pleasant woman. I cannot abide weird sensations in my mouth. Foods of all sorts, yes. Other sexually-related items, of course. Furry little brushes with chemical tastes - no no no no. I am still salivating in disgust as I write this.

So I had a very pleasant experience last night and an extremely unpleasant one this morning. Dentists are an odd lot: sadistic, particular, and oddly enthralled by the crap in my mouth. Friends, in contrast, tell you if there's food in your teeth, but give you the freedom to take it out yourself. They rarely cause pain to shoot through one's jaw, and in this particular case, one may even provide an anesthetic, a carb, and ketchup, all free of charge. New diagnosis: martinic. Definition: a state in which a previously depressed person, after sucking the pimento out of an olive, realizes that, despite the fries and the good company, she has 4 goddamn hours to sleep before Torture Lady will create dire oral pain. May cause ingestion of additional martini.