Well, it turns out that yesterday I girded my loins for nothing, eh.
And you can't imagine how long I've been waiting to work the phrase "girding my loins" into my diary because frankly, I think it's sadly underused by the youth of today.
You would think that what with their endless fascination with all things loinal and all, they would be beating the phrase "girding my loins" to death with a stick.
Sadly, they are not.
The two of you who have stuck with me through that last tangent are now muttering under your breath, "Could you make a point, Marn, and make it soon, please?" (I know anyone considerate enough to stick with me this long would use the word "please". I just know it.)
Well, the loin girding was done in preparation for my annual visit to the dentist.
Actually, I have no problem with my dentist, a kindly man who sings along at the top of his lungs to the easy listening tapes that pour through his sound system. No humming for this man, nosireebob.
It's kind of fun to have a dentist who harmonizes with Glen Campbell on Rhinestone Cowboy as he rummages in amongst your teeth.
So if the dentist is okay, then why the girding?
It's the dental assistant, eh.
I've never seen this woman's diploma, but I've always assumed that she's a graduate of the Mengele School of Dental Hygiene and Torture. Heck, she was probably top of her class. Ilsa, as I privately nicknamed her, is one of the few people on the planet who can snap dental floss from the container and make it crack like a whip.
At each cleaning I would remind her that she should use extra fine floss on my teeth because the molars are crowded. At each cleaning she would pooh pooh that, using brute force to saw between my teeth.
Then, when she broke through, she would saw half way through my gums for good measure. I figured it was just a matter of time before she actually managed to cut my jaw off using nothing but dental floss.
So, as I said, I had done some serious girding in preparation for my visit.
The girding continued unabated as I sat in the waiting room reading six-month-old Time magazines and wishing I was a praying woman.
Then I heard my name called by an unfamiliar voice.
It Was Not Ilsa.
Ilsa Was Gone.
I hardly dared breathe. Was Ilsa's reign of terror over? Had I been issued a reprieve? From force of habit, when I eased into the dental chair, I clutched its arms with a death grip that left my knuckles white. The dental assistant remarked on how all my dentist's patients seemed to be a tense bunch. Little did she know the havoc Ilsa had wrought.
*Feel free to insert heavenly angel sounds of your choice here.* Yep, it was a reprieve. This woman really had a gentle touch and the cleaning didn't didn't hurt a bit.
Wish I could say the same about paying the bill. Ouch.
When I was a kid and got a good check-up, the dentist gave me a Tootsie Pop. I was particularly fond of cherry.
Now, at the end of my check-up, all I get is a stinky new toothbrush and a toothpaste sample. Sheesh.
When I was young I used to fantasize about all the freedoms I would have when I grew up, eh. Life would be one big cherry Tootsie Pop, you know?
Um, can somebody tell me where all those freedoms went?
Want to delve into my sordid past?
She's mellllllllllllllting - Wednesday, Feb. 15, 2012 - Back off, Buble - Monday, Dec. 19, 2011 - Dispersed - Monday, Nov. 28, 2011 - Nothing comes for free - Monday, Nov. 21, 2011 - None of her business - Friday, Nov. 04, 2011 -
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