It was Saturday, and we had been driving home from the bowling alley, me sitting in the back between my sister and my boyfriend, my parents up front. The game had been one of intense competition, though not as intense as the Catch Phrase games we play tend to be, and to replenish ourselves we had stopped at the grocery store for some snackage, including individual candies from the large plastic bins - saltwater taffy, root beer barrels, and gummy orange slices. I had resisted the call of Gouda and had opted instead for Cocoa Crunchies cereal.
We had been merrily stuffing our faces when my dad yelled “Son of a bitch!” as he was pulling up to a stop light, giving us all whiplash with his swift braking. We were startled. “What?” He fished around in his mouth, pulling out the half-chewed remains of a gummy orange slice, along with a crown. “God damn it!”
We had been merrily stuffing our faces when my dad yelled “Son of a bitch!” as he was pulling up to a stop light, giving us all whiplash with his swift braking. We were startled. “What?” He fished around in his mouth, pulling out the half-chewed remains of a gummy orange slice, along with a crown. “God damn it!”
Gummy fruits: dangerously delicious.
The following Sunday night, which tends to be family dinner night, we had all made our sandwiches and were sitting down at the dining table, which had been temporarily turned into my dad’s handyman work bench. He had been fixing my mother’s CD player, and while he removed the various tools and the scattered segments of the electronic device, he left one lone yogurt container in the middle of the table. I figured it was filled with the wares of a fix-it-man - extra screws or something - but when my sister asked about the contents, my dad informed us that it was, indeed, the crown that had been taken down by the orange slice the night before.
Having that dental malfunction sitting on the dining room table while she was eating dinner didn’t sit well with my sister. “Ugh, ew! Can you get it off? Just get it off!” She wriggled in her chair.
“WHAT,” said my dad. “What’s wrong with it?”
“It just freaks me out, I start thinking about the dentist . . . I hate the dentist!”
“FINE,” grumbled my dad, getting up and relocating the offending yogurt container. “Jesus Christ.” I told him he should leave it under his pillow so the tooth fairy would give him a shiny new nickel, but he wasn’t too keen on the idea.
My sister couldn’t stop thinking about the dentist and teeth, however, and about how freaked out she was at the thought of her own teeth randomly falling out.
“Look at these pieces of corn,” I said, spooning up some soup, “don’t they look like little teeth?”
“Don’t!” she said. “I don’t want to think about the dentist. I HATE THE DENTIST.”
“Remember that guy who smelled like chicken salad?” I asked.
“I thought it was tuna,” said my mom.
“Chicken salad or tuna salad, either one,” I said. “And he got really close to you, and you could smell it.” My sister agreed, recalling her own uncomfortable, stinky experiences. He had retired not long after we started seeing him, fortunately, but then we were exposed to the horrors of the new dentist and his teeth-rating, which set my sister off all over again.
“Well,” said my dad, “That dentist actually retired, too. There’s a new dentist, I just went there. He’s young and good-looking. He did a good job on me.”
My sister instantly perked up. “What, did you tell him you had two ugly daughters you needed to marry off?” my sister asked.
“NO,” he said. “He had a girlfriend anyway. I saw a picture of them together. And she called him.”
“What, he just took his calls while he was working on you?” said my sister.
“No, I was there for a long time. I would have had to go back four different times, but they made the crowns there,” said my dad. “So I heard him on a break, or something.” I didn’t ask why my dad was eavesdropping on the new, hot young dentist’s hot young phone calls but instead wondered aloud if she was a dentist as well, and how they met.
“I wonder if they listen to ‘Teeth,’” said my sister, referring to the Lady Gaga song, and then she asked my mother if she would take her and hold her hand in the examination room the next time she went to the dentist, because she was scared. My mother promised that she would, as she has a kind heart and will go along with a lot of fuckery as long as it makes us feel better, and my dad started talking about the miracles of dentistry, and how convenient it was now. My sister then asked why they couldn’t just put something in your mouth and zap the cavities away, but then my dad said that it was easier to take precautions and prevent them in the first place.
“Oh, so it’s like herpes,” said my sister. “Once you get them, you’re screwed.”
The following Sunday night, which tends to be family dinner night, we had all made our sandwiches and were sitting down at the dining table, which had been temporarily turned into my dad’s handyman work bench. He had been fixing my mother’s CD player, and while he removed the various tools and the scattered segments of the electronic device, he left one lone yogurt container in the middle of the table. I figured it was filled with the wares of a fix-it-man - extra screws or something - but when my sister asked about the contents, my dad informed us that it was, indeed, the crown that had been taken down by the orange slice the night before.
Having that dental malfunction sitting on the dining room table while she was eating dinner didn’t sit well with my sister. “Ugh, ew! Can you get it off? Just get it off!” She wriggled in her chair.
“WHAT,” said my dad. “What’s wrong with it?”
“It just freaks me out, I start thinking about the dentist . . . I hate the dentist!”
“FINE,” grumbled my dad, getting up and relocating the offending yogurt container. “Jesus Christ.” I told him he should leave it under his pillow so the tooth fairy would give him a shiny new nickel, but he wasn’t too keen on the idea.
My sister couldn’t stop thinking about the dentist and teeth, however, and about how freaked out she was at the thought of her own teeth randomly falling out.
“Look at these pieces of corn,” I said, spooning up some soup, “don’t they look like little teeth?”
“Don’t!” she said. “I don’t want to think about the dentist. I HATE THE DENTIST.”
“Remember that guy who smelled like chicken salad?” I asked.
“I thought it was tuna,” said my mom.
“Chicken salad or tuna salad, either one,” I said. “And he got really close to you, and you could smell it.” My sister agreed, recalling her own uncomfortable, stinky experiences. He had retired not long after we started seeing him, fortunately, but then we were exposed to the horrors of the new dentist and his teeth-rating, which set my sister off all over again.
“Well,” said my dad, “That dentist actually retired, too. There’s a new dentist, I just went there. He’s young and good-looking. He did a good job on me.”
My sister instantly perked up. “What, did you tell him you had two ugly daughters you needed to marry off?” my sister asked.
“NO,” he said. “He had a girlfriend anyway. I saw a picture of them together. And she called him.”
“What, he just took his calls while he was working on you?” said my sister.
“No, I was there for a long time. I would have had to go back four different times, but they made the crowns there,” said my dad. “So I heard him on a break, or something.” I didn’t ask why my dad was eavesdropping on the new, hot young dentist’s hot young phone calls but instead wondered aloud if she was a dentist as well, and how they met.
“I wonder if they listen to ‘Teeth,’” said my sister, referring to the Lady Gaga song, and then she asked my mother if she would take her and hold her hand in the examination room the next time she went to the dentist, because she was scared. My mother promised that she would, as she has a kind heart and will go along with a lot of fuckery as long as it makes us feel better, and my dad started talking about the miracles of dentistry, and how convenient it was now. My sister then asked why they couldn’t just put something in your mouth and zap the cavities away, but then my dad said that it was easier to take precautions and prevent them in the first place.
“Oh, so it’s like herpes,” said my sister. “Once you get them, you’re screwed.”
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