Monday, April 19, 2010

I see a Mansford Roof

With the hygienist sitting next to the computer, the dentist inspected each tooth and made appropriate comments to be recorded in the database. "We've got slight browning on A1, A2 looks good, and there's a whisper jet on A3."
Whisper jet.
It sounds like the friend I never had. The girl I meet on the first day of school in third grade who wears moccasins and braids in her hair and packs homemade granola for lunch. Her parents were at Woodstock. We become the best of besties despite our differences, what with my parents not having been at Woodstock and my complete lack of moccasins.

Or it sounds like Gillette's newest razor. The Mach 5 whisper jet lets you shave closer than ever before.

Or it sounds like a flatulence euphemism.

"Wasth a wisthpa jhett?" I ask with with a mouth full of dental instruments.

Turns out whisper jet means a return visit. And laughing gas.

Oh laughing gas. While large crevices were drilled into my teeth with what I understand to be a miniature sandblaster, I drifted into the sweet land of dreams. For a moment I thought "Maybe I'm dying." And then I thought "This might be worth it." But then I remembered I was getting married, so I tried my best not to die. I did fall asleep and was sorely disappointed when the procedure ended and they cut my juice.

Not dead though. So that's good.

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