New fangled

I should consider myself luck. I guess.

I made my semi-annual pilgrimage to the dentist. I know. I need to floss as if my life depends on it. I've never found flossing to be a "fun" activity. But I wasn't told I was going to Hell so I guess I've been flossing more in the past six months. I'd put off a filling last time so I knew it was inevitable this time. Granted I wasn't expecting them to find another teeny one but such is my luck. It's been literally years since I've had a cavity. Lucky me. They didn't offer me a twofurone price but I was there so what the heck.

Things have changed since the last time I had a filling. Heck, I've changed dentists a couple of times so maybe the old one still does it the same way. No he doesn't. He's retired. Anyway. I get shifted to another room and everyone is smiles and glad to see me. Hey, I'm in the room and don't need restraints; don't expect a lot more of happiness on my part.

Then I'm asked what radio station I'd like to listen to? Hmmm, I wonder if I can choose a streaming internet station and whether hogs in a slaughterhouse are offered the same choice. Seems they've learned that headphones drown out the grinding. I'm still trying to decide what station I'm so gung-ho interested in covering up my pain. I'm trying to think the worst song that might come on while I'm wishing I'm someplace else. Maybe Bromberg singing about sending me to the 'lectric chair. No such luck.

But the assistant hands me the headphones and I hear rock music, for ten seconds. Commercials! Damn I hate commercials when I'm riding down the highway. Now I've got to sit in a bloody dentist chair and listen to them. In the car I slam on the CD player. No such luck. Sigh.

There is the dentist with a darn needle. Hmmm last time there was no needle. Oh well when in Rome and all of that.

In a few minutes he's back assuring me I'm numb; the commercials have morphed into some "classic rock" song of the eighties and the drill is revving up. Oh boy I'm such a "lucky dog." Grinding away and then over the radio comes the early warning alert. What? When I entered things outside looked pretty honkey-dorey. My coming to the dentist makes things go to Hell in a handbasket? Maybe it's just a test.

Nope. Big old thunderstorms are popping up. Look out for hail the size of nickels and lightning that'll fry me in seconds. For a second I consider suggesting to the dentist I'd rather take my chances with the lightning but figure that if I die in the chair his insurance would pay my wife more than my insurance. "Drill on McDuff."

So there we are in a room with the picture of mountains glued to the wall, the doc is drilling and blasting in my mouth while talking to his assistant about something and I'm listening to some forgetable rock song while a thunderstorm is sneaking up on the area. Ain't life exciting?

Well he starts drilling on the other side and lo and behold the darn warning interupts another bad song. Another storm is headed closer to my area and this one might have hail the size of quarters. I knew inflation was bad but this is ridiculous.

A few minutes later the doc is shaking my hand, maybe he's running for office and telling me that the assistant will tell me what to do next. She starts telling me what not to do and I'm shaking my head. It would be just my luck that a tornado will hit his office and kill me AFTER I get the fillings. But I go outside after setting up an appointment to let them tell me about flossing and letting them hunt for more holes in December.

It's cloudy outside and I can hear thunder in the distance. If I had those headphones on maybe the weather man would just tell me it's "Stormy Monday." Nah, that's not a rock classic from the eighties.