Just because two people that live together happen to make their dentist appointments for the same time on the same day out of convenience doesn't mean they're married nor does it mean they'll be able to stand each other six months later when it's time to visit the dentist again.
I got a call earlier this week reminding me of my dentist appointment today. Fuck. Six months before in October, I finally decided to take advantage of my lovely dental insurance and get my ass to the dentist. And, being the obliging girlfriend that I was, I knew he was overdue for a visit, so I made him an appointment too. After the October checkup, we made appointments in the same manner for six months in the future without batting an eye.
However, now, six months later, I'm no longer a lovely obliging girlfriend, but a pissy, disgruntled ex-girlfriend and I don't want to chill in the waiting room with him flipping through Highlights magazines nor do I want him sitting in the next exam chair with his perfect, cavity free teeth. Who the hell has never had a cavity at almost 29? It's just more proof that he is in fact a demon spawn and not human...
After my reminder call, I immediately e-mailed him, asking him to please change his appointment since it was me who found the dentist and made the damn appointment around my weird journalist scedule in the first place. He agreed, making sure to throw in a few unnecessarily mean comments about me into the reply and I thought it was all over — No more association by dentist, but that was just the beginning of the dentist debacle.
As soon as I walked into the office, the receptionist informed me that my husband had called to reschedule his appointment.
Oh. My. Fucking. God!
I wasn't aware that having the same address and making dentist appointments together six months ago automatically meant rings and vows and death (or dentist appointment) do us part...
Then, after my exam, the hygienist asked if I wanted to make another appointment...with my husband.
Seriously, if I hear the word "husband" again, I'm going to be inconsolable. Not just because of the fact that the word "husband" is scary enough on it's own right now, but because they are using it in reference to the last man on earth I want to become my husband except for maybe Ike Turner. I told her not to worry about him and quickly changed the subject.
Dr. Dentist was my hero for never uttering the word husband or even referring to "that-man-that-came-with-me-to-my-appointment-last-time," however he did manage to slice into another one of my soft spots.
My teeth — clean and cavity free. My gums — impecable. My breath — like the motherfucking mountain breeze. But, did he mention any of that? Of course not. He was completely fixated on my bite — the most horrific sight ever.
You would have thought I had a hairlip and a deformed face instead of a small "Madonna" gap between my two front teeth and a bit of an overbite. I was like, dude, I would have gone to an orthodontist if I wanted somebody to more or less say, "Damn bitch, you ugly." Just tell me my teeth are fine and let me go like all normal dentists. Spare me the criticism since I blame my parents for not forcing me to continue my orthodotics. The surgery I needed was not going to fly with my 8-year-old self 17 years ago, so now here I am almost 25 and in need of braces (again) and surgery. This is a maybe, if I can find the funds and the strength to sport braces in my mid-20s. HOT.
Anyway, they throw an orthodontics referral form at me then send me to the receptionist to scedule an appointment where she informs me that most insurance companies don't cover adult orthodontics. Great so now I have bad teeth and I'm old balls.
She then promptly asks, "Would you like to schedule your next appointment with your husband?"
OH. MY. FUCKING. GOD!