By: Ann Brown
Consider the endodontists how they work: they toil (for, like, 35 minutes), they spin (and drill a bit); and yet I say unto you, that the rest of us (hard workers) in all our glory are not arrayed like one of these.
Nor do we drive brand new Range Rovers.
I am not against endos, per se; please understand that. It’s just that after his toiling and spinning and root canaling, my fucking molar still hurts. And he drives away in his brand new Range Rover. And I am left to brush my teeth with my head tilted down because God forbid any cold toothpaste should touch my tooth and make my head explode with pain.
It could be a hate crime against the Jews. I will vett this guy to see if he has any ties to Mengele. Now that I think of it, he had an almost inaudible gutteral “kh” when he said the word “machine”. And he was very organized. And I could swear he clicked his heels as he left the room when the root canal was over.
So, before I go back there again next week (okay, it is possible that I had two molars needing root canals and now it’s the other one that hurts), I just want to consider the life of the endo. You know, as compared to the life of, say, me.
If someone came to me for my expertise and skill (which will be determined at some point in my life before I die -I hope) and after paying me thousands upon thousands of dollars for services rendered, and after I jetted off to, oh, Fiji, for a much needed vacay and then that someone called me to say that, basically, the work I did was ineffective (or unbearably painful), I would think that I am the kind of person who would fly home from Fiji and remedy the work as a freebie. Maybe even send the person an Edible Arrangements bouquet as a pre-emptive apology. Unless I had given the person a bad root canal because then, you know, the cold fruit would fucking KILL them with pain when they bit into it. But I would like to think that that’s the kind of professional I am.
I would not, I hope, get that someone’s call and say to them, “oh, that means that there’s MORE to the problem than you thought. That means that I need many more thousands of dollars immediately. So, you know, I can hurt you again.”
I am beginning to think that my parents might have been right about my majoring in Ethnology of Non-Western Music and Dance with a specialty in Bulgarian singing. And how it wouldn’t lead to a career that would afford me trips to Fiji. Or trips to the gas station.
Wait! I know! I am going to call the University of California at Santa Cruz and tell them that my degree is ineffective. I am going to demand my money back and insist they do it again. AND that they send me an Edible Arrangements bouquet as an apology.
Which will fucking KILL me with pain when I bite into it, but I don’t care.
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Originally published on The Seattle Lesbian
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