Midway through exploring my poor tooth that's suffered through two root canals and a crown, the doctor said, "yep, we're going to have to pull it."
"What!" I said (and maybe my sailor mouth came out a little), "but I just got a crown!"
Dr. Z didn't respond -- perhaps because my sailor mouth was not appropriate in his Madison Ave office. Even numb from Novocaine, you can't shut me up.
"But! I paid 600 bucks for the crown! And only 5 months ago!" All my sentences were fragments, finished with exclamation marks. That's never a good sign.
Shouldn't the dentist chair be raised to give such bad news? Apparently not -- the chair stayed a mere foot off the ground, as if I were revisiting kindergarten.
Dr. Z looked sad, or maybe I was just confused by the binocular extension on his glasses.
"I'm sorry," he said, as if it were his fault. I liked that -- someone should owe me an apology. And with that, I moved into phase two: acceptance.
"Can I keep the crown?" I asked, but Dr. Z thought I was joking. He responded with a laugh, and then went in with the pliers. But I wasn't joking -- I like souvenirs, and deeply buried within the crown is gold. Sure, it's encased in porcelain, but still -- sparkly! pretty!
Now I have a hobo-rific hole in the middle of my mouth. I am a hobo. Let's all be grateful my two front teeth are intact -- that joke would have gotten old real fast. This is probably all punishment for being so delighted when Seth was mistaken for a hobo.