I have to tell you about a horrendous injustice which befell both me and my sister-from-another-mister, Chris Ruggieri, just this past week and right here in Boardman and Warren, respectively.
It happened on the same day but several hours apart. It was a dark and gloomy day when my pal and I were both placed into separate torture chambers and subsequently tormented for hours on end.
The oddest part of the ghastly collective experience is that nary a question was asked of either of us - at any point at all. Rather, they just pulled and stretched and poked and pinched and tapped and scraped and drilled, baby, drilled
Oh, sure, some of you would just refer to our fresh hell as coincidental dentist appointments on the same day, but we know better. Like Lucy Van Pelt from the Peanuts comic strip before us, we know when we've been insulted!
And attacked and persecuted and besieged, by golly.
It all starts innocently enough - a cavity here, a cracked tooth there and then BAM! Before you know it, they've got you strapped into that contortionist's chair and affixed with that Doc-Oc-type, fiendish-looking apparatus to keep your mouth ajar - and your larynx inoperable, methinks.
Naturally, you are too terrified to call out as they proceed to methodically waterboard you with a firehose as you hang upside down - in midair, mind you. Then, they simultaneously machine-gun drill your incisors and mutilate what's left of your molars with a tiny hacksaw. Oh, the humanity.
The clenched fists, the sweat-soaked clothing, the cursing, the crying, the stomach growling - I mean it's almost like being in a Lifetime movie, for heaven's sake!
Don't even get me started on that miniature sickle-looking thing, except that it foreshadows your sense that the grim reaper is lurking outside the door, just waiting for you to forget how to breathe. Which you will, BTW.
My beloved Chris always conjures "The Marathon Man" in her mind's eye whenever visiting the dentist. For me, the waking nightmare includes flashbacks to the scariest scenes from "Little Shop of Horrors" in between Hail Mary's (I always say the rosary at the dentist's) and silent screams for my mommy.
Both Chris and I have to talk ourselves out of jumping up out of the chair and bolting for the door mid-procedure every single time.
"Patty, you have survived childbirth (though barely), run a full-marathon and a dozen half-marathons. You log 50+ miles per week and have carried a six-year-old through all five boroughs of New York City on your hip. YOU CAN DO THIS," is the internal dialogue ensuing as they further their fiendish plot to silence me.
Sadly, between the two of us, Chris and I have had, oh, I don't know 47 root canals, 89 cavities, some jaw bone removal and a bit of bone transplantation, not to mention the random pulled tooth. On deck for our joint future is at least one skin graft and certain dental reconstruction.
Gulp times two.
Should we just save everyone much time, trouble, money and pain and just get a two-for-one deal on whole-mouth tooth extractions while we're concurrently fitted for two sets of dentures?
We feel it's inevitable, after all.
Whatever happened to the good old days when they gave you laughing gas at the dentist, anyway? I mean, I've had more Novocain in my lifetime than the entire population of the state of Connecticut. And, for the record, it's never funny - not even a little.
Oh well, the best thing I can say about going to a dental appointment is that you neither have to disrobe nor be weighed at any point during the visit.
Oh, well. At least it's not expensive. Hey, maybe somebody slipped me some nitrous oxide after all!
Kimerer is a Tribune Chronicle columnist and a big, fat baby when it comes to dental appointments. Contact her at firstname.lastname@example.org but DO NOT tell her dentist how to get a hold of her!