Dental damn

Today I had the long-dreaded honor and pleasure (read sarcasm) of visiting my dentist. Although I'm not as hesitant to go as I used to be, lying down in the torture chair while people pump novocaine into my gums and soft rock into my ears is certainly no picnic. After today I am not so much a dentist phobic as I am a dentist skeptic. Don't get me wrong. I don't begrudge anyone the opportunity to take money be it from my own pocket or that of my insurance company, but shouldn't there at least be a pretense of medical care? Today took the cake.

I showed up for my appointment with the hopes of getting a filling in my lower-right molar. My dentist and his underlings refer to this tooth as Number 31. I call it that tooth that constantly aches and has a black hole visible to the eye. Heidi Hygienist, known for her love of horses and good personal demeanor, examined it and informed me that it looked as though I had lost a filling. She took x-rays and cautioned me that Number 31 needed to be built up and crowned as soon as possible or else it would likely require a root canal. "The only reason your face isn't swollen up," she said to me," is because you're not to that stage yet." I took this to mean I was facing an abcess if the problem wasn't taken care of immediately. Though marginally concerned, I took comfort in the fact that I was here to have that very tooth mended.

Enter the dentist. He poked and prodded. To Heidi Hygienist he called out tooth numbers and codes known only to those who speak Dental-ese. This, I was told, was my new treatment plan. For some I imagine the treatment plan consists of coming in for a professional brush and floss. For me, treatment plan is synonymous financially with second mortgage or child's college education.

Once the good doctor and Heidi Hygienist came up with the treatment plan, they sent me to see the gum lady in the back corner chamber. Her cell is equipped with an oversized plastic model of the human mouth. Amazingly the mouth strikes me as one that needs no treatment plan. The gum lady informs me that I'll need to come in several times for a deep cleaning. I admire her tact in explaining a deep cleaning, which I know is code for pulling ones gums away from the teeth, scraping the otherwise gum-covered parts of the teeth and sending one home with a $300 bill and antibiotics. I suppressed the desire to tell her I've been to two periodontists in my 33 years and am familiar enough with deep cleanings to know that I'd rather walk across hot coals . . . to Saskatchewan than live through another deep cleaning. Once the gum lady was through shaming me, I was escorted to the front desk.

"Am I done?" I asked assuming this song and dance was supposed to be a predecessor to the real reason I came, getting my tooth filled.

"You're done," the gum lady said with her periodontist's wet dream of a smile.

"Am I not getting my tooth filled?" I asked the dentist who had now migrated to the front desk.

"Since it had been a while since we've seen you, we just came up with a new treatment plan today."

My number 31 looks exactly like it did when I walked in, only now my insurance company is a few dollars poorer.

The Nashville network

My recent visit to Nashville made for a nice contrast to my childhood visits to Tennessee. As a kid my family would occasionally make sojourns to the twin cities of Pigeon Forge and Gatlinburg, both fun places known for hayseed kitsch and cuisine. Nashville bore the signs of most major cities, skyscrapers, parking garages and rerouted traffic. Smaller than Atlanta in both size and population, Nashville is a much more walkable town. Shops and boutiques are concentrated on a few convenient blocks. Restaurants emit smells of everything from wings any way you like 'em to Chinese stir-fry. I passed on the tour of the Grand Ol' Opry and the headquarters of CMT. I did see budding country music singers waiting to be discovered as they played on the streets outside these places. I heard Rockabilly bands blaring from the bars. That was as close as I needed to come to local music.

Yeh, baby, yeh

Someone once told me that nothing changes your life as much as when you find out your expecting. Now I know he was right. Though it seems like only yesterday, actually three weeks have passed since I awoke to my wife screaming from the bathroom for me to come look at two straight lines on a home pregnancy kit. Hesitant to get our hopes up prematurely we quickly decided to opt for a second opinion. An immediate visit to the doctor confirmed our suspicions. "You're definitely pregnant," he announced.

In just a few short weeks we are becoming the quintessential parents to be. We pair first names with our last name to see how they sound. We map out where new furniture will go in the back bedroom. Our nightstand is stacked with books titled The Mother of All Pregnancy Books, Pregnancy Sucks and Pregnancy Sucks: For Men, the last of which I confess I purchased of my own volition. We have books on naming Baby, raising Baby and decorating for Baby. We question who to tell and when. What about budding grandparents? Should some friends know before others? At what point do you tell the boss?

While we're excited to step into the parental mold, we strive to avoid stumbling into certain stereotypes. No one likes going to a dinner party only to find you're seated next to the couple who only talks about their kids? Even more annoying (and rude) is the child-wielding couple who nags childless people wanting to know: (a) why they don't have kids; and (b) when they plan to get some. On a different note, I hope I can instill enough self-worth in my child so that after he makes the honor roll, I don't have to cement his ego with a bumper sticker.