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04:49 a.m. - 2001-02-20


Went to the dentist to get my teeth cleaned yesterday morning.

I don't mind going to the dentist and I certainly don't mind getting my teeth cleaned.

What I DO mind is when the dentist brings up the fact that I don't floss.

I know I should floss. This fact has been drilled into my head with the subtlety of a kick in the ass.

I just HATE flossing. And the reason for that is the same reason that I hate inserting tampons in my ass.

...I don't know how to do it.

That's right ... I don't know how to floss.

I know you're supposed to tear off a string of floss. I know that you're supposed to put that string between your teeth and give it a couple of sharp tugs. I know that you're supposed to do that between every pair of teeth.

But every time I do it, I end up either hurting myself or quitting halfway through my teeth because I can't get in there properly.

My dentist doesn't accept this as an answer. In his perfect teeth world, he thinks EVERYONE should know how to floss and there are NO excuses for not flossing.

Well guess what, Dr. Pearly Whites? I can't fucking do it.

I made it through my teeth cleaning with flying colors. Of course, Anne, my dental hygienist wanted to talk all about Andy.

Anne: "So is Andy sleeping all night?"

Me: "Mmmmph."

Anne: "Is he eating solid foods yet?"

Me: "Gah ha reh nah suh a four nuh."

Anne: "You're kidding me!"

ME: "Mmmmmph."

This goes on for about half an hour. I'm laying back in a chair with her face inches from mine and her hands stretching my mouth wide. All I want to do is lay their with my eyes closed and get as comfortable as possible while she scrapes my teeth with a sharp metal hook.

Another thing that I fail miserably at is the "Rinse and Spit" portion of the teeth cleaning. The little basin is to the left of the chair, so I'm given a cup of water, I rinse the nasty plaque/foot particle shit out of my mouth and then I have to spit it all in this little basin.

I just can't do it.

I ALWAYS walk out of there with my left shoulder completely drenched and tiny pieces of week-old roast beef all over my shirt.

Yeah. I'm one proud mofo.

So once she gets done cleaning my teeth, she lays me back so I can rest my eyes for a few minutes because that's what us old people do whenever we get a chance...we rest our eyes.

Fifteen minutes later, the dentist walks in. I seriously don't know why this guy is the head honcho around the office. He spends an average of 20 seconds with me each time, stretching my lips apart and telling me to "bite down in the back".

It took me YEARS to master the "bite down in the back". What he's looking for is for me to bite down so that the back teeth fit perfectly against each other ... NOT the front teeth.

I ALWAYS try to get the front teeth to match up. This infuriates my dentist and he usually responds with a swift punch to the mouth in order to correct me. This continues until my teeth feel ready to cooperate and he's always satisfied with the way my teeth are lined up. He's NEVER seen my teeth and said "Wait a second ... your teeth aren't lining up correctly."

So why get in such a hissyfit each time?

I dunno.

Anyway ... my teeth are fine, no cavities, blah blah blah.

Goooo me!!

We had to keep Andy out of daycare yesterday because his daycare lady caught him surfing for porn on her computer.

Wait...that's my nephew, not Andy.

Actually, we kept him out because he wouldn't stop crying and Susie felt guilty for taking her crying baby to daycare.

Sooooo...we had to come up with a plan of action.

I had to get my teeth cleaned at 8 a.m. So I would go do that, swing by the office, pick up some work that I could do at home, run by Toys R Us and get Andy some baby Orajel because I was convinced he was cutting an upper tooth and then run home where I would relieve Susie in watching the baby.

Got the teeth cleaned. Ran by the office and picked up every press release on my desk, shoved it in folders and then went to Toys R Us, where I got the Orajel, a cool teething ring and a "Giggle and Sing" Tigger doll, because my baby wasn't feeling well and I always wished as a kid that every time I didn't feel well that my dad would bring me home a toy to make me feel better.

Andy liked the Tigger doll. He sings "The Wonderful Thing About Tiggers" which is what I always sing to him. So we squeezed his tummy about 458 times and listened to the Tigger song while I shook the doll around as if Tigger was actually singing the song.

This amused the shit out of Andy.


After changing his diaper, I gave him some Orajel, some Infant Tylenol and we both crashed on the floor. He on his play mat, clutching Tigger to his chest and me next to him.

We woke up at 2:30.

His doctor's appointment was at 3.

I'm not used to getting the baby prepared to go somewhere all by myself. If you want to call a spade a spade...Susie usually does the majority of it, while I grab a bottle out of the fridge and toss it in his diaper bag and call that "my contribution to the process".

As quickly as I tossed him in a new diaper and clothes, found some toys, grabbed his milk and more diapers, washed his pacifier, applied his baby makeup and curled his hair...we STILL made it to the doctor's office with five minutes to spare.

Of course...even though the appointment was at 3, we didn't get ushered into a room until 3:30.

Susie was smart. She met us at the office at 3:29. She's figured these baby doctors out. I'm still living in the clouds and expecting everything to flow smoothly.

Wrong, you dickless wonder, you.

We get in the next waiting room and Andy's sorta delerious from the Infant Tylenol. He's actually high as a kite. He's babbling real quietly and turning his hands over and over. He probably thinks his thumbnail is the center of the universe or some hippy shit like that.

The doctor walks in and it's not our regular doctor. He flips Andy around in the air, slaps his back, jams a few toothpicks in his ear and proclaims that Andy still has an ear infection that hasn't cleared up yet.


I ask him to check out Andy's gums and see if he feels a tooth coming in. He does and says he doesn't.

So we get Andy's prescription, take him home, inject him with enough medicine to knock him out for the night and he does just that.

He's STILL asleep almost 12 hours later.

God bless modern over-the-counter medicines and prescriptions as well.

Bless 'em God.


You can do it.

Oh yeah, thanks you guys for all the slogan suggestions on the message board.

Of course, now I have so many good ones to choose from, I'm frazzled as to which one to use.

I'll pick one here eventually. You just wait.


I bet I start getting some hits on this piece of shit diary.

I just need the right slogan.

And then...whoooohoooooo!!! Hit City!!!

Alright...the baby's awake. I'm gonna go play.

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