Why Drinking and Dentists Don't Mix

Perhaps in hindsight it was somewhat misjudged to stay up until 3am last night with the husband and a well-intentioned but somewhat 'naughty' mate who popped over with a big smile and a bottle of Gordon's Gin just as we were getting ready for bed.  I was just trying to be sociable...and after all, we are leaving Bali in twelve days.  Besides, it was a rare rain-free night and how was I to know that a cheeky gin & tonic would turn into a relative waterfall of distilled juniper?!

At any rate, it wasn't until this morning, with the husband and I staring stupidly across the table at each other at our favourite cafe, trying to jolt our brains into the 'on' position by way of two extra strong lattes, that it suddenly dawned on me that I had a date with a dental surgeon in a few short hours.

At the best of times this realisation would have been pretty dire, but barely able to stomach a single bite of muffin and dimly aware that I was operating at about the mental level of a five year old, it was enough to give me the fear.

And fear it was that consumed me as I lay cranked back in the dental chair, shortly after noon, as the dentist tried to inject me and I fought valiantly against the urge to vomit on the plastic gloved hand she had cranked into the back of my mouth.  Fighting my gagging reflex I momentarily distracted myself by trying to blindly locate the fast forward button on the ipod in my lap so I didn't have to listen to Johnny Cash's rendition of 'Hurt' at full volume (which by the way is a great track but SO not what you want to listen to while your inner cheek is getting stabbed by a bored looking dentist and the half-asleep assistant manning the suction wand.)  Nightmare.  Several times throughout the ensuing next hour I grabbed her wrist and yanked it out of my mouth, nearly drilling a hole in my bloated tongue by accident.  I didn't care.  

It also dawned on me that the language barrier was probably not a huge help in determining exactly what procedure was being done to me and why.  I found it disconcerting that she had refused to do something I had asked her to do last time (or at least that's what I thought she was saying?) but this time she happily acquiesced with a shrug.  Huh?!  

Anyway, I'm home safe and sound now and my teeth look - well pretty much the way they did before to be honest - but that's not the point.  

I survived it and now if I can just make it to bed and fall asleep without the husband cottoning on, perhaps I can get out of bedtime duties tonight (and by that I don't mean those of the conjugal variety but rather the nightly skirmish involving showers/teeth/jammies and two very dirty, slightly naughty little boys.)

I'm outta here.....