One Flew Over the Dentist’s Chair, or Butch Cavity & the Periodontal Kid

by Roger White

 

Having been raised in front of our family’s trusty old TV set and in the darkened imitation-butter-smelling theaters of suburban Anytown USA, I often find myself comparing personal life situations to those on the screen. And yes, there really is a “Seinfeld” skit for approximately seven-tenths of the events of my life, big or small. Serenity now!

Recently, however, I found myself mired in a swirling mélange of three movies at once. And it all started at the dentist’s office. I had broken a tooth, you see. It fell apart while I was flossing, of all things. You know you have serious doubts about the strength and durability of your pearly yellows when you crack a tooth by flossing. I imagine that pretty soon my molars may start crumbling while eating pudding. In that event, I’m just gonna pack it in and head off to the old gummers’ home.

Anyway. It took a few days to get an appointment, so I suffered through the interim by stuffing a tiny ball of chewed gum in my fractured fang. That way, I could keep from shredding my tongue on the ragged remnant of my poor tooth. The dentist said it was a clever temporary fix, but he feared I may have caused an infection. I would find out, he mentioned in passing, as he began to pump my gums full of anesthetic. Infections, he said, tend to render anesthetics and numbing agents ineffective.

There wasn’t much of anything left of the old tooth, so the decision was made to extract. Shouldn’t take too long, he said.

Thus began my descent into the Seventh Circle of Hades. Dente’s Inferno.

Brother, either I had a bad infection, or my tender pie hole is the most sensitive mouth this side of the Susquehanna. For a mindblowing, life-flashing-before-my-eyes, expletive-spewing one hour and thirty-five minutes, the poor Spouseman suffered through the worst pain I’ve experienced since Daughter Number Two nailed me square in the cajones with a sharply hit, line-drive softball. Why do they call them softballs, anyway? That thing felt pretty solid to me.

So through the pungent dental haze of grinding and cracking and tugging and groaning I found myself transported to the movie Marathon Man. I was Dustin Hoffman, supine and at the mercy of former Nazi prison camp dentist Laurence Olivier, who was drilling into my defenseless teeth all the while smiling and calmly asking me if it was safe.

“It’s safe! It’s safe!” I hollered, but the torture continued.

Eventually, finally, dentist man had his prize, and I had a mangled mouth and a prescription for some hefty pain meds. The pharmacy guy advised that I eat something with these pills, but eating something—anything—was out of the question. The inside of my mouth looked like a bad Picasso.

Thus, later that evening, in considerable agony, I weighed the nuclear-powered pills in my hand and found myself suddenly in the movie Catch-22. The catch, in my case, was the fact that I needed something substantial in my belly in order for the meds to bestow the blessed relief without terminal nausea; however, eating was impossible because of the very pain I needed relief from. See Heller, comma, Joseph. I scarfed down the pills and dispatched a quick prayer to the digestion gods.

The meds slowly eased the agony enough for me to fall asleep. But.

Sure enough, in the wee middle of the night, I woke up sick as my old tabby cat after a heavy catnip bender. Getting out of bed was no easy feat; the world was spinning worse than an old Iron Butterfly video. I felt my way to the bathroom, took a step toward the toilet, and promptly passed out. The next thing I remember was my dear wife screaming at the top of her lungs. I managed to peer open an eye, and suddenly I was in the movie Helter Skelter. From my vantage point sprawled on the floor, the bathroom looked like . . . , well, let’s just say it weren’t pretty. I hadn’t seen that much blood since the prom scene in Carrie. Or Helter Skelter, take yer pick. I had apparently konked my noggin on the sink on the way down. Sinks and foreheads don’t mix well.

I took the next day off work to rest, heal up, and catch up on Seinfeld reruns. Fittingly, it seems, the first one I tuned in to was the episode in which Jerry is accused of being a rabid anti-dentite because of his skittish reaction to dentists. Indeed. I was able to funnel some warm soup into me in order to prevent the pain meds from bursting forth violently from my bod again.

When I checked my e-mail later that morning, I found one of those robotically-dispatched surveys from the dentist office, asking me about my recent experience. Was I satisfied? Was the office clean? Etc., etc.

I typed four words: “No soup for you!” Not sure why, seemed to make sense at the time. Probably the pain meds. Not that there’s anything wrong with them.

 

Roger White is a freelance writer living in Austin, Texas, with his lovely wife, two precocious daughters, a morbidly obese dachshund, and a cat with Epstein-Barr Syndrome. For further adventures, visit oldspouse.wordpress.com. Or not.

 

Insurance Companies & The Ninth Circle of Hell

by Roger White

A dubious milestone of this haphazard voyage we call aging is the unique privilege of having one’s most private of bodily parts probed, scoped and examined with cold, silvery steel instruments and high-tech cameras that lay bare one’s innermost of innards for the whole world to see. This, and a whole host of other expensive and excruciating invasions, is surely the primary reason old folks have that constant sourpuss get-the-hell-off-my-lawn look about them.

 

If the seasons of one’s years can be parceled into 20-year increments, then I figure I’m now in the late autumn of my earthly existence, and I’ve recently been invaded in ways I never quite imagined. If you still have the green leaves of youth on your person and haven’t undergone such a procedure, picture one of the “Saw” movies, except with anesthesia and hospital food. And I even pay for the privilege—quite a lot, as a matter of fact. Which brings me to the point: Insurance companies are the instruments of Satan. It is true; strip away the fur of the MetLife Snoopy character or the feathers of the Aflac duck, and you’ll find the gnarled skin, boils and jagged horns of Beelzebub himself.

Oh, insurance people make all the requisite noises of friendly service and compassionate care, as long as you’re shelling out those monthly premiums on time. But try to call on your amiable insurance guy for actual coverage and you’ll witness the meek Smeagol flash to the snarling Gollum faster than you can say what’s my co-pay. Ya see, when I was first invaded a few years ago (see First Battle of Colon), I got the standard percentage of coverage—minus the hefty co-pay, of course. In that First Battle of Colon, the general—I mean doctor—captured a few rebel polyps. I hate and fear that word: polyp. When you hear the word “polyp” in a sentence in reference to your body, you can be sure it isn’t good. The very word sounds rubbery and unpleasant—malevolent, even.

“Did ya hear about Rodge?”

“No, what?”

“Polyps.”

“Oh, my God.”

Anyway, these rebel polyps looked suspicious, so they were executed—and I was ordered to succumb to a second invasion in a few years (see Siege of Polyponesia) to determine if there was another uprising. So just recently, in preparation for the second great invasion, I received a call from the general’s—er, I mean doctor’s—office. The pleasant woman on the line asked how I would be paying for the procedure, and I said the same way I did for the first pleasant outing. She said sorry, but my insurance company pays for this type of invasion only every 10 years. Because of my—ugh, polyps—I have what is known in the insurance world as a preexisting condition. Sorry, Charlie. Yer on yer own. Well, she didn’t say it that way; she asked if I would consider a payment plan. As in paying the Ass Man a couple hundred dollars a month for the rest of my seasons.

Needless to say, I was flummoxed. Gobsmacked. Flabbergasted, even. Let me get this straight, I said to the pleasant woman. My insurance company will chip in its rightful portion for this god-awful event if I’m just doing it on a whim, but if it’s been determined that I really need it, then they won’t pay up. How convenient for them.

 

Yes, she said. Welcome to the world of the preexisting condition. Gadzooks, people. Where will this lead? Will the Satan-worshipers insurance people eventually come to the greedy conclusion that everything is a preexisting condition?

Emergency room administrative person: “So how will you pay for surgery on your cracked skull?”

Guy with cracked skull: “I have insurance.”

ER person: “Sorry, we contacted them already. They determined that your clumsiness, which caused you to fall on your head, is a preexisting condition. Do you have any credit cards?”

I’m hunting down that damn duck. Anyone for Aflac à l’orange?

Roger White is a freelance writer living in Austin, Texas, with his lovely wife, two precocious daughters, a very fat dachshund, and a self-absorbed cat. For further adventures, visit oldspouse.wordpress.com.

So That’s Why They Call it the Poop Deck! OMG!!!

by Penelope Ashe

 

Editor’s note: While “This Old Spouse” columnist Roger White continues his recovery and convalescence from male breast-reduction surgery, guest columnist Penelope Ashe has agreed to offer her wacky, offbeat observations and unique comic stylings with her very own “From Penelope’s Pen.”

 

Hi, out there!!! Penelope Ashe here!!! First, let me tell you a little bit about myself. My name is Penelope Ashe, and I am an XX-year-old divorcee living in Bastrop, Texas, with my two adorable poodles and one snarky, mean old cat. You didn’t really think I was going to tell you how old I was, did you? Hahahahaha!!!

I have an online associate’s degree from Belford University, I was an actress and singer in Houston (actually, the suburb of Sealy!) for several years (Shakey’s Olde Time Dinner Theatre), and I have my own Pinterest following in the disciplines of scrapbooking and merkin weaving. My friends and family have always told me how funny and witty I am, so when I found out about this chance to write my very own funny column, I just couldn’t resist!!!

Well, anyway, enough about me, on to the humor!!! Are you ready???

Did you hear about that cruise ship that got stuck in the ocean without any power? OMG, it floated around in the Gulf of Mexico for days, while passengers had to wait in line for like ever for food—and they had to do their business in buckets!!! I guess that gives a new meaning to the word “poop deck,” huh? Hahaha!!!

And what’s up with that Charlie Sheen character? OMG x 2!!! What I don’t understand is that after all his misbehavior (do you really think he drank real tiger’s blood?), he gets another zillion-dollar contract to star in another TV show?!? Do you think if I acted up like that that I would get my very own TV show? Maybe something like “Here’s Penelope” or “A*S*H*E”—get it? (Like “M*A*S*H” except a little different.) By the way, did you know that they have a sitcom in the Philippines called “Ful Haus,” based on the all-time classic American show “Full House”? Isn’t there a law? Anyway, with Mr. Sheen being a total wackjob like he is, I don’t blame his brother, Emilio Estevez, for taking a stage name.

How about poor Lance Armstrong, huh? Everyone in this part of the world pretty much worshiped the ground he rode on until all the steroid accusations against him were proven to be true. We had a Lance Armstrong bike path, Lance Armstrong Avenue; everybody wore his little yellow wristbands, etc., etc. And now everybody in and around Austin rides their bikes wearing their aerodynamic helmets and faux competition outfits, looking quite ridiculous if you ask me. I’m sure many of them would have given their left you-know-what to be Lance Armstrong—which is real funny if you know that Mr. Armstrong only has one you-know-what? Hahahahah!!! And now Lance has admitted that it’s all true—Lance was lanced with hypodermic needles more times than a drug addict. I guess you could say he was a drug pedaler. Get it???!!!

You know, for some reason, every time I try to actually say “hypodermic needles,” I end up saying “hypodeemic nerdles.” I always thought that would be a great name for a garage band. The Hypodeemic Nerdles!!! What do you think? Anyhoot,….

Can you believe the Pope is heading off to retirement? I didn’t know they could do that? Can you just picture him in a baggy bathing suit, long black socks and sandals, with his tall Pope hat on, scouring the beach with his metal detector. I guess now that he’s no longer on the job, they’ll call him Ex Benedict. Hee hee hee!!! Like the breakfast.

Apparently, we just missed being hit by a giant asteroid, only by a few hundred miles or so. Did you hear that? Whew!!! That would have been a really rocky end, huh? It would lend a new meaning to getting really stoned, huh? Talk about getting stuck between a rock and a hard place!!! Hoohooooo!!!!

Well, I guess that’s all for now, readers!!! If you want to join my Pinterest site for scrapbooking, just tweet #penelopespals@283, and I’ll be sure to reply. Air kisses and e-hugs!!!

 

Roger White is a freelance writer living in Austin, Texas, with his lovely wife, two precocious daughters, a very fat dachshund, and a self-absorbed cat. For further adventures, visit oldspouse.wordpress.com. Penelope Ashe, author of “Naked Came the Stranger,” is a part-time cosmetologist at Sue’s Salon in Cement, Texas.

Me and My Placenta

by Roger White

Viewer warning: For those of you with weak stomachs, strong senses of ick, or those curmudgeonly few who are simply hard of smiling, this column may offend, disgust, bother, or downright nauseate. But it’s all true! And in my ever-vigilant quest for truth, justice, and the Appian Way, this seeker of genuine morsels of weird shall not be censored. Unless, of course, my editor nixed this whole idea—in which case you’re not reading this. Hmm. So if a columnist writes an article in the forest and nobody reads it, did he really write anything? Woah. Slow down, man, I think I’m gonna hurl.

So anyway, I read in my local newspaper here that some people, I don’t know how many so don’t start screaming yet, are keeping their leftover placentas in the freezer for later use. No sirree, I did not slip and hit my head on the wet kitchen floor caused by the dog licking at pools of Diet Pepsi, which was spilled by my daughter, who was playing spaghetti games with our emotionally challenged cat at the dinner table. I am not deranged; this statement is true because I read it in the paper. And as we all know, if it’s in the newspaper, it must be true.

First off, I have no earthly idea why the adjective “leftover” was stuck in front of the noun “placenta,” and I also cannot possibly conceive what sort of “later use” they may be referring to.

So let’s read on, shall we? “Our clients are more and more asking to take their placentas home because it’s a part of their body, and it’s theirs,” the owner of a local birthing center said. I’d like to insert here that as a card-carrying AARP member, I am unashamed to say that I recently had hemorrhoid surgery, and though it was my body, and those were my parts, I laid absolutely no claim to them when all was said and done. The birthing center woman goes on to say that there are dozens of uses for the placentas, including eating them.

The article notes that although most medical groups do not endorse dining on human placenta, folks who cart their placentas home swear by the nutritional value of this spongy treat—particularly encapsulated placenta, which is, as we are all aware, dried, cured, and crammed into tiny little capsules like so many cold and flu pills.

Sometimes, I get lucky and this column practically writes itself, know what I mean?

Dozens of other uses for the placenta? Let’s not go there. Oh, what the heck, I have some more space to fill. Well, for starters, how about an indoor Frisbee? Except good luck ever getting the thing away from the cat once he snags it and high-tails it under the kitchen table. If your neighborhood softball team is thinking of ways of going green, it could make a nifty organic catcher’s mitt. All right, that’s enough. It’s almost lunch time.

Now, as positively grossed out as you may be (and it’s perfectly okay if you are because I still have goose pimples and the jimmy-leg as I’m writing this—ewwww), this sort of thing is nothing new. In fact, folks have been toting home and putting to use all manner of body parts from surgery that were originally destined for that big bio-hazard dump site near Amarillo that nobody wants to talk about. Don’t ask. I can’t talk about it.

For example, a guy in Scranton, Pennsylvania, finally relented to his wife’s wishes and had that delicate operation performed that many boys have done when they are first born. You know. A little off the top, in what the Jewish faith call the practice of Brit milah, or the bris. In keeping with our take-home trend discussed above, this guy now has a nice patio umbrella for his hamster, Rodney.

A housewife in Scottsdale who suffered through years of chronic gallstones now fashions wonderful necklaces and sells them out of her roadside trailer. She uses a strong lacquer finish, so the smell is generally neutral. Yes.

I had a couple more paragraphs here on facial hair and toenails, but my editor keeps hitting me in the back of the head with these sharp, tiny little objects. Cut it out, man!

Well, I warned you at the beginning, didn’t I? I gave second, third, and even fourth thoughts about this one, but who am I to put a lamp shade on the truth? Speaking of lamp shades, this one has an odd texture about it. Oh, MY—

Roger White is a freelance writer living in Austin, Texas, with his lovely wife, two precocious daughters, a very fat daschund, and a self-absorbed cat. For further adventures, visit oldspouse.wordpress.com.