tavie.com

Until last fall, when my father retired and we were no longer covered by his dental plan, I had been going to the same dentist since I was seven. His office, in Brooklyn (above a candy shop!) had a plush, naturally-lit waiting room full of the latest magazines, a water cooler full of Poland Spring and a television with HBO, later replaced by digital cable with all the movie channels. There were private rooms covered with posters and racks of dental hygiene brochures, the latest, comfiest dental chairs, and digital cable in every room. Dr Ruthenberg is a pleasant, low-key guy who shares my parents' love of travel but tended to keep small talk to a minimum. It was the dental office from heaven. At the end of the visit, there was always a free toothbrush. The good kind with the tilted head.

Yesterday I went to my new dentist on the Upper East Side. It's up a flight of stairs, stuffed in next to a realty office, with a cramped, windowless waiting room consisting of vinyl-covered benches and a stack of old magazines that looked ready to be taken to the dumpster. I was shown immediately into what looked like a large warehouse space that had been divided with low-walled, doorless cubicles. Everything was covered with dingy whitewash, and there was equipment in labeled Tupperware sitting out on the counters. There was a radio blasting lite music.

The dentist-- a brash, in-your-face New Yawkuh type who looks a grey-haired Emeril Lagasse ("BAM! No cavities!")-- took my x-rays himself. He pronounced my name "OctAHvia" and I was glad when he switched over to calling me "Princess" (also, incidentally, his nickname for his receptionist and someone whom I assume was an hygienist, also floating around.) He was a very nice man, even if he did make the common mistake of confusing anthropology with archaeology. ("Been on any digs yet?" How I loathe small talk. I was so nervous about it the night before. Not the procedure, but the small talk. I hate meeting new people hate meeting new hate hate hate meeting new people.)

I stared at the old-looking (if clean) equipment, ~~my gaze lingering on~~ (no no I'm not getting all writerly) especially the pipe that spits water into the spit-sink, 'cause I could swear it was rusty. No matter because after prodding and poking and taking x-ray after x-ray and having the other dentist come in and examine me as well, he told me there was absolutely nothing wrong with me. Not even decay. He was troubled with the puzzle of my pain (which had and has gone away, even the throbbing). He told me he was certain I wasn't crazy and that he wanted to see me the second I felt pain, any at all-- not even to make an appointment, just to come in. It's a short bus ride from school, so I guess I will at that. But I miss the HBO.

After that I went to the horror-movie fest at Kate's house with Kate and Andrew. It was much fun, featuring a cameo appearance by erin, three terrible movies (who, who, who told us that Trilogy of Terror was scary? It was funny, sure... but scary?) and one reallly great, really terrifying movie: Jacob's Ladder, the scariest movie I've ever seen, including The Ring. I'm still traumatized by it. Its vision of hell matched mine perfectly. Everything that terrifies me was present. Oh, my, was I haunted this morning trying to fall asleep. But who did Kyle Gass play in it? I saw his name in the credits, but I don't remember him.

Oh, yeah: yesterday I saw Todd Barry on the street at two different locations, hours apart. It was very Halloween-y, as he scares me.

Why are you in Tavie's head? 4:14 PM | shower me with attention