“What’s your thinking about singing dentists, Em?”
“… ummm… Like that singing dentist on the YouTubes?”
“The—What? No. A dentist singing while they’re working on your teeth. Just sitting there, staring down into your mouth and singing along with their office music.”
“Really? Like, out loud? Full-throated singing?”
“Oh yeah. Like they’re doing karaoke.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Not just, like, humming along? Actually singing.”
“If I’m lying, I’m dying.”
“Huh.”
“I know, right?”
“Your dentist does this, you’re saying?”
“Yep.”
“Does your dentist have a good voice?”
“Sure. Feels a little like she might’ve done some musical theatre back in the day.”
“Like a glee club voice.”
“Exactly. And she knows all the words too.”
“Power ballads, mostly. You know, those solo efforts from former boy band members.”
“That’s terrible, M. Must be, well, teeth grinding for you. No pun intended.”
“She also likes her some of them golden oldies.”
“Like, how old?”
“Stuff my folks listen to. 70s stuff. Fleetwood Mac. Paul Simon. America. You know, your basic soft rock. She know all the words to that stuff too!”
“Oh my. Definitely Glee Club.”
“The thing is, some of the songs, they’re kind of the slow grind, you know?”
“I fear I might, but I’ll need you to elaborate.”
“Well, you know. Songs you can imagine that your parents danced to at their high school prom.”
“Such as?”
“… I can see the sunset in your eyes—”
“Oh god, no.”
“Brown and gray and blue besides. Oooo, baby I love your way!”
“No way.”
“Yes way.”
“Uh uh.”
“Uh huh.”
“Who sang that again?”
“You mean besides my dentist? Peter Frampton.”
“Oh right.”
“Peter Frampton Comes Alive. In your pants.”
“Jee–zus. And is your dentist, like, getting into it, like in a Glee Club kind of way?”
“You mean, is she staring into my eyes and serenading me while drilling deep into my pre-molar in search of the nerve ending?”
“No. But does she seem aware of the lyrical content she’s singing?”
“Think it’s just background music to her. Like, if she was at the mall or something.”
“Or maybe drowning out your screams of pain.”
“Yeah. Just another day at the office. Still. I find it unsettling. I mean, unless I’m at a concert, I’m never really comfortable with someone singing around me.”
“You could probably ask her not to singalong. My dentist plays classical music. The stuff without words.”
“I want my dentist to be happy at work, though. Whatever keeps them focused on the task at hand. If that means belting out a show tune, so be it. But what I find interesting is, what if it were the other way around?”
“Be difficult for you to sing, M, what with the dentist’s fingers and the tools in your mouth.”
“HaHa. No, what I’m saying is, What if the roles were reversed and you were the patient, Em, and the dentist was a dude, crooning at you while putting a crown on your bicuspid?”
“Well, first of all, my teeth are perfect. Crowns on my head not my teeth. For I am the Dental Queen.”
“There you go. You’re in for your basic check-up, yeah? Your dentist starts belting out Caribbean Queen! Now we’re sharing the same dream. And our hearts they beat as one.
No more love on the run. What do you do now, huh? Trapped in the dentist’s chair, bib on, guys fingers in your mouth. And our hearts they beat as one.”
“Well, first of all, how do you know the words to Caribbean Queen?”
“Doesn’t everybody?”
“I don’t.”
“It’s just the first verse. Everybody knows the first verse.”
“I don’t.”
“So how do you know I do? Maybe I was just making them up. You wouldn’t know if you don’t know the words.”
“Here’s the thing, M. I think there’s just a dynamic at work between a male dentist and a female patient. You know, there’s a history out there of male dentists taking advantage of the vulnerable position their female patients are in, all his patients, really. That doesn’t exist between a female dentist and a male patient. You didn’t feel vulnerable with her singing, right? Uncomfortable, maybe. But that’s a different thing entirely.”
“I know, I know. It’s just…”
“You wish you were as uninhibited as your dentist, don’t you. Just singing whenever and wherever you wanted.”
“No, Em. I most certainly do not. There’s a time and place for singing, is all I’m saying. On a stage. In the shower. In your car on a road trip. Have at it, I say.”
“Hey look, man. I think anyone who makes a living gazing into the recesses and abscesses of our mouths should be able to filter out the dirty business of our oral hygiene in any way that keeps their hands steady and gag reflexes in check. A song in your heart if you’ve got a scraper in your hand, I say. I mean, do you even floss regularly, M?”
“Yes.”
“How often? Daily? Twice a day, after breakfast and before bed?”
“Yes. Most days.”
“Uh huh.”
“When I feel there’s something stuck between my teeth.”
“Exactly. You should just be glad you have a dentist who sings instead of one who throws up in your mouth when she tells you to open wide and gets a look inside.”
“Dude, my teeth aren’t that bad.”
“I’m just saying you should floss more diligently.”
“Agreed.”
“Yeah, well. We’ve had this conversation before, haven’t we.”
“About flossing? I don’t think we ha—”
“No. I’m pretty sure we have.”
“I think you’re thinking about somebody else.”
“I do talk to a lot of people about flossing. This is true. Because it’s important. There’s a mere letter difference between mental health and dental health, M.”
“Did you just make that up?”
“I did, yeah. Catchy, huh? The thing is, you can always change dentists, right? If the singing thing unnerves you. Like a root canal. HaHa.”
“There’s that. But what if I go to another dentist who likes to have a conversation when they’re working on you? Asks all sorts of involved questions, never just yes or no ones where you can nod or shake or head. What’s with that?”
“That’s something you can take up at your next open mic night. What’s the deal with dentists anyway?”
