I made a decision this morning which is probably going to result in severe humiliation, but I'm desperate, so I'll just have to keep telling myself that.  I really need to see a dentist.  I have needed to see a dentist for years.  The last time I had my teeth professionally cleaned, Princess Zurg was still living in my womb.  Yeah, that was six and a half years ago.  Point being?  For a while my excuse was that I had no dental coverage.  (Or money.)  When I got dental coverage, I was new in town and didn't know any dentists.  Then I had no dental coverage again.  Then I had dental coverage and still knew no dentists.  I asked people I knew from church about dentists, and everyone said they went to a woman in our ward who had a dental practice with her father, who also happened to be my former bishop.  My initial reaction to this was, Ew.  I didn't want anyone I saw socially to put their hands in my mouth and discover what was in there.  That was just too much for me.  But time went on and my teeth kept being neglected until finally I had to make a dental appointment for PZ anyway, so I tried to make one for myself at the same time–but I was pregnant again and they didn't want to see me without doing x-rays and they wouldn't do x-rays while I was pregnant, so they told me to come back after I had the baby.  Like I was ever going to do that.  I mean, it had taken me five years to make that phone call–did anyone really think I was going to be in a rush to call them back?

Anyway, Elvis was about four months old when we moved up here, and I thought, well, goody.  At least I can go see a dentist I don't know now.  Right?  Wrong.  I asked the only people I know here, people from church, and they all go see the dentist in our ward.  A very nice gentleman, the one who pulled PZ's teeth last month, but…ew.  I really didn't want to do this.  But last night I was eating ice cream and a tooth on my left side started killing me, and I knew the time had come to swallow my pride–which you'd think would be digested and long gone by now, but apparently not–and just make an appointment with Dr. A.  At least I know he's not a sadist.  (Even though his real name, which shall remain anonymous, happens to be homophonous with a certain violent verb, which I think is very funny.  But I digress.)

All of this goes to show that I need greater religious diversity in my social circle.  I've known this for years.  It's not that I haven't tried.  Just last month I attended a MOMS Club meeting so I could meet some nice, non-Mormon ladies.  It went less than swimmingly.  Not just because my children were being anti-social nap-needers.  A friend of mine (Mormon, naturally) asked me what it was like and I said it was a lot like attending a ladies' meeting at church, only no one felt obligated to talk to me because my eternal salvation wasn't at stake.  I may go back again this month and give it another go, because I'm running out of ideas.  The ladies in my tap-dancing class are nice, but they don't seem to be much on chit-chat.  We're all too busy looking at our feet, I guess.

I'm not looking forward to my next pregnancy, for more reasons than one, but mostly because I know I'll be disappointed with whoever replaces the midwife I had in
Eugene.  When I was pregnant with Mister Bubby, I was living up here temporarily and was seeking recommendations for a good midwife or obstetrician.  There happens to be an LDS obstetrician in
Portland, and I think every pregnant Mormon lady in the metro area sees him.  It's kind of creepy, if you ask me.  They say they feel more comfortable with him "because he's a bishop"–to which I say, "I didn't know uteruses had bishops."  Seriously, folks, what is the deal? 

Anyway, I ended up just picking someone out of the phone book because a) I wasn't looking for a father figure in my doctor, especially not my OB/GYN, and b) I didn't care if he wasn't in my ward–if I had run into him at the temple or something, I would have felt weird.  Kind of like that time in college when I ran into my math professor whilst picking up feminine hygiene products at the Food Lion.  My, he was a chatty math professor.  Anyway, as it turned out, a couple years later I was in this doctor/bishop's ward, and I was very glad not to be sitting in Sunday School with someone on such intimate terms with my cervix.  Call me crazy, call me a freaking prude, but there it is.

Intellectually I recognize that my reservations are silly, perhaps even childish.  I don't think I really believe that every time I walk into church, the man or woman who happens to be my health care professional is going to think, "There's the lady who doesn't like to floss," or "That gal sure screams a lot when she's in transition."  On the other hand, I've been on the receiving end of Too Much Information about certain people I go to church with, and I can tell you it's no fun shaking hands with the guy greeting you at the door and thinking about whatever intimate detail his wife told you about his sexual preferences.  (I mean, I never heard anything all that bizarre, but still…ew.)

So anyway, I'm going to go see Dr. A on the 26th, and hopefully he will not tell me I need a root canal or faint dead away at the sight of all this tartar buildup.  Yeah, I know, none of you wanted that information, either.  I'll try to be more genteel tomorrow.

But now I'm going to have one of those Dear Diary moments and confess something that is, quite frankly, disturbing me.  I was watching CSI:
Miami last night, and I realized that I have a thing for David Caruso.  Which is disturbing because I'd previously thought that I actually found him rather annoying.  It's true, he does have red hair, and maybe that's what it is.  But he's just…so…intense…it borders on ridiculous.  That's what I was thinking when I had my awful revelation.  "This guy is so intense, it's ridiculous.  Actually, it's annoying.  But is it annoying because it's ridiculous, or is it annoying because I secretly find it irresistably sexy?"  Really, I haven't been this embarrassed since I started crying in the middle of Armageddon.  (Oh, like you didn't.)

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