I am Pavlov's dog.
When visiting home in the summer it is common for several college students to undergo extensive body revision in the form of medical/dental appointments. In the past two days I’ve been that student. My examination package included the excitement of medical inspection; The poking, the prodding, the groping - errr- I mean, the completely professional routine checkups incorporating no funny business whatsoever- Is that sort of stuff illegal? This being a complete and total hypothetical question with no other intention but pure and rational curiosity without any other motive or fear of being discovered or possibility of being in any situation remotely similar Shit. I . am. Screwed.
I did however safely escape my dental appointment with no cavities harboring shelter in the tooth hotel that is my mouth [What does that even mean? I’m delirious.]- but not escaping the quality (the term being used very loosely) cinematic experience of Cheaper by The Dozen, which was being displayed for my viewing pleasure as someone scraped at my teeth with metal gadgets.- Hey! Can you blame me? If I’m given the choice of staring at someone’s menacing nose hair or a lackluster movie, excuse me if and when I choose the latter.
Now thinking back to the ‘tooth hotel’ metaphor, maybe I want to take it back. Erase it from the page. Would calling it a hotel imply that these tenants will soon be taking departure? Because I don’t like that thought. I’m not going to be some toothless, gummy old lady you know. Let me remind you that I had NO CAVITIES…meaning these puppies are here to stay. Wait. Hold on. I’m confusing myself now. Do teeth=puppies now? Can puppies even rent a room at a hotel? Is there some sort of puppy currency that we are completely neglecting to acknowledge because we are humans and therefore mightier and have souls and morals and opposable thumbs. And by psychoanalyzing this complete digression from my story am I recognizing some subconscious desire to be a puppy? I mean, I guess it would be neat to have paws and be able to poop outside (although that hasn’t stopped me yet…muah ha ha ha…the poop landmine I’ve been complaining about outside my apartment isn’t all dog generated!!!!fmdm Muah hah!) But now that we are on the subject of dogs, which actually brings me to the situation that triggered the desire to write this post: My visit to the optometrist’s office. I want to talk to you about the little contraption that tests for glaucoma. Some of you know what horrid little device I speak of. ‘What does this have to do with dogs?’ you ask. Well, as I sat in my chair staring at the green dot with my ‘forehead pressed fully against the headrest’ I could conjure up the state of mind Pavlov’s poor little (and most likely very cute and cuddly) dog must have felt awaiting the unforeseen ambush. I am very familiar with this machine as I am forced to experience this every visit. I knew what was coming. Yet, it always seems impossible for the assistant to understand that to some people a blast of high pressured air into the cornea isn’t exactly the most pleasurable experience. Imagine a frustrated, huffy woman and a squirmy, tortured Melly.
Assistant: “Mam, please try not to blink.” “Mam, hold still.” “Keep your eye open.” “Look straight ahead.” “Mam, stop blinking.” “Mam, OPEN. YOUR. EYE.”
Twenty minutes later (okay, maybe more like 5), I sat in the doctor's chair staring at the eye chart with those cool little contact slider things over my eyes. Everything started off well.
Doctor: “Which one is better?” This one? Or this one? This one? Or this one? This one?
Melly: Or this one.
Doctor: Hm?
Melly: Or this one is better.
Doctor. Okay.
Now came time to read the chart. Why?! Why must we always read the bottom line?
Melly: Um. V. C. T. Ummm….is that a 5?
Doctor: Yes.
What?! Since when do they have numbers on the chart? Isn’t that a little bit tricky and unfair? There I am trying to determine whether the “letter” I’m staring at is in fact an ‘S’ and now I have to worry about the degree of curvature distinguishing an ‘S’ from a 5. UNFAIR. I Quit this game.
Doctor: Alright. Try the bottom line of this one.
Melly: G Yyyyyyyyyyy? A no. no. D. I mean, D.
Doctor: Relax, you’re doing fine. Try the line above it.
Melly: T E V ….um…
I wasn’t doing so hot. The next letter looked to me like either a Chinese dragon or the logo for Stussy.
Melly: Um, Five!
Anyhow, I managed to survive the rest of the examination and hopefully they don’t hate me too much to let me back in there some time. I even got a few free gifts. A new toothbrush and an eye care kit. The toothbrush coming from the aforementioned dental visit and not the eye doc, just for clarification… which I know some of you needed…cough cough Rick. (Just a little slow sometimes. He never went to college)
I really don’t have a proper conclusion for this. So here is a picture of a vicious, killer puppy:
I did however safely escape my dental appointment with no cavities harboring shelter in the tooth hotel that is my mouth [What does that even mean? I’m delirious.]- but not escaping the quality (the term being used very loosely) cinematic experience of Cheaper by The Dozen, which was being displayed for my viewing pleasure as someone scraped at my teeth with metal gadgets.- Hey! Can you blame me? If I’m given the choice of staring at someone’s menacing nose hair or a lackluster movie, excuse me if and when I choose the latter.
Now thinking back to the ‘tooth hotel’ metaphor, maybe I want to take it back. Erase it from the page. Would calling it a hotel imply that these tenants will soon be taking departure? Because I don’t like that thought. I’m not going to be some toothless, gummy old lady you know. Let me remind you that I had NO CAVITIES…meaning these puppies are here to stay. Wait. Hold on. I’m confusing myself now. Do teeth=puppies now? Can puppies even rent a room at a hotel? Is there some sort of puppy currency that we are completely neglecting to acknowledge because we are humans and therefore mightier and have souls and morals and opposable thumbs. And by psychoanalyzing this complete digression from my story am I recognizing some subconscious desire to be a puppy? I mean, I guess it would be neat to have paws and be able to poop outside (although that hasn’t stopped me yet…muah ha ha ha…the poop landmine I’ve been complaining about outside my apartment isn’t all dog generated!!!!fmdm Muah hah!) But now that we are on the subject of dogs, which actually brings me to the situation that triggered the desire to write this post: My visit to the optometrist’s office. I want to talk to you about the little contraption that tests for glaucoma. Some of you know what horrid little device I speak of. ‘What does this have to do with dogs?’ you ask. Well, as I sat in my chair staring at the green dot with my ‘forehead pressed fully against the headrest’ I could conjure up the state of mind Pavlov’s poor little (and most likely very cute and cuddly) dog must have felt awaiting the unforeseen ambush. I am very familiar with this machine as I am forced to experience this every visit. I knew what was coming. Yet, it always seems impossible for the assistant to understand that to some people a blast of high pressured air into the cornea isn’t exactly the most pleasurable experience. Imagine a frustrated, huffy woman and a squirmy, tortured Melly.
Assistant: “Mam, please try not to blink.” “Mam, hold still.” “Keep your eye open.” “Look straight ahead.” “Mam, stop blinking.” “Mam, OPEN. YOUR. EYE.”
Twenty minutes later (okay, maybe more like 5), I sat in the doctor's chair staring at the eye chart with those cool little contact slider things over my eyes. Everything started off well.
Doctor: “Which one is better?” This one? Or this one? This one? Or this one? This one?
Melly: Or this one.
Doctor: Hm?
Melly: Or this one is better.
Doctor. Okay.
Now came time to read the chart. Why?! Why must we always read the bottom line?
Melly: Um. V. C. T. Ummm….is that a 5?
Doctor: Yes.
What?! Since when do they have numbers on the chart? Isn’t that a little bit tricky and unfair? There I am trying to determine whether the “letter” I’m staring at is in fact an ‘S’ and now I have to worry about the degree of curvature distinguishing an ‘S’ from a 5. UNFAIR. I Quit this game.
Doctor: Alright. Try the bottom line of this one.
Melly: G Yyyyyyyyyyy? A no. no. D. I mean, D.
Doctor: Relax, you’re doing fine. Try the line above it.
Melly: T E V ….um…
I wasn’t doing so hot. The next letter looked to me like either a Chinese dragon or the logo for Stussy.
Melly: Um, Five!
Anyhow, I managed to survive the rest of the examination and hopefully they don’t hate me too much to let me back in there some time. I even got a few free gifts. A new toothbrush and an eye care kit. The toothbrush coming from the aforementioned dental visit and not the eye doc, just for clarification… which I know some of you needed…cough cough Rick. (Just a little slow sometimes. He never went to college)
I really don’t have a proper conclusion for this. So here is a picture of a vicious, killer puppy: