Things that make you go ahhhhhh!!!

As luck would have it, I have been blessed with what dental professionals like to call “soft teeth.”

They are so soft, in fact, that when I get a little stressed, I can grind them down to a pulp in my sleep and chip them apart on random things like dried banana chips. And forget about candy. Or regular toothpaste. It’s double-strength fluoride treatments and sugarless gum for this gal.

In an attempt to save you from your next anxiety attack in the dentist's chair, I offer you this list of lessons learned

It’s no shocker then, that after three years in France, I’ve had to make a few trips to the dentist. And while I’ve somewhat hurdled homesickness - peanut butter and Oreos are sold in E.Leclerc now, you know - nothing sets a wee Midwesterner back a few years like a trip to the French dentist.

So, in an attempt to save you from your next anxiety attack, I offer you this list of lessons learned:

Lesson #1: Expect the unexpected and don’t talk back

It all started in Dr. Boret’s Marseille dental office in 2003. At my first visit, the tiny brunette wrenched open my toute petite bouche for a routine check.

“No cavities,” Dr. Boret smiled. So I asked about flossing techniques. “Oh, you don’t really have to floss,” she stated. When I asked her why, my mouth gaping, she avoided the question and simply responded, “I don’t ever floss!”

As I made a mental note to scan the Pages Jaunes for a second opinion, I mentioned that my American dentist had told me a few months back that I had a cracked tooth.

After taking to the tools, Dr. Boret found nothing. “Nothing,” I asked? “But my American dentist said I did.” And then, out of nowhere, that hot Mediterranean blood lashed out on me. “I’ve been a dentist for twenty years! Do you think I don’t know what I’m talking about? I don’t know what’s going on in America, but here in France, your tooth is not cracked!”

With my meager high school French, I muttered a quick “désolée” and ran out as fast as I could, never to see the volcanic, non-flossing Dr. Boret again.

Lesson #2: No, it’s not you… you’re not crazy

After leaving Marseille years later, I ventured into Bordeaux’s vast world of dentistry. I landed on Dr. Horeaux, a brusque, blond woman who ripped open my mouth with the hands of a serial killer. She also had the very strange habit of using my chest, not the plastic tray table beside her, to hold all her tools.

“So, which tooth is it that hurts?” She asked me as she replaced the metal pick resting on my ribcage with the tiny mirror sitting on my throat.

“The second one from the back, on the bottom,” I managed, as those bulky fingers infiltrated my cheeks.

“Uh huh, I see,” she hummed, setting the metal pick back onto my ribs and clanking the tools around on my breastbone as she fumbled for a finer prong.

As I struggled to breathe or swallow, I tried to figure out how I would broach the issue. But, although my French had gotten better over the years, I couldn’t think of how to appropriately say, “Excuse me, but can you please remove your tools from my chest?” without sounding like, well, a tool.

Lesson #3: Don’t be a victim!

Enter Dr. Mondia, in a little village in the Southwest, where I dared to visit the French dentist the following year. The complaint? Tooth pain. The place? Will remain nameless to protect the innocent.

I sat down in the chair and immediately felt like the other half of an abusive relationship. Put your hand here, don’t put it there, open your mouth wider, don’t close your mouth yet, sigh, sigh, eye roll. But what really set Dr. Mondia off was when his assistant made a blunder. “The next time you bring me the plaster, can you make sure there is actually plaster inside? Thanks.” I got so uncomfortable that I didn’t even see the inevitable question coming: “Are you English?”

“No, American,” I grunted, as he shoved his hands in my mouth and started digging around. “Oh, I hate the United States,” he said, “I would never go there!”

At defenseless moments like this, I sure wished for the comforting words of my life-long dentist Dr. Raymond back home in Minneapolis, with his breath that always smelled (ironically) like coffee and cigarettes.

I hope those days of dreadful dentistry are now behind me. Next up? Paris. My bags are nearly packed for the move and I have a nice 10m2 apartment waiting for me. If I save my bucks, I’ll be able to just make rent each month and eat a healthy meal once a week, if I’m lucky. Oh, and the metro pass only costs 50 euros a month!

Wait, wait, what’s that feeling in my upper right molar? Is that a cavity spawning or maybe just TMJ? Oh dear.

At least I have dental insurance.