I went driving upstate this past weekend and traveled through a couple of radio station zones along the way. At one point I was treated to a commercial I hadn’t heard before for a dental practice called Pleasant Dreams Dentistry. The concept here is that they cater to people who are terrified of dentists, be it for anxiety reasons or pain concerns, and they promise techniques of sedation that will ensure an experience just short of memorable. In fact the kicker is at the end of the spot when music from either a Moog Synthesizer or Ravi Shankar on the sitar wells up and an eerie, ethereal female voice intones, “Your dental needs will be met and you won’t remember a thing.”
This struck me as maybe being a little too eager to render patients unconscious. Perhaps when they sat around and considered prospective names for their medical service it was a toss-up between Pleasant Dreams Dentistry and Eternal Sunshine of the Root Canal. I wondered what the real motive was here, compassionate concern for people’s fears or manipulation of their phobias for profit. Of course, having patients in an oblivious state would also seem to eliminate the possibility of medical personnel being overheard saying, “Oh shit! Can you reach that before it slips all the way down his throat?” I had plenty of miles to consider this and I decided that if I’m having some sort of dental procedure and I happen to open my eyes in the middle of it to find my dentist’s hand up my sweater or him and his assistant doing lines of coke off my limp arm, that might be a memory I’d lean toward preserving. You know, for court.
During my drive I stopped at a women’s consignment shop which happens to be my not so secret passion. Husband and I have traveled to many of his professional conferences in states across the country and I’ve managed to find gently worn kick-ass designer garments in every city. In fact that’s how I identify them. I’ll look in my closet and think, “Maybe I’ll wear that $20 Saks Fifth Avenue blazer from Scottsdale that fits perfectly except I have to roll up the sleeves.” Or, “Now where’s that Ft. Lauderdale cropped top that only matches the dry clean only skirt from Malibu?” These stores all have playful names like Second Glance, Coming Around Again, Don’t Think Twice, etc. and I had a great time trying things on and imagining who might have worn them before.
So here’s my confession: I bought a mink stole. Just saying those words out loud conjures up images of wild-eyed PETA members running toward me in their Birkenstocks flinging red paint at my chest. And I wouldn’t blame them. I’m not a fur coat person – never owned one, never wore one – but this mink stole followed me out to my car and hopped in the back seat, I swear officer. And it’s from the forties or fifties which means those mink are so gone for so long even their great-grandchildren are toast. I don’t even know if I’ll ever wear it but if I didn’t buy it I’d just have to throw that $50 into the dirt it would be such a shame. Confessing hasn’t made me feel better. I am still spiritually against wearing dead animals. But if you wear them alive they claw your neck.
Later I stopped at a CVS and noticed a table set up by the pharmacy offering customers free blood pressure tests. There were fliers spread out advising of upcoming services such as diabetes screening in the summer and flu shots in the fall. Come Christmas they’ll be offering complimentary DNA tests to see if you’re the father of Anna Nicole’s baby. Nothing like a windfall for the holiday.