Q-Dental

Yesterday (Tuesday, July 1, 2008) was my first time at Q-Dental, what dental-practice seems to have become in the new century.
No longer is dentistry the practice of individual dentists; like the dentist we’ve used since the late ‘60s.
The TV is awash with dental-groups; I suppose practices like our eye-practice.
We get bombarded with dental-group advertising; TV ads and brochures.
It’s by special arrangement of “the Alumni,” retirees of Local 282, my old bus union. The Alumni has negotiated special pricing with Q-Dental, whereby Q-Dental bills Blue Cross for my Transit-retiree dental-coverage, and then charges me the difference.
Well, I don’t understand, but I was sent packing with “all set, Mr. Hughes.”
I thought I was supposed to copay a difference, a negotiated amount less than my old dentist.
WE SHALL SEE! (It’s a miracle, Bobby!)
I bet I get charged that difference, or perhaps they already charged my Visa. I don’t know how they could; since I never gave them that information.
It’s a new store — I had a feeling I was the onliest patient there. Two receptionists, a dentist, my dental hygienist and me.
Q-Dental has four (or five) offices. Their Henrietta office (the one I used) is just opened. We use the Henrietta office because it’s closest.
It looked as active as the Perinton-Plaza office of the bank I worked at long ago — about 1969. It had just opened, and we were doing everything to generate what little traffic we had. Free coffee, donuts; and the branch-manager had no qualms whatsoever about skirting banking-laws.
I was moved on because I lacked the proper viper attitude; namely, kiss the big guys, and screw the little guys.
I remember a Veep from Xerox came in one time, dapper in plaid bermudas and funny golf-hat, and everyone bowed. Huzza-huzza! We were carrying overdrafts on his huge checking-account like interest-free loans. Let some little guy try that; we’d rain down fire and brimstone.
One time that branch-manager suggested I solicit sex from a pretty young girl that bounced a check.
First was X-rays: “insert this in your mouth, Mr. Hughes; and bite down.”
Whoa! Digital. Not the cardboard mini-card with film inside, but a reusable wired image-capturer, and the X-ray was immediately displayed on a nearby laptop.
I was instructed to brush three times a day, and use dental-floss every day, lest I lose all my teeth.
“Beginnings of periodontal disease, Mr. Hughes. Naughty-naughty!”
My dental hygienist looked to be about 25-28, and in full command of her judgmental authority. “Must be a REPUBLICAN,” I thought. She was incensed I wanted to use the bathroom before cleaning my teeth.
“Looks like I’m gonna have to use the Cavitron, Mr. Hughes. You’ve got heavy tartar buildup, and food accumulation.”
I suppose the Cavitron is a glorified pulsing water-pik that blasts tartar off your teeth.
It also drowns you in water, for which a mouth-sucker is installed.
That thing sprayed water all over creation; I ended up drenched.
But I’d do it again; they seemed more thorough than my old dentist.
Before leaving I noticed a plaque on her wall. (“There is no plaque in the Dental Hall of Fame.”) —She had won the “Golden Scaler” award. On it was a gold-painted tooth scaler on a plague.
Marcy, it’s everywhere!

“It’s a miracle, Bobby!” is something my God-fearing mother said.

“There is no plaque in the Dental Hall of Fame......” is an old Bob & Ray joke I frequently repeated under the plaque-wall at the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper. We worked under a wall of plaque-awards.

“Marcy” is my number-one ne’er-do-well — she was the first I was e-mailing stuff to. Marcy and I worked in adjacent cubicles at the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, from where I retired. A picture of her is in this blog at Conclave of Ne’er-Do-Wells. Marcy married Bryan Mahoney (ex-reporter from the Messenger newspaper), and together they live near Boston. (Both Marcy and Mahoney keep blogs — Marcy’s is Playtime at Hazmat.) —She once asked me where I got so much material.