Talking about a mid-life crisis, let me tell you girls, pass the herbal tea, hand me another cannoli, and look out, here it comes. I was a wonderful upper middle class housewife who even canned peaches. All of a sudden one night, on the 20th of July, 2006, I said to this good looking Italian sitting at a corner table “I see you are dining alone.” And he said “not any more.” And so it began.
Next thing I know, he’s ordering for me, introducing me to the owner and spending all night long spinning dreams of places in Italy he wants to take me.
What’s a mother to do? At the end of the evening, he casually walks me out the door, tells me he’s got to get up early the next morning to take care of some business in Martha’s Vineyard. Sure, I think to myself, then he looks up and he sees my British racing green Jag get pulled up by the valet. And he says rather causally, "oh you drive a Jag, too” as he points to his ever-so-illegally parked Jag at the corner
The next scene opens a week later, he’s calling me up, saying that he wants to give a tour of great Italian restaurants in Washington and wants to know if I’m available for dinner at Gallileo"s. Five minutes later, he calls me up to tell me that Gallileo"s will never do, because they are having air conditioning problems. The next thing I know we are dining in Othello’s, a true southern Italian restaurant, complete with red checked tables cloths. Sometime after a dessert of shared cannoli, he says to me clearly and without the slightest bit of criticism that my smile needed a serious consult from the best dentist in town. I say “OK, recommend one to me.” AND HE DOES. Not only does he write Gene Gadairs’ name on the back of a business card, but jots down his number. I’m impressed. I call, make an appointment and show up. Now, girls, be prepared for a tale of getting ever-so relentlessly pulled in to making the grand tour of the top end of the dental community in our fair city.
Gene looks at me and says he can fix the marginal cap on my front tooth, make it appear 100% better and get rid of the discoloration at the gum interface. He can also replace the amalgams with composite crowns over the next year or so. Then and only then he pitches me the slider. He says “However, Peggi, to correct the problem what you really need is cranial facial surgery to correct your short jaw problem.” Being the good sport that I am, I now see Michael Stiglitz who reiterates the need to correct my jaw, stares at my gums and tells me that I also need a series of deep root planings in order to get my gums back into shape. Little did I know that this cleaning procedure was going to be the hair-raising experience it has turned out to be – two cleanings later – the first of which levitated me out of my chair. The second time, I was orally sedated to the point where I spent 48 hours sobering up (letter to Stiglitz). Well, girls, I now realize ever so consciously and to be fair to Michael, I was told , and I somehow discounted, the fact that I will need cleanings every three moths for the rest of my natural life.
Are you ready for the next chapter? Enter the Orchin boys, Jeremy and Andrew. Twenty-first century high-end orthodontal answer to Don and Phil. Wow, meeting them was a trip! They are not only incredibly competent and good looking but genuinely entertaining. The Borscht Belt ain’t got nothing on these guys. Can you guess what happens next? Yes, they wire my mouth for 500 channels for Comcast Cable. I’ve got a set of braces that you won’t believe – hooks, wires, stainless steel, buffering wax – the whole Magilla. And long suffering stoic, quiet, me lonely has one question:”Is this going to negatively affect my sex life?” Dad Orchin says “Hell no.,” and compliments my good looking Italian Gentleman Caller (IGC for short) by congratulating him for not only being heroic but just downright courageous. That brief interlude gave me some pause. I’ve been to see those two magnificent men now four times, each time they increase the pressure on the thumb screw, aggressively tightening up on my wires to get all my teeth to realign.
The next installment of the Perils of Peggi: here it comes. Orchin recommends Jeffrey Posnick, world’s greatest cranial facial surgeon. Just ask him, and he’ll cite a chapter in his book to validate his opinion and share with you his 53-page Curriculum Vitae! This guy is truly impressive. He not only wrote the book, but people fly in from all over the country to see him. I’m impressed. Here it comes. . . after looking at me, taking x-rays, giving me the applicable chapter in his book to read, he says we have to break both jaws, move the top one out and forward, the lower one forward, put about forty titanium screws in my head permanently, clean out my nasal turbinates (whatever the heck THEY are) and add a few cosmetic features for good measure. Boy are the TSA guys going to love this! Not only that, but that gorgeous Italian (and he gets better looking every day) is now calling me “Jaws” not in reference to the Great White, but as an allusion to Richard Kiel in those two James Bond thrillers. Talking about incrementalism, here’s the next step: I think Abbot and Costello did it with the “Susquehanna Hat Company” skit, i.e., "Slowly I turned, carefully I crept, step by step.” Jeffrey now says in order to make sure that the insurance company readily recognizes this is a medical necessity (and it is, because I’ve always had problems swallowing, and it seems to be getting more and more difficult with age) I would have to see a speech therapist (Beth Solomon) an ENT specialist(Dr. Troost), complete a sleep study at Georgetown University Sleep Center. Do you love this road?
So, I go to see Dr. Solomon who writes an impressive supporting documentation to Posnick who doesn’t send me a copy. Then I go to Troost who tells me “the good news is that I won’t need any surgery on my nose and there is no bad news!” The next shoe to drop is that the sleep study will cost $2,000.00 USD. And – oh, by the way – I need to consult with a TMJ specialist.
Dating can certainly be expensive!