Maybe she’s really great with teeth

     This morning, I taught my morning class, stopped by Pet Smart, and then swung by my folks’ place just before lunchtime.
     My folks. You remember them. They are German immigrants. They’re elderly. My mom has a charming German accent. They’re pretty wacky. Warm but zany.
     I got to talking with them. For months now, my folks have been yammering about their latest saga, this one concerning their teeth. Evidently, both my father and mother are having dental problems—expensive and difficult ones—and they’ve now got a new dentist, though I’ve never heard the woman's name. This dentist is pretty odd, I guess, and she’s got an assistant, and she’s odd too.
     I barely listen to this stuff—mostly because neither of my parents is capable of telling a story that make any sense whatsoever. Dad always seems to start a story in the middle, leaving his audience clueless and annoyed. Mom repeatedly says things that throw one for a loop. It's as though she were presenting a unique sideshow shell game, but one so perverse, intellectually, that it invariably pains my philosopher's mind. (Natch, her pinball palaver charms all others.)
     Despite my inattention to these endless dental yarns, I have gathered that my folks’ new dentist is a Russian and that her assistant is a Pole. (“She’s Polish, but she never tells me exactly vere in Poland she’s from!” says mom.) I gather, too, that one or both of these women is distinctly attractive: I seem to recall some bullshit about my mom being annoyed that my dad found the dentist so. That mini-saga ended with my father’s declaration that, “she may be attractive, but she’s got a big ass.”

Mom, c. 1963

     OK. Many a mini-saga, in Bauer land, has ended with those words or the equivalent. Don’t even ask. (And Orly, just in case you're reading this, trust me, my dad thinks your ass is just fine.)
     I am also under the impression that the dentist fits the stereotype of the crude Russian: brutally direct and plainspoken, the sort of galootnik who will yank a tooth out with her bare hands and then declare, “Strong, like bull!”
     But who knows what really goes on. My folks exaggerate, and they're pretty wacky. They get things wrong. They're still talkin' about "blood cloths" for chrissake. I can't do a goddam thing about it.
     So, this afternoon, as it turns out, my folks are going to the dentist yet again. My mom wasn’t looking forward to it. “One of my teeth broke in two the other day, and she von’t be pleased,” she said.
     “Your dentist won’t be pleased?”
     “That’s right.” Mom reached into her pocket:
     “Here it is.” She showed me her half tooth.
     “Wow,” I said. “I guess they can glue that thing back. Or something.”
     Said mom: “She gave me a card. She’s not a regular dentist. She does dental verk to make you look good.”
     “She’s a cosmetic dentist?” I asked. “Something like that?”
     “Yes, but it’s nicer than that.”
     I had no idea what that meant. I asked: “What is nicer than what?”
     “She calls herself something, not just a dentist.” At that point, my mom got up to look for something. –That business card, no doubt.
     Pretty soon, mom returned. She handed me the card. Here it is:

     I looked at it. I recognized the name. Inside my head, I said a loud “Good grief.”
     Said mom: “See? She doesn’t call herself a ‘cosmetic dentist.’ She calls herself an ‘appealing dentist.’”
     “No,” I said. “That’s not the kind of dentist she is; that’s just the name of her business. You know—like ‘Happy Happy Dentistry’ or ‘Saddleback freakin’ Dentistry.’”
     “Oh,” said mom.
     After a moment, I said: “You don’t know who she is, do you?”
     “She’s my dentist. I told you!”
     “Yeah, but she’s famous. Or infamous. Orly Taitz is known all across the country for her efforts to prove that President Obama wasn’t born in the U.S. They call her the ‘Birther Queen.’"
     My mom just stared at me. So did my dad. These days, messages take time getting from my mouth to my folks’ brains. You can actually count the seconds. I often think of doing that out loud. “One…two….three….. —Let me know when you've got it!—...four...five.....”
     My sister was there, too. “Good grief! I know who she is! That wackjob is your dentist?!” she exclaimed.

Pop, c. 1963

     “Yeah, that wackjob,” I said. “She’s a dentist and she’s a lawyer, and she’s probably into real estate and homeopathy, too, an’ she’s always in court somewhere losing and being slapped down by some judge. She’s been trying to establish that Obama is Kenyan, or Martian, or some such shit, for years now. Except for Tea Baggers—and those people are about as dumb as a sack of rocks—Orly Taitz is regarded as a total joke.”
     “No vay!” said my mom.
     “Vay," I said. I handed her back her card. Her tooth, too. “There’s only one Orly Taitz, I’m sure. I think she’s from Israel. And from Russia. An’ she’s a nut. A boiled and salted Tea Party nut.”
     My mom then turned to my dad, who, as near as I could tell, was still processing my info about Taitz. The info was like a cardboard box just sittin’ there in front of him and he still didn’t recognize it. He was about to touch it.
     “Vat kind of dentist did you get us!” mom roared, half accusingly, half jokingly, at my dad. Dad started to stir. His mouth started to open. Naturally, mom cut him off and commenced talkin' about orchids or kittens or something. My sister got 'em back to Taitz. Blah blah blah, she said. "Blah blah blah blah blah."
     —Well, on it went. The usual thing.
     At some point, I said: “Well, Taitz isn't much of a lawyer and she’s some kind of nut, but that doesn’t mean she’s a lousy dentist. Maybe she’s really great with teeth. Who knows.”
     Yeah. Who knows.

SEE ALSO The Life and Times of Roy

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