Pretty much sums up life in Screening

Tune: Amy Winehouse - Rehab

I took some artistic freedom to up the deposit to $1000 so that the lyrics would flow a little better...

I tried to tell’em they need a rehab

And they said “No, no, no.”

Yes it costs cash

Or your bite’ll collapse

Then you’ll know, know know…

They say “I ain’t got the time and if my daddy thinks I’m fine

I might need to get a rehab, but I won’t go, go, go.”

“I’d rather spend that dough catching rays…”

“I ain’t got 35K…”

“Cause there’s nothing, there’s no way for you to convince me

Despite everythin’ seen in my x-rays.”

I try to tell’em things from class

Like how life might improve with implants

I tried to tell’em they need a rehab

And they said “No, no, no.”

Yes it costs cash

Or your bite’ll collapse

Then you’ll know, know know…

They say “I ain’t got the time and if my daddy thinks I’m fine

I might need to get a rehab, but I won’t go, go, go.”

I ask them, “Why do you think you’re here?”

They said, “I wanna change how I appear”

“I’m gonna, I’m gonna lose my front teeth”

“I hate how I keep my dentures near.”

I said, “Your problem can be addressed.”

Just bring one grand, to data collect.

I tried to tell’em they need a rehab

And they said “No, no, no.”

Yes it costs cash

Or your bite’ll collapse

Then you’ll know, know know…

I don’t ever wanna present again

I just, ooh, I just need a friend

I’m not gonna spend two weeks

Have everyone think I can’t treatment plan

And it’s not just my pride

I’ts just til these tears have dried

I tried to tell’em they need a rehab

And they said “No, no, no.”

Yes it costs cash

Or your bite’ll collapse

Then you’ll know, know know…

A Matter of Perspective

As a break from my Friday evening ritual of holing up in the lab until 8pm, then going grocery shopping, I decided to take up a friend's invite to go to a wine bar in Santa Monica with some film school people (yes, the people in the glimmering resort across the street). To make matters more interesting, I also got talked into wearing my new business suit in lieu of my usual scrubs.

By the end of the day, I was feeling a little too tired to give a hoot about how I looked, but decided that it's also not particularly acceptable if I were to show up at a wine bar (hello, yuppies?) in gray scrubs, covered in plaster as though I had jumped into the bag and rolled around and dusted myself like a chinchilla. Hesitantly, I went to the bathroom, changed into the black one-piece and blazer, and went back to lab where I was instantly dusted in a fine coat of plaster once again.

I learned two things at that moment:

1) Black is the worst color to wear into lab, EVER.

2) Theory clothing is not cut for people of my height, if to be considered professional. I must have been delusional at the store, because the skirt was clearly more like a minidress on me. If I was perhaps 5'4", it would be a nice business dress. 

Persistence. Persistence is key.

Amid utter confusion, I made my way to find my friend at a posh rental townhouse right on Santa Monica beach. Looking obviously overdressed, I didn't care; it was still better than showing up like a freshened-up chinchilla. 

A but [mo]ment

Today, I managed to get Visco-gel all over my fingers while trying to clean out the associated mixing cup. Mind you, getting Visco-gel stuck to your fingers is akin to having Elmer's glue all over your hands, but worse, because it takes longer to set. In haste, I tried washing my hands vigorously and it just made everything worse, because Visco-gel does not emulsify with soap, nor does it flow that much faster under hot water temperatures that won't result in third-degree burns.

Someone suggested waving my hands over a bunsen burner. Too bad I'm not idiotic enough.

A faculty member suggested vaseline. For some reason, my stupid little brain thought that this was the man who would not do me wrong, so  I did.

Lo ad behold, I wound up with greasy vaseline-covered Visco-gel hands, both of which were somehow not responding to washing with soap under warm water.

Someone then suggested a coarse material to rub everything off. I scoffed, especially since the first thing I could think of was using dental plaster (big mistake). So there I stood like a total moron with vaseline-Visco-gel hands until the Visco-gel stiffened enough for me to peel off, and miraculously take the vaseline with it.

I'm so over the lateral learning concept when it comes to idiotic moments where people test how idiotic I can get. Oh well, I guess that's what friends are for...

Treatment Planning Seminar: The American Idol of Grad Prosth

Whenever people present, sarcastic underhanded comments are expected...

Q: So why would you want to extract this tooth?
A: Because I hate teeth. Ok, actually...

Q: These teeth are all beautifully prepared, but why did you do it?
A: Because I'm a prosthodontist.
Q: [face/palm.]

When you're equipped with a hammer, everything looks like a nail.

Why do we have to use porcelain teeth? Sonny boy, acrylic teeth don't cut worth shit!

Over time, Friday morning RPD seminars are becoming my favorite, despite the heart-stopping, ulcer-inducing anxiety involved from night-before preparation. Masochistic? Maybe, but shoot, it's not every seminar where the digressions are legitimately awesome. I came to this conclusion upon reviewing my notes from yesterday morning and realized that most of them are not actually RPD-related. Aside from maybe 5 lines of actual notes and the quote I used for the title of this entry, everything was only mildly-related to RPD. These are all edited quotes from the seminar; I couldn't do direct quotes unless I included people's names.

Reasons why PBL is a failure:
1. Why do students have to figure out how to palpate axillary lymph nodes? You go and try touching anything below the neck on a patient in practice and tell me how many will want to sue you! Actually, try telling your patients, "I need to palpate your axillary lymph nodes."

2. The previous administration operated like a communist government because the dean was too removed from the situation. The board meetings would go along the lines of, "Comrade, how many bushels of wheat did you produce this week?" Who would ever give bad news if it put their job or life at risk?

3. Do you think that there should be two categories of faculty at our school: one qualified and one unqualified? No, but that's what we have at this school.

Regarding the new Part II formatting:
If I taught RPD to DDS students at this school, they would all fail the RPD portion because they would just be answering "It doesn't matter" to everything while the test actually wants them to identify select 3 of the 7 options.

But honestly, this is the golden quote of the day:
You can't say that you have fully grasped a subject until you can successfully teach it to others.

Forever Yeung

I guess this post blows whatever little cover I have to do it, because it pretty much sums up my perception of "life outside of prosth"-- which, by the way, is a myth because it doesn't exist. It's a figment of my imagination. Maybe it's because I'm trying to work on two sets of dentures simultaneously, but nonetheless...

Other Program Director: Dr. Yeunggggg (pronounced "Young," which is the way I've adopted it)
Me: Yes?
OPD: That means you'll be always young-- well, at least until you get married, maybe.
Me: That's happening anytime soon...
OPD: I would hope not. So when are you working on [patient] again?

Perio Resident: Why do you look so beaten up?
Me: All work and no play [make Steph a dull girl.]
PR: Go out!
Me: What do you mean?

Co-Resident: Why are you here?"
Me [slumped over on my desk]: I can't do work at home, so I figured I'd try to get myself to work here, although evidently it's still not happening.
CR: Go outside. It's nice out there. You know, I realized that I only went outside for 5 minutes to buy a cup of coffee, otherwise I was sitting at my desk from morning until 1030pm.
Me: Wait, how do you know it's nice outside right now?

Time outside of school? WHAT? Blasphemy! I don't believe I really do anything outside of school aside from buying groceries that will just rot in the fridge, taking showers, and paying rent nowadays. What's more bothersome is that I have no idea regarding what to do when I muster a spare hour or in those 20 minutes before I collapse into my nightly coma. For some reason, life feels more miserable.

I sound like I sold myself to house elfery. Stephy no do what master no likey...

But honestly, whenever people ask me how I feel about my program, I tend to say something along these lines:
It's a great program. I learn a lot, I like the material, and I generally enjoy seeing this as my life's work. I work hard and I don't think I really sleep anymore. On the other hand, I feel as though I sold my soul and shunned every outside pleasure in life to devote myself to this one thing, so if I decide that I don't like it tomorrow, I am, in the simplest terms, utterly screwed.

So really, is it worth essentially giving up my youth, hobbies, and marriage potential? I guess in my family, the mantra has always been, "Significant others will always come and go, but your career will always be there for you." Apparently I come from a lineage of workaholics. I've essentially married my career.

Help?

You need to have 183-degree circumferential coverage for this one...

"You know, I wouldn't care if someone stole it." -- disgruntled patient, in reference to her current denture (not made by me)

During RPD seminar:

Program Director: [Kratochvil] used to do these diagrams on a blackboard. Wait, Stephanie, you have seen a blackboard before, right? I think most of the blackboards were already replaced by the time you were in middle/high school.

Me: I'm not THAT young. Anyway, remember I went to school in California, where they didn't have the budget to upgrade anything since the 1960s

PD: So you know what a blackboard is.

Me: Yes.

And then, there was the revelation. A few people in my lab polled everyone for what year they were born in. Apparently there's one or two monkeys... We figured we should tell the program director at some point, since one of his favorite lines when referencing what he considers an "easy job," he says, "Even well-trained monkeys can do it."  Well, there seems to be a at least a couple of well-trained monkeys in my lab.

Introduction

Before entering clinic during dental school, a faculty member told my class that it takes a special patient to even come for treatment at a dental school. Going through clinic, I was convinced that I had some of the most special among the special, so I figured that grad prosth couldn't possibly be much more thrilling.

Boy, was I wrong.

This is a place for me to enter the oddest prosth moments without breaking HIPAA violations. I'll make sure to post just enough information to make sense, but not enough to reveal who or what I'm referring to. 

Nonetheless, you will be humored and happy that you aren't me.

To get things rolling, here are some of the moments of the week:

[while giving me a crazed stare]: I don't understand how people go insane and start shooting others. Do you? I sure don't, but I'm glad I'm not insane!

[phone call from former patient]: STEPHANIE! It's [patient]! Your patient!
Me: I don't recall...
FP: You walked my mom!
Me: I... walked your mom?
FP: You walked my mom!
Me: I'm sorry, let me walk to an area with better reception...
FP: Yea, you saw my mom, [mom's name]!
Me: Oh, you're talking about [my friend]. I worked on you.
FP: No, you did!
Me: No, I [completed this procedure] for you.
FP: Oh wait, how could I possibly get the wrong Stephanie? Sorry.
Me: No problem.