My friend Fixodent
April 25, 2005 | 12:00am
You know that you’ve attained a certain degree of maturity when your mother has a heart-to-heart talk with you about dentures and their proper maintenance. Shortly before I left her with my sister in Virginia, my mom gave me her pabaon–two large boxes of Polident and a big fat tube of Fixodent. "Son," she said with that dolorous look mothers put on when they have some terrible truth to impart to the innocent, "you can have all of these. I can always get more from the Giant supermart next door."
In case Polident and Fixodent don’t ring a bell with you–and why should they, unless you’re over 50 or over there–they’re brands of denture cleaner and denture adhesive, respectively, designed to keep your chompers spic ’n’ span and, just as importantly, in place, where you want them.
Of course, all this prophylactic consciousness begins with the admission that you have false teeth. It’s probably one of the last things people will ’fess up to; they’d sooner admit to toupées and nose jobs before acknowledging the percentage of plastic and porcelain in their expensively refurbished smiles.
Not shameless, toothless me. (To be perfectly honest, I have quite a few of my own left, which I call the "Magnificent Seven.") Unlike most sensible people, I couldn’t wait to get dentures–simply because my youth was plagued by skull-splitting toothaches and visits to ham-fisted dentists. I lived in a fog of toothache drops–imagine my reaction when they served me fish in Indonesia laced with cloves–and I began to regard every tooth, even healthy ones, as a potential traitor and tormentor, worthy of extermination at the slightest twitch, if only extractions themselves weren’t so bloody, well, bloody. Beng fights tooth and nail–or tooth and tooth–for every molar and incisor; I was happy to see them go.
It wasn’t as if I never met a toothbrush; we were all brought up very properly in the hygiene and neatness department. But I guess some people are just born with tougher teeth than others–no, that’s wrong, people don’t get born with teeth, but you know what I mean–and I wasn’t (some people are also born to look like Pierce Brosnan when they grow up, and I wasn’t). So I just had to grin and bear it–no, that’s wrong, too: I just had to bear it and not grin, especially when I lost my front teeth.
I thought it was a blessed day when my dentist finally announced to me that all my uppers had to go, so I could get my first full set of dentures. I lost five teeth in one sitting, the remaining three saved for the next appointment, but what I remember more about that day was what happened after I left the dental clinic, driving down Roxas Boulevard with a huge ball of cotton lodged in my anesthetized mouth. I turned left toward Makati, only to be stopped by a cop (or someone dressed like one, revolver and all) who charged me with some imaginary infraction and asked for my wallet. Teary-eyed but unable to speak in my own defense, I handed the wallet over, and watched as the jerk took every last peso I had and tossed the wallet back to me. That incident ingrained in me a loathing for traffic policemen–and a resolve to get my dentures as soon as possible, so I could talk, if not bite back, at my oppressors.
That was half a lifetime ago, and I’ve since been through many sets of falsies, each of them a little thicker than the previous one, as I age and my gums recede. I’ve become a master at filing down painful ridges and at Superglue-ing a wayward incisor back after taking an overenthusiastic bite of an apple or a corncob (if you can’t find it, you know where it most probably is). And the thing about dentures is that the older you get, the less lonelier it gets, as you join the exalted company of The Great Indentured; one of the highlights of my visit to the Smithsonian was seeing George Washington’s ivories, the very reason why I maintain a ghoulish collection of my old plastic uppers–heck, you never know.
But time’s ravages are inexorable, and lately I’ve had this unnerving feeling of something knocking about loosely in my oral cavity, like I’d swallowed a child’s toy. Sometimes I open my mouth and it’s, uh, all mouth. One of these days, if I don’t watch it, I could be holding forth before a roomful of, say, Southeast Asian novelists and gape as my canines clatter onto the floor and into the indelible memory of my audience.
That’s where Fixodent comes in, to fix that homely face and that simian smile in place, so as not to scare the kids and upset their parents. I’ve come to realize that teeth don’t even always have to bite; they just have to be there, a wedge of white to offer comforting proof of our corporeal completeness.
I’m sure that’s what my mother was thinking–so thanks, Mom, for taking care of your 51-year-old.
Am I glad I don’t smoke any longer. The new ruling of the American Transport Security Authority (TSA) banning lighters from planes from both carry-on and checked luggage came into effect in the US a couple of weeks ago, and you could hear the anguished screams from people who suddenly had to part with their cherished Zippos, Dunhills, and Ronsons at the departure gate, or skip the flight. (Don’t despair, Krip, you can still carry up to four boxes of matches–you just can’t use them onboard, of course.) Companies like Zippo are distraught because they depend on tourists and collectors who buy lighters up for souvenirs or giveaways for much of their business.
I was a smoker once (actually, twice)–a serious, heavy-duty, four-pack-a-day chimney who also cultivated a small collection of lighters. I loved those little Monopols that took in liquid gas and had textile wicks, well before the wind-proof Typhoos came into existence. (There’s something about boys and fire; I guess it’s because fire is the cheapest and easiest form of danger you can play with–cheapest, that is, until you burn your house down.)
I quit smoking twice, both of them cold-turkey–the first time in 1980, when I allowed myself to be convinced by what I thought was a silly self-help book’s tip that staying away from cigarettes for four days would get rid of the physical addiction, and the rest would be purely mental. Well, guess what, it worked–but not before I had a private little ceremony consigning my precious lighters and about three unopened cartons of Marlboro Reds to the garbage bin. My reasoning was that if I couldn’t let go of the lighters, I’d never let go of the smoking.
Eleven unblemished years passed before I finally gave in to the urge for another puff, just about when I was finishing my PhD. I quickly went back to my four packs, and puffed merrily away for four years, before Beng–who’d also taken up smoking, to stop fretting about the air quality in the house–suggested that we quit together, pronto. And, guess what, we did. It’s been 10 years since.
I feel loads better than I surely would have had I kept on smoking, and I have no plans of going down that road again–but let me tell you something most ex-smokers know: the urge never quite leaves you; you dream about smoking and wake up with a furtive guilt, and sometimes you’ll crane your neck for a whiff of a tendril of second-hand smoke.
And inveterate collector of mechanical thingies that I am, I’m as intrigued as ever by those little fire-spitting beasties, and wish I had the same excuse I use for amassing old pens and watches–"I can use them, honey!" Thankfully it’s remained an idle wish, or I would’ve picked up half a dozen ancient lighters in that huge antiques mall in Strasburg, Virginia–and willingly missed my flight home, if accosted at the airport, in the name of a volatile passion.
Send e-mail to Butch Dalisay at penmanila@yahoo.com.
In case Polident and Fixodent don’t ring a bell with you–and why should they, unless you’re over 50 or over there–they’re brands of denture cleaner and denture adhesive, respectively, designed to keep your chompers spic ’n’ span and, just as importantly, in place, where you want them.
Of course, all this prophylactic consciousness begins with the admission that you have false teeth. It’s probably one of the last things people will ’fess up to; they’d sooner admit to toupées and nose jobs before acknowledging the percentage of plastic and porcelain in their expensively refurbished smiles.
Not shameless, toothless me. (To be perfectly honest, I have quite a few of my own left, which I call the "Magnificent Seven.") Unlike most sensible people, I couldn’t wait to get dentures–simply because my youth was plagued by skull-splitting toothaches and visits to ham-fisted dentists. I lived in a fog of toothache drops–imagine my reaction when they served me fish in Indonesia laced with cloves–and I began to regard every tooth, even healthy ones, as a potential traitor and tormentor, worthy of extermination at the slightest twitch, if only extractions themselves weren’t so bloody, well, bloody. Beng fights tooth and nail–or tooth and tooth–for every molar and incisor; I was happy to see them go.
It wasn’t as if I never met a toothbrush; we were all brought up very properly in the hygiene and neatness department. But I guess some people are just born with tougher teeth than others–no, that’s wrong, people don’t get born with teeth, but you know what I mean–and I wasn’t (some people are also born to look like Pierce Brosnan when they grow up, and I wasn’t). So I just had to grin and bear it–no, that’s wrong, too: I just had to bear it and not grin, especially when I lost my front teeth.
I thought it was a blessed day when my dentist finally announced to me that all my uppers had to go, so I could get my first full set of dentures. I lost five teeth in one sitting, the remaining three saved for the next appointment, but what I remember more about that day was what happened after I left the dental clinic, driving down Roxas Boulevard with a huge ball of cotton lodged in my anesthetized mouth. I turned left toward Makati, only to be stopped by a cop (or someone dressed like one, revolver and all) who charged me with some imaginary infraction and asked for my wallet. Teary-eyed but unable to speak in my own defense, I handed the wallet over, and watched as the jerk took every last peso I had and tossed the wallet back to me. That incident ingrained in me a loathing for traffic policemen–and a resolve to get my dentures as soon as possible, so I could talk, if not bite back, at my oppressors.
That was half a lifetime ago, and I’ve since been through many sets of falsies, each of them a little thicker than the previous one, as I age and my gums recede. I’ve become a master at filing down painful ridges and at Superglue-ing a wayward incisor back after taking an overenthusiastic bite of an apple or a corncob (if you can’t find it, you know where it most probably is). And the thing about dentures is that the older you get, the less lonelier it gets, as you join the exalted company of The Great Indentured; one of the highlights of my visit to the Smithsonian was seeing George Washington’s ivories, the very reason why I maintain a ghoulish collection of my old plastic uppers–heck, you never know.
But time’s ravages are inexorable, and lately I’ve had this unnerving feeling of something knocking about loosely in my oral cavity, like I’d swallowed a child’s toy. Sometimes I open my mouth and it’s, uh, all mouth. One of these days, if I don’t watch it, I could be holding forth before a roomful of, say, Southeast Asian novelists and gape as my canines clatter onto the floor and into the indelible memory of my audience.
That’s where Fixodent comes in, to fix that homely face and that simian smile in place, so as not to scare the kids and upset their parents. I’ve come to realize that teeth don’t even always have to bite; they just have to be there, a wedge of white to offer comforting proof of our corporeal completeness.
I’m sure that’s what my mother was thinking–so thanks, Mom, for taking care of your 51-year-old.
I was a smoker once (actually, twice)–a serious, heavy-duty, four-pack-a-day chimney who also cultivated a small collection of lighters. I loved those little Monopols that took in liquid gas and had textile wicks, well before the wind-proof Typhoos came into existence. (There’s something about boys and fire; I guess it’s because fire is the cheapest and easiest form of danger you can play with–cheapest, that is, until you burn your house down.)
I quit smoking twice, both of them cold-turkey–the first time in 1980, when I allowed myself to be convinced by what I thought was a silly self-help book’s tip that staying away from cigarettes for four days would get rid of the physical addiction, and the rest would be purely mental. Well, guess what, it worked–but not before I had a private little ceremony consigning my precious lighters and about three unopened cartons of Marlboro Reds to the garbage bin. My reasoning was that if I couldn’t let go of the lighters, I’d never let go of the smoking.
Eleven unblemished years passed before I finally gave in to the urge for another puff, just about when I was finishing my PhD. I quickly went back to my four packs, and puffed merrily away for four years, before Beng–who’d also taken up smoking, to stop fretting about the air quality in the house–suggested that we quit together, pronto. And, guess what, we did. It’s been 10 years since.
I feel loads better than I surely would have had I kept on smoking, and I have no plans of going down that road again–but let me tell you something most ex-smokers know: the urge never quite leaves you; you dream about smoking and wake up with a furtive guilt, and sometimes you’ll crane your neck for a whiff of a tendril of second-hand smoke.
And inveterate collector of mechanical thingies that I am, I’m as intrigued as ever by those little fire-spitting beasties, and wish I had the same excuse I use for amassing old pens and watches–"I can use them, honey!" Thankfully it’s remained an idle wish, or I would’ve picked up half a dozen ancient lighters in that huge antiques mall in Strasburg, Virginia–and willingly missed my flight home, if accosted at the airport, in the name of a volatile passion.
BrandSpace Articles
<
>
