“On a Scale of One to Five….”

For three decades we went to a single practitioner lady dentist. Her patients were family. When we sat in her dental chair, it was as if we were visiting in her kitchen over a cup of coffee. Her face and blonde hair would partially obscure the glare of the big dental light as she leaned over us. Suction hose hooked in our mouth, brandishing her dental pick, she would say,

“Open your mouth wide, please. That’s good. So, I understand your son is out of reform school?”

“Glurb, blurb, gag, hackkkk”

“Well, isn’t that nice.”

She sold her practice to the Happy Teeth Are Us chain. Happy Teeth did not know us and did not cherish our molars and bicuspids. We felt abandoned.

We moved our trade to a dental office with three names: Tinker, Evers and Chance DDS (names changed to protect my teeth). If Tinker didn’t resurface after scuba diving in Aruba, the ball would pass to Evers, and thence to Chance. Their building is monumental, with a columned portico. Inside are posh faux-leather reception chairs, walls with limited edition pictures, a warren of gleaming rooms, and many scurrying technicians in white coats.  T, E, & C favors applying fluoride before they let you escape. It makes your teeth feel like someone has stuffed cotton balls in your mouth. Two years after starting with T, E, & C, we received an email. They would henceforth have a new moniker: Compassionate and Creative Dentistry (again, name changed to protect my teeth).

Come again? What?

Their new logo has a crest with heraldic symbols – crossed toothbrushes on a field of dental floss. The new prices are not compassionate. But we still receive a little ditty bag with toothbrush and sample toothpaste after sliding out of the chair. There is a small bowl of foil-wrapped chocolates at the pay-up desk. Are they priming the pump? They remind me of my appointment numerous times before the appointment date, demanding a response to texts. Nagging accelerates as the date approaches. My Life’s Editor thinks they are entirely within their rights, considering my track record. Not fair, I say, I wrote the date down – somewhere.

After a visit, I no sooner strap myself into my MINI Cooper than an email appears with a survey asking how they had done. Had I had a grand time? Was the dental experience cozy and fulfilling? How would I rate them compared to say, an auto repair shop?

I delete the email, almost as satisfactory a feeling as deleting a political fund-raising request. No good. Within days another email arrives telling me they hadn’t heard from me, were hurt by my lack of response, new questionnaire linked. The 14^th Amendment says corporations are considered people, so I suppose Compassionate and Creative can feel anxious, unloved, in its personhood. But does C & C really care? Likely, one of the partners went to a seminar on Customer Canoodling at the ADA convention at the St. Regis in Bal Harbour. He came back and said, “Hey, everybody else is doing questionnaires. We’ve got to show the love.” Compassionate cares as much as the wait person at Carrabba’s cares when you order the Chicken Bryan with a house salad and she says, “Perfect.”

The trickle of “How did we do?” surveys has become a flood, wearing out my delete button. My primary care doctor, my nephrologist, the ENT guy, the blood draw people, and even the PT guys send a questionnaire. As for the PT guys, how can I say something nice about people who inflict pain? Maybe I can throw them a bone for their pressed white pants and clean white Tees. A survey sent by an orthopedic surgeon could pose a problem. What if you had a hip replacement and did not give him a 5-star rating across the board? When it came time for your other hip, he might consider giving that new titanium ball and socket device a try – the one made in Bangladesh, shilled by that hottie sales rep.

When I do respond, my ratings are ignored. My primary care doctor, Prince Valiant, hides behind two monitor screens, making little umm, umm sounds as he checks out my lab results, minimizing eye contact. His examination room is a white box with the ambiance of a well-maintained public urinal. I grumped about his low-EQ and the decor of the exam room in a 1 to 5 rating scale questionnaire I received. He still hides behind the screens, sitting on his rolling stool. A new plastic box for spent syringes was hung on the wall. It has a bright orange logo on it. That is something I suppose.

Weeks ago, My Life’s Editor and I attended a Tampa Bay Rays baseball game. The rookie Oriole shortstop, Gunnar Henderson, bonked a three-run homer to squash the Rays. Three pre-teens screamed behind us the entire game. The seats were hard, and I had to shift from side to side to avoid tush freeze. We slunk out in the seventh inning. The very next day we received a survey from the Rays about our Game Day Experience. I did not fill it out. I probably should have said something nice about the Cuban sandwiches.

Not wanting to be behind the times, I sat down and made up a questionnaire to give to My Life’s Editor. How had I done over a half century? I decided on three levels of performance to rate my marital mojo: Meh, Meets Requirements, and Sterling. Ten performance categories seemed like a nice number. I started with Public Appearance, including dress, posture and trimming of facial hair. Next was Calendar Awareness, including being ready to go on time, event scheduling, and anniversary dates. Hmm, I thought. I didn’t like the way this was going. I stopped, crumpled up the questionnaire and trashed it. Some things should best be left alone.  

Photo by Kukierspace, Wikimedia Commons License