Attila the Hun-y-gienist

I have met her. Time and again, despite my every attempt to score a different dental hygienist. She has her claws in me, she has drawn my blood, and she will not let me go. Or my husband. She is Atilla the Hun-y-gienist.
She wields her tooth scraper like a scythe as she unconcernedly scrapes my gums, while gesticulating wildly as she talks. She laughs to herself, dabs the blood, and continues the carnage she calls cleaning.
There is a lull. She applies the cocoa-hazelnut-soy powder tooth cleaning paste, which is disgusting but painless. I spout water at Mr. Thirsty in my haste to get the cocoa-poo paste out of my mouth when she is done. I had told her to surprise me, when she asked what flavor I preferred. Oh, my mistake. It was indeed a surprise.
The lull is over, and I watch her wind her next instrument of torture around her meaty fingers.
Floss. Otherwise known as Attila's death-saw. She winds and drags it around my teeth with all the care of a kid whipping a willow switch. Yeah, all that care. She laughs again and a propos of nothing, tells me she changed her shower handles last night. Because she had been using a wrench to adjust the temperature. Yes, that's exactly the sensitivity I'm sensing here. Perhaps we could borrow your wrench, Attila, and trade it's welcome dullness for an inexact tooth-scraping.
My mouth is frozen in a wide "Ow!" formation as the dentist comes in, takes a peek and assures me that I'll live. He doesn't mention the blood on my sexy drool bib. He is familiar with Attila's methods.
I come home and lament my ability to get off of her schedule. Rick, the lucky duck, made a last minute cancellation and got switched out of Attila's torture rack. She tried to force him back, but the times wouldn't fit. (Yay, Rick!)
I have not been so lucky. I take extra strength Tylenol for the mouth-throbbing gum cuts, and wait it out. Twice a year I swear I will find another dentist.
Then Attila's reminder love-note comes in the mail, and I'm back in line.
Again.
And again.