Ah, yes. The dentist. I'd like to thank my electric toothbrush for my performance this morning at the dentist. If the dentist were kindergarten, I'd have myself a gold star next to "Krista" on the Good Kid chart. You know, the chart that ruins the lives of children everywhere? Kids go home in tears:
"Mom, Billy has eight gold stars and I only have six? Life isn't worth living."
Yeah. That chart.
I hadn't been to the dentist in a year. Yes, I shudder at the thought. So does Mom. I've gone to the dentist on a six-month interval since teeth first sprung forth from my gums. My pearly whites have seen fluoride treatments (mmm, bubblegum flavor), a cavity (sorry, man), braces, and could possibly be responsible for the death of my childhood dentist. (Long story short: Krista wanted braces, he said Krista didn't need them, Krista had a death wish. Krista's dentist died of a heart attack within a year).
I didn't mean it.
So back to this morning: as overly-friendly Hygienist scrapes, prods, pokes, flosses, polishes and pokes again at my teeth, I continued to hear words of praise.
"Oh yes, very good, Krista. I see no problems here." And, "You're going to make the doctor jealous, you won't be funding any vacations for him." (She said that. I swear). Or, "You've kept your teeth very clean."
All the while, I nodded knowingly, thanking my electric toothbrush. That little tool could cure cancer, I swear. Go buy one. Now.
So slap me a big, fat gold star on my good kid chart. I'm all smiles. And that's one heck of a clean smile. Make that two stars.
Take that, Billy.