about teeth

My sister still hasn't gotten that crown fixed.

Anybody surprised by this, raise your hand.

It has been two years since I last got my teeth cleaned, which corresponds almost exactly to the length of time I have not been living in Redwood City. My dentist before I moved was conveniently located kitty-corner from my ghetto apartment, requiring only that I change out of my pajamas and put on shoes before trotting across the street to get my teeth cleaned. Cavities and dental health may be a motivator for most people's regular checkups. For me, convenience is a bigger factor. Our new home is half a block away from a large complex that claims to house an entire fleet of dentists, and yet I remain tied to my old provider. Even if I don't visit him as regularly as I should, he is still my dentist, and I eye the geometric brownness of the neighborhood complex with great suspicion.

I do not like change, is the moral of this story. Even if it means that my teeth will fall out.

Having moved 20 minutes away from my old place, I had not previously had the motivation to get my teeth looked at again. It wasn't so much that getting in the car and driving that distance was inconven-- no, wait, that was the real reason. Hitherto, my work was south, whereas my dentist was north, which anyone will tell you are mutually exclusive. Some people (like my husband) would tell you that it is not beyond the realms of reason that one could go to work, then drive north to get to an appointment, then drive south to get back to work. I will not even bother to go into the reasons why this would not work for me, mostly because I'm not sure that there's any way to explain it that wouldn't result in me being universally condemned as a total freak. You will have to trust me. It simply wouldn't have worked.

My new job conveniently removes the whole north/south difficulty. My dentist is north. My new job is norther. My stars have aligned. Thanks to the consideration of cosmic forces, as of Tuesday, I now have clean teeth.

Yay.

After two years, the session went rather better than I expected. I am, I confess, one of those millions of Americans (and billions of ... well, not-Americans) who do not like to floss. It has been a repeating refrain over the years as I lie in the dentist's chair and cringe at the sound of scraping picks.

People tell me that the sound of the drill is actually the worst sound in a dentist's office. I have not found this to be the case, mostly because I have only ever had preventative cavities: holes that were not really holes, but rather irregularities in my molars that were filled in in order to prevent possible future decay. (This, to me, is like making roads extra thick in order to prevent future potholes. It's possible that this actually works, although if you live in the Bay Area, you have empirical evidence proving otherwise.)

In terms of sheer repetition and frequency, teeth scraping looms large on the horrible sound measure, at least in my experience. There is the squeak of metal against your teeth, which sounds like you are biting slowly down on an excited rat, and then the vibration factor, which is like the Sweet Arbor Home bowling team rolling rocks around in the empty chamber of your skull.

Conversations with dentists have normally gone like this.

"You ha--" squeak squeak squeak "--build-up an--" squeak squeak rumble "--flossing?"

"Nuh?"

rumble squeak rumble "--should flo--" squeak squeak SQUEAK

"Ungh!"

"Sorry. Floss more re--" SQUEAK. "Spit, please."

After each cleaning I've held my bleeding gums together with one hand, clutched the sample bag they give out like candy in the other, and promised my dentist, I will floss more next time. I will! -- only to remember that night at home that flossing requires mess and fuss and Inconvenience, which puts paid to the entire notion until the next time.

Somewhere in my home there is a bucket of floss that could keep a South African village in stock for the next 10 years.

The issue here is that I don't mind doing things if they're made easy for me, a sentiment that identifies me as typically American. This is why those small, disposable floss picks you can now buy in supermarkets and drug stores will be single-handedly responsible for my ability to chew real food well into my forties. While the environmentalist in me is appalled by the kind of waste represented by their purchase, the lazy ass in me is delighted. Cleaning my teeth without ever having to touch my mouth is, by any definition of the word, awesome. Convenience is the key. They keep me entertained at work, watching TV, working on the computer, reading books--

My last cleaning took all of 5 minutes.

"Hm," said my dentist. squeak squeak. "Rinse, please?"

I bet you thought there'd be a point to this entry.

Sorry.