Scrape, Scrape

There is nothing, I repeat, NOTHING like going to the dentist and having your teeth cleaned.

In my appointment in September, I noticed the bizarre advertisements in the waiting area. If I were a terribly insecure individual, I might consider having my mouth shrunk so that I eat slower, less and therefore would FINALLY have the fantastic body that I've clearly been denied by the cosmos. Who would have thought it was all due to the size of my mouth?

This time, I turned by attention to the lovely dental hygenist who went at my mouth like a bat out of hell. Everytime she grabbed that mini hose and suction thingy, I knew my gums were bleeding like a hammered pig. All the dental hygenists do the cleaning.

My Santa Claus-like dentist, jolly Dr. Merkl, always gives me a hearty chuckle, "Keep up the good work with that flossing!" I guess I should mention he is considerably overweight and struggles to stand up straight. Dentists usually bend their backs to look deep into our black holes. I don't know how much of his problems are attributed to his cute belly or occupation.

Regardless, my observations for this appointment were nothing surprising. After lovely BrownEyes worked on my mouth for nearly 40 minutes, Santa merely stroked my newly cleaned teeth with the scraper and asked me to bite down before he delivered his usual enthusiastic sentiment to keep A-GO with my dental ways.

A staff full of women. A man who checks me at the end.

Church. State. University. Even Santa and his helpers.

At the head of things, it's usually a man.

My mouth contorts in disappointment. At least it's clean.