Happy Little Trees

My friend, Wendy, recommended a dentist to me. She said she was mean, but good. I really need a tough dentist, so I was excited.

A little background on my chompers: At the age of 12, like many Americans of English descent, I was in braces. It was the first time I realized that perhaps I could obsess over rules. I had a whole sheet from the orthodontist of foods I couldn’t eat, and I stuck to the rules – no gum, no apples, no corn on the cob, no popcorn, and all that jazz for one year and one month. My orthodontist showed no mercy. He had welded my brother’s headgear in his mouth, so I knew things could get dangerous if I didn’t listen. Now, I have a perfectly straight set of teeth that are so perfect, they almost look fake.

Yesterday, my dentist did not disappoint me with her treatment. She asked me millions of questions about my health and diet. Then, her assistant took cool digital x-rays of my teeth and roots that I could instantly watch appear on the screen. Also, she was not satisfied with the level of my flossing—she demands more from me. The last dentist I went to just praised me for my teeth; this dentist wants to take me to an elite level of dental hygiene.

I’m armed with my floss and possibly purchasing a new motorized brush. Tooth decay—this means war. [I’ll miss you, Laffy Taffy! We had some good times, but I’m not laughing with you anymore.]