Teeth

I like my dentist. I like that he shares a practice with his wife and her name is listed first. I like that he hires hygienists that can engage me in conversation without annoying me, which takes some crazy skills. I'm amused by the fact that he looks like Christopher Meloni, but is even shorter than I am. I like that I see him for a grand total of five minutes, twice per year, during which he basically says "Your teeth are still perfect. It makes my life easy." (I only go because my parents have this paranoid issue with teeth, and they make me.) But I think what I like most about him is the fact that when I told him I would be leaving the country in September and might not be allowed back until 2010, he said, "Then I'll see you in two years. I've never had to do anything to your teeth anyway, so I'm sure you'll be fine."

Of course, I have an irrational fear that I'll step off the plane and my teeth will spontaneously turn brown and drop out of my head, so I think I might go see him again in September, even though we both know it's a waste of time. England is having this effect on me.