Where Are My Teeth?

Speaking of what kind of person I look like

The dental assistant and I were commiserating about the perils of a December birthday while waiting for the topical anesthetic to kick in -- for me, two weeks before, those "combined christmas-and-birthday" presents whose magnitude was suspiciously similar to that of a one-occasion gift, for her, just a few days after, that thoughtful inflatable lawn santa that no one might think had just been bought at the post-christmas clearance -- when the dentist came in to the operating cubicle and called me Steve. (The office is a sort of open-plan layout, with dentists and technicians moving between chairs as epoxies set up or local anesthetics take effect.)

Apparently, in addition to not-a-knife-person I look like a Steve. I allowed as how I had never once thought of myself as a Steve. Steve -- well, Mustafa anyway -- was the great barber I went to in New York, who would make deals in three different languages on the payphone next to his station under the basement stairs at Astor Place. When I was a kid reading about cowboys I had wanted to be a Jim for a while, but I grew out of that. (Not James, only Jim. Which is something my dentist should understand having had pretty much everyone refuse to call her by her right short name when she was younger.)

Just after she shot me up with novocaine, I told the story of the decorator named Rick who sketched our kitchen, whom Julie and I couldn't help thinking of as "Ken" -- which is also the name of choice for the obligatory bowl-headed, kid in japanese science fiction movies.

But really, do I look lik a Steve? This could bother me.

"You don't look like a knife person"

was what my dentist said when I came back this afternoon to retrieve the swiss army knife that had fallen onto the operating chair while she was hacking away at my upper jaw a few hours earlier. What does a knife person look like? (Somewhere I may still have the negative for a portrait I took of a friend in high school all done up with his mirror shades and twin hunting blades; he left college after three or four months and joined the marines. I learned from our alumni database that he now lives in Colorado, and that his first name, contrary what I thought I knew at the time, is M.) When I think of a knife person, I think of the kind of person who likes this kind of stuff.

But I'm the kind of knife person who uses a swiss army knife on a regular basis. I've tweezed with the tweezers, opened dozens or hundreds of cans and bottles, sawed plywood and dowels, turned uncounted screws both phillips and standard. The day a co-worker came into the office with a glasses screwdriver that spirals down into the corkscrew I could think of nothing but pestering her till she told me where she got it.

(I come by this predilection naturally. 30 years ago my mother, on a short airplane hop from japan to korea, discomfited a luggage inspector no end when she kept pulling prohibited items out of her handbag -- knife, scissors, knitting needle, pliers... -- until at last he just asked her not to take any of it out during the flight.)

Anyway, the swiss army knife fell out of my pocket (whence it came to the attention of the next patient) during the hour or so while I was getting two upper right fillings replaced, a process that seemed to require dislocating the left side of my jaw and spraining most of the muscles in my face.

Once a month, the whole office orders in for lunch (my dentist and her assistant ordered calzone verdi) and I'm afraid I made them both late to the feast.

But I did find out some interesting things about Mountain Dew: On the one hand it's the only thing that clears up some people's really bad headaches. (With more caffeine than many cups of coffee plus 11 level teaspoons of sugar you can understand why a can might pep you up.) On the other, it's quite possibly the most tooth-hostile foodstuff in the western world -- in addition to staining teeth green, my dentist says, it's cited by name in dental continuing-ed classes. One patient who drank the vile stuff in college was a tedious windfall, she recalls: every single tooth required major work, rotted down to the gum line.

She and her assistant speculated on why this should be so and I suggested (insofar as I could add to the discussion with two handsworth of dental implements in my mouth) that it might be due to the vegetable oil (brominated, for what that's worth) that gives the stuff that unmistakable extra mouthfeel. Most sugars and acids have to rely on bacteria to create a biofilm that holds them in contact with tooth enamel, but Dew carries its own slime layer conveniently packaged with the sugar and phosphoric acid.

As I was on my way out, the receptionist apologized for not being able to schedule my next appointment -- there are plenty more teeth to jackhammer, but until my dentist decides which one is next, there's no telling how long a time slot she'll need. (Still no decision when I came back at the end of the day for my knife, but I did get a fine round of greetings from everyone. Made me feel almost like a member of the family.)

The War Against the Dandelions: Day Three

You know you've been out in the yard too long (say, 20 minutes) when the Iraq metaphors start taking over your brain. But as I stood there hunched over with the gnats and flies sizing me up, I couldn't help thinking that trying to rid our front yard of those poetically named lion's-tooth leaves really was a microcosm of american foreign policy. Pulling up dandelions is unnecessary (even our neighbors with the perfectly coiffed lawns seem to think they brighten up the place rather than causing an eyesore), mostly futile (even if I could rip out every single plant complete with taproot there would only be a new crop of windborne volunteers next year) and quite possibly does more harm than good (taproots that do come up usually bring a big divot with them, and several bumblebees are likely even now wondering where those nice yellow pollen sources went).

Oh, and when I meet a clump of dandelion with a snail or three (the real viallain in our yard) sheltering in the base, I just pop off the flower head and move on. Ick. But Julie isn't around, and it's something I can do to make believe I'm taking care of the yard.

Even in just a few days I've learned a lot about the enemy. The plants whose blooms I pulled off just yesterday have already come up with a new crop -- sometimes you can see the new head nestling tightly closed at the center of the leaves -- I think there's probably some chemical signal that amkes them speed up the blooming process when they're under attack (if you pull a stalk that holds a mature blossom, I found out last year, it goes to seed overnight, fighting with its last drop of bitter sap to reproduce). There's a weak point just at ground level so that the taproot can stay anchored to grow another day, and all the stalks and leaves together are just strong enough to pull the base out of the ground. Miss one or two and all you do is shred some replaceable foliage. The bigger plants, paradoxically, are often easier to pull out root and all. The bases are stronger, and dandelions grow bigger in loose, accomodating soil.

I also delude myslf that every time I rip off some leaves or pull a flow stalk, I'm forcing the taproot to expend vital energy to rebuild, and that eventually it will be depleted. Anyone want to take bets on who gets depleted first?

Inverse Autumn

New maple leaves unfurl carrying a full complement of anthocyanins. Chlorophyll comes later. So in the spring (which is happening around here as I write) the first color touching the hills is red, just as it was the last before winter closed in. The closer to high summer the greener, from either direction.

This time of year or perhaps a few weeks back is also the brightest season in the woods. The sun will be much higher in another month, but with all the trees in full leaf you wouldn't know it at ground level. And by the time the branches are empty again -- except for the beeches -- it will be coming on five o'clock sunset. (Somehow the seasons pass just slowly enough that I am always surprised by the next one.)