Adventures in Dentistry

Faithful readers and friends may know or remember that I actually like the dentist. In fact, I look forward to the clean-teeth feeling you get every six or so months. I inherited my mother's teeth, which are strong, white (for the most part) and healthy, and thanks to the hard work of my orthodontist, almost perfectly aligned.

But since I moved to Texas, I hadn't yet taken on the task of finding a new dentist.

It's a demanding role. My childhood dentist was a wonderful woman who told lighthearted jokes and always made me smile. The dentist I found in DC was another gem who always complained that I didn't give him enough work.

(We won't mention the brief encounter with the only school-insurance supported dentist in Evanston who strong-armed me into filing down one of my front teeth that had been chipped for years.)

The point is, finding the right dentist is important to me. I tried to do some research into my options, looking for the right practice. I finally settled on one that was very close to my office and had a number of dentists on staff, including some younger docs who would be more likely to be up on new and emerging tooth technologies.

Monday was my first appointment, and I have to say it was unlike any other dental appointment I've ever had.

First, they were slow in getting me in, so I was a little annoyed by the time the assistant came to take me for x-rays. But she was chatty and sweet, so she (and the current People magazine) calmed me down. When she came back into the room with the print outs, she commented on my teeth (very straight!) and said the I'd like the doctor.

"She's very nice," she said. I swear she said "she." But I still had the magazine open and may have only been listening with half an ear. So when I heard a male voice speaking to her--and then brush by the open office--I paid no notice. Until she leaned over to me and said, in that not-so-quiet-I'm-telling-you-a-secret-voice:

"He's single, by the way. Just so you know. A little tip for you."

I think I just laughed. And then in walked the single doctor for what was probably my most awkward dentist appointment ever.

He introduced himself. I stared. ("Oh! Um, I'm Sarah.") More staring.

Ok, I know, this isn't NEARLY as awkward as other stories I've heard about doctorly visits (I vaguely remember a DC-based story where a certain friend showed up for her annual with her female physician only to find the doc was on maternity leave and had left her cases to a hot, young, MALE resident. No thank you). But still--it felt a little strange.

Was she expecting me to flirt with him? (Never mind that I'm not entirely sure that is possible to do when someone has his hands in your mouth and you're drooling uncontrollably.) And furthermore, does this poor doc know that his assistant is pimping him out to clients? Isn't there some kind of code against doctor/patient pickups?? Do you think she does that with every female patient who comes in, or just the ones with good teeth?

As if I couldn't feel more uncomfortable already, he points out one of the boxes I checked on my new patient form.

"So you think you have bad breath?"

"Um, doesn't everybody?" No laughter.

The worst part of it is that they didn't even get to my cleaning, just my exam. So I'm going BACK on Friday. Although I think it's just with the hygeinist, so I won't have to worry about seeing Dr. McCleany. But he did recommend some procedure I'd never heard of and am somewhat fearful of. (Something about pockets and probing. Really, I don't think I want to know.)

They better give me a damn good goodie bag for this one.

Cue the Hallelujah Music

My colleague T over at So Frugalicious posted a link to a site that may have just changed my life: myShape. They've broken women's shapes into seven different types (more detailed than "pear" or "hourglass") and you can find exactly what yours is by entering all your measurements.

PLUS you enter your fashion preferences--and they pick out ENTIRE OUTFITS that will flatter your body and fit into your style.

Seriously, I immediately wanted to buy everything they showed me. It's like amazon.com on runway acid. You must go. Immediately.

As a strange sidenote to this entry--I was so delighted on finding this site that I immediately opened up Blogger to create an entry. The headline that hit me was the one you see above. As I finished typing... the commercial that immediately came on featured bears dancing along the seashore to... the Hallelujah Chorus, of course. It's a sign.

It's genetic

If you visit this site, it's probably because you know me. And if you know me, you probably know I can be... well... different. If you've ever wondered why, maybe this will help answer your questions.

Apple... tree... you know how it works.

Denim D'oh

I've always been something of a frugal shopper. I can't help myself--whenever I walk into a store, I immediately gravitate toward sales racks and deals. I am enormously susceptible to sticker shock, which leads me to set strange limitations of what I will and won't pay for a particular piece of clothing. (One of my quirky rules: Tank tops and other shirts with a smaller quantity of fabric just should never be more than $50.)

This, of course, makes my more fashion-conscious friends nuts, as it tends to restrict on my fashion-forward potential. They argue that pieces you invest in last longer; I insist they underestimate my terrible laundering skills.

About a month ago, however, I made a decision to take a plunge and invest in a nice pair of denim jeans. I was frustrated with how the jeans I was buying (I don't think I've ever spent more than $40 for a pair) were losing their shape or simply unflattering on my body. My hope was that a nicer pair would solve both problems.

When I was in New York last month, I asked my travel buddy, JB, to help me pick out a pair of premium denim jeans. She has a phenomenal fashion instinct, and so she was more than happy to help me evaluate the different brands, cuts and fits. We hit Bloomingdales and I must have tried on 10 different pairs--and I hated them all. I felt extremely uncomfortable and gross. We tried several other stores and my feeling was still the same. (Not to mention, looking at the $150+ price tag gave me heartburn.)

But I wasn't ready to abandon my denim quest. I started researching options in Dallas for where I could go to find a custom fit. Turns out, work had the solution for me.

As part of my recent business trip to brainstorm new products, we were working with a company that helps you understand and process consumer trends and then to build solutions within your industry around those areas. Fodder for ideation comes from direct consumer experience, and they planned elaborate consumer visits for us. One of the visits for my team included a trip to a premium denim store. They offered to front cash for a willing guinea pig who wouldn't mind being fitted and then allow the rest of the team to essentially stare at his/her posterior during the fitting.

How could I not volunteer??

The salesman who fit me had a complete knack for picking out not only the appropriate size but also a flattering cut and fit. Though the first pair I tried on (which he picked out for me) made me squirm, the longer I spent in them, the better they felt. And pair after pair started to convey to me how jeans REALLY should feel when you wear them.

At the end of the session, the biggest problem I had was deciding which pair to get... so I ended up getting TWO, my freebie and one I shelled out my own cash for. I justified the purchase by saying that since I got two, the total cost was amortized across both, giving me a real cost savings.

The real test, of course, will come in the weeks and months to come: Can premium denim REALLY sustain the Sarah test??

50 First Dates

Dating is like the age-old question: How many licks does it take to get to the center of the Tootsie Roll lollie pop?

(And stop thinking of this in dirty terms, you friends of mine with dark minds. I'm being clean here.)

Seriously, when thinking of the great wide world of dating, have you ever considered or wondered just how many dates or potentials you need to meet before you find someone that you make a connection with?

Almost two months ago, I decided that I had no one but myself to blame for my stagnant social life. Since going out is what begets more going out, I knew I had to do something to get the ball rolling. So I did the unthinkable: I joined match.com.

(and no, I'm not sharing my profile here with you. Those of you savvy enough to navigate the frightening waters of social networking can find me on your own.)

The experience hasn't been a bad one. To the contrary, I have met some very nice, genuine, cute boys. But I just haven't found the connection. Or even A connection. You know what I mean, the little zing, the spark, the butterflies--the zsa zsa as Carrie on Sex and the City called it. And the thing is, when you're meeting a lot of people and coming up empty handed, the finger of doubt immediately goes pointing back at you. Am I too picky? What's wrong with me that I can't connect with this person or that person? Am I looking in the wrong place or in the wrong way or is it even that I look wrong??

I was talking with my friend JB about the issue, and she raised a good point: Everyone--on both sides of the dating equation--deserves to find someone who feels the zsa zsa in return. And if it isn't felt on one side, it isn't an indictment of either person, just an indicator of broken or missing chemistry. It's no one's fault, it doesn't make you a bad person or the other person "unworthy"--just not a good fit.

And so you keep on meeting people until finally you find the zsa zsa.

The answer to the question, in case you were wondering, is that it all depends on the Tootsie consumer. One person may diligently slurp, shrinking the candy one microscopic layer at a time, while another circumvents the system altogether, biting into the crispy shell and going straight for the surprise inside.

I think I'm somewhere in-between, so I guess I'll just keep at it. Sooner or later, I'll get to the gooey center.

Collision

Feeling guilty on Saturday morning about the previous night's eating and drinking binge (at least the eating held off the hangover), I decided to burn off some calories on the Katy trail. First, I took Casey for an extended walk that wound us off and on the trail (her choice, not mine. It's no coincidence that I regularly have passersby ask me, "Who's walking whom?") When we got back, I still had plenty of energy and it wasn't too hot yet, so I decided to dig out the rollerblades and go back to the trail.

But no walk is complete without some sort of conflict with the various forces of nature, be they snails sunning themselves dangerously on the trail, birds or other forms of animal life anxious to meet up with you. On Saturday, it was the squirrel.

One might say that I actually already have a strong curiosity about squirrels. Blame it on the dog, perhaps, with whom I've patiently waited as long as 15 minutes while she stalked some poor innocent squirrel in a tree. But then, they aren't always so innocent. I remember one squirrel in particularly who was so pissed that Casey was waiting for him at the base of the tree that he barked at us nonstop for five minutes before (getting us lots of strange looks) before I dragged Casey back down the trail.

Anyhow, as I headed out on my blades, I met one such high-maintenance squirrel.

Have you ever seen the movie Ice Age? Do you know the neurotic squirrel in that movie that spends the whole film obsessing about getting an acorn for himself? I swear this squirrel was related.

As I was picking up speed, a squirrel suddenly darted from the opposite side of the trail straight into my path. Now, there are brakes on rollerblades, but these ain't no high-performance engine that stops on a dime. And though I wasn't particularly interested in a squirrel-skate collision, there wasn't much I could do. I plunked down my heel as hard as I could.

The little guy, sensing he was about to get squished in a most uncomfortable way, screamed (yes, screamed). And even though he had pretty much made it out of my path, he dropped his acorn and zigged back across the path from where he came, hooting and hollering the whole way.

Realizing I was out of the clear, I laughed out loud. Apparently, the little scene was witnessed only by me, because my fellow trail-goers looked at me as though I were insane, laughing while skating with no iPod or cell phone attached to my ear. (And not that I would blame them with the number of crazies I've seen myself on the path.) But still, what I would have given to know what that looked like from another point of view...

Nature. We're best buds.