I'm Singing the Sugar Blues

One of the many pieces of advice the wonderful Vicki Pettersson gave in her workshop was this - writing is ACTIVE. Nutrition and fitness are connected to managing yourself as a writer. So I've begun another journey, one that leads me towards wellness, and that means stepping up the daily walks with The Budster, and changing my eating habits. Doesn't that sound tra la la wonderful?

I'm sure you know the old adage "when momma ain't happy, ain't nobody happy."

Well, giving up my long love affair with sugar and carbs means ain't nobody happy around here at the moment. Let me pass on this bit of sage advice. When in the throes of withdrawal, do NOT clean out the dining room and then ask your husband to throw out his old textbooks from dental school. (Don't ask me why they were stacked in our dining room. Just don't.) Because it will result in a meltdown of epic (one-sided) proportions with momma insisting, "You haven't cracked open even ONE of these books in years. Throw them in the recycling box!" And him, equally stubborn, countering with oh, they're stayin' baby, totally missing the irony that he's sneezing from the dust because THEY HAVEN'T BEEN OPENED IN TWENTY-FIVE YEARS. His argument? "You never know."

Holy Moses in his underpants! Yes I do. I know they're going to sit here for another twenty-five years and we're going to be having this same argument (sorry, DISCUSSION) again, only next time, he's going sneak them into The Home where I know I'll end up pushing them out of the way with my walker until the fateful day when I trip over them and BREAK MY HIP.

Well, I am nothing if not calm and rational, so we reached a compromise - the books can go but he wants me to haul them down to our local thrift shop and donate them. Now, call me crazy, but I'm fairly confident the casual browser who is looking for a book on crockpot recipes or muffins for every occasion will not want to bring home ORBAN'S ORAL HISTOLOGY AND EMBRYOLOGY or THE STOMATIOGNATHIC SYSTEM - FUNCTION, DYSFUNCTION & REHABILITATION. Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe someone would interested in a medical textbook with graphic black and white photos of the gnarliest teeth and gums imaginable, or as I like to refer to it, The Worst Case Scenario guidebook for what happens when you don't floss.

We'll see. In the meantime, I can now walk around the dining table without tripping. Of course, now I have to tackle the TBR stack beside my bed.

A Woodpile Fit for a Dentist

I love to photograph patterns and textures, like stones in the river or rust on the side of an old barrel, or the undulating lines of a newly constructed stone wall. I find these types of photos soothing to look at and sometimes, as in the case of the rust photo, I can use them to add texture to another photo.

Then I spied my woodpile on the backporch and I thought it be interesting, all those nondescript logs stacked up like that.

Hold the phone. Nondescript? I took a closer look at this woodpile.

By Jiminy, was that a face grinning back at me? Not just any face, either. A creepy clown face with a big, toothy grin.

Who else but a dentist would have a creepy, clown-face, toothy-grinned log in his woodpile?

Knight in a White Lab Coat

After the age of eight, I rarely smiled openly. I'd hide my mouth behind my hand, and smile through my fingers.

Decades ago, when our cute paperboy came to the front door, my sister and I raced each other through the kitchen. I slipped, crashing headfirst into the corner of the counter. I remember my mother crying as I spat out blood and broken shards of tooth into the sink. Although not a stranger to dental accidents - I knocked out a front tooth, albeit a baby tooth, three years before when I fell off my bike and zambonied the pavement the day before my kindergarten photo was taken - the pain from this accident was excruciating as each breath and rinse of cold water hit exposed nerves.

We caught our dentist as he was closing. Due to the force of the impact, most of the surrounding teeth would die, he explained. Ten permanent teeth must be pulled - six on the top, and four on the bottom. My parents were leaving for a two-week canoe trip and my mother asked if he could postpone the extractions until their return. Of course, he said, but warned my teeth would most certainly be black by then.

I went to school the next day with a swollen mouth and two metal caps where my front teeth used to be. The teacher gasped when she saw my mouth. The entire class turned and stared. The mortification was almost unbearable. My constitution proved stronger than my dentist's predictions - my teeth did not turn black. Had my parents not taken that trip, I would be ten teeth short of a set.

We quickly switched to a new dentist. This lovely fellow performed Direct Electrical Stimulation - a fancy way of saying he applied electric shocks to my teeth just above the metal caps, increasing the voltage until I writhed and yelped, and he was satisfied that the nerves were still “viable.” After a couple of weeks of this, he removed the caps, and I was left with a ragged, V-shaped hole.

I lived with this battered smile and chronic fear of dentists for the next 15 years.

I compensated by not smiling, or by bringing a hand in front of my mouth. I made few friends at university, because I was too shy to speak in public and they thought I was snotty. Every Christmas my father sang "All I want for Christmas are my two front Teeth." Alas, Santa never came through. After graduating from University, I was working at a low end job, unhappily married to the only boy I had ever dated in high school, when I finally got up the guts to fix my front teeth.

Salvation came in the form of my new dentist. He specialized in patients who were dental phobics. My experiences as a child certainly qualified me. He looked at me and said "I think I can do something for you. Will you trust me?" After much deliberation, I agreed and we set a date. As he worked, I gripped the arms of the dental chair, envisioning two Chiclets, or a Bugs Bunny smile... I will never forget that moment when Dr. K. finished and handed me a mirror. I couldn't believe the transformation. It was beautiful. For the first time in my life, I felt beautiful! I burst into tears, grabbed him by the ears and kissed him, almost knocking him to the floor.

But the real transformation had just begun. You see, from that moment on, I smiled. I smiled at friends. I smiled at strangers. I smiled at the guy collecting tickets in the subway station. And you know what? They all smiled back. I even felt happier. It’s true that just the physical act of smiling can improve mood and your health. Your brain tells you, "I'm smiling, so I must be happy." Not only that, but you are perceived to be more attractive, genuine, sociable, and competent. I challenge each one of you reading this to finish your day smiling at everyone you meet. Watch what happens. I ended my marriage and got a new job. I had the opportunity to mingle with world leaders, visiting celebrities, even meeting and exchanging pleasantries with Princess Diana and Prince Charles. How? Walked up and smiled.

I met my current husband, as handsome a man as I've ever laid eyes on, as I stood on the sidewalk outside my Toronto apartment building. He remembers his first thought was, "Who is this girl with the beautiful smile?" We have now been together for 25 years and have three beautiful and accomplished children. Occasionally, when nervous, I still unconsciously cover my mouth. But now, my husband will smile and gently take my hand, and enfold it in his.

"Don't cover up that beautiful smile," he’ll whisper.

As for what my husband does for a living? Ah, there’s the rub.

He's a dentist.