Teeth cleaning Thursday morning! Woo to the hoo!
Every time I go in, I have to struggle against the urge to ask my hygienist if she thinks she and I are related. She's a big, tough gal who looks like she would know her way around a beer joint, a description which covers most of my sainted mother's kith and kin. Her family, the Baldridges, ran to women who could chew up men like crushed ice, but just rolled their eyes at masculine foolishness and made babies instead.
This hygienist looks like all of them sort rolled up into one formidable package. And yet, I just can't imagine explaining to a woman who brings in carpenter tools to work on my mouth that she reminds me of the trashiest line of my white trash heritage. I mean, despite what many of my friends will be only too glad to tell you, I'm not crazy.
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