So I think I need to see a dentist; actually if you're a "glass-half-empty" type of personality, then one might feel seeing a dentist is the absolute last thing on earth I should do. My teeth ache - sometimes it is a moderate ache and other times it is more of a "holy-crap-my-gums-are-formulating-a-mutiny-upon-my-teeth" kind of ache, but the ache has been present since Christmas and therefore I am quite sure that cavities are invading my molars like some historical battalion advancing tyrannically over a European country (that simile would have been more effective had I anything more than a rudimentary knowledge of history). When I drink anything with a core temperature below 65 degrees farenheit, the liquid serves as an agent of pain spreading throughout the nerves in my teeth in the same manner coroners will infuse the bloodstreams of cadavers with formaldehyde to preserve the body; to delay the process of rot.
So because it is obvious to me that my teeth are facing a state of ruinaton, I am faced with a choice: I can either see a dentist and then have said dentist cringe and berate me for allowing anywhere between 2 to 6 cavities to formulate, or I can skip the dental doctor altogether and watch the race between my teeth and my hair unfold in a voracious battle over which entity will completely fall out of my head first.
So far I've chosen the latter.
I've never had a healthy relationship with my teeth, it always slips my mind that they need a little lovin' and attention. The same can be said of my feet, of which I have a similar outlook on as my teeth (I think because they are located away from my brain and eyes, which seem like the only two parts of my anatomy that could remind me I even have feet). The problem with my teeth-relations is that I have excellent food-relations. I am the U.S. and food is Great Britain. My teeth are Cuba, or maybe Korea? Iran? No. We'll stick with Cuba. This does not bode well for Cuba. Ever since I was a small skinny child (as opposed to the gangly skinny man-child I currently find myself to be) I've had a bosom-buddies relationship with food. I am the Tom Hanks to food's Peter Scolari, which coincides nicely with my previous metaphor of the U.S. and Great Britain because Tom Hanks was born in California and Peter Scolari was born in England... or might have been born in England. I'm really not sure.
When all is said and done, I can only recall three instances in which I've ever been mad at food.
1. December, 1990. My father took me to see Home Alone in the movie theaters. As I am wont to do, I begged him for candy at the concession stand. He agreed, which was a major coup, because for whatever reason, my dad hated eating in public places that were not specifically designed to entertain such activity. I chose to eat Milk Duds while watching Macauley Culkin slam clothing irons into Daniel Stern's face and to this day I'm not sure why I chose this particular brand of candy as I cannot remember any other instance in which I sampled Milk Duds previous to that night. Nor would I describe myself as a child with gigi-type tendencies trying new candies at the call of a whim. More inexplicable then my selection of candy treat was my father's allowance of such a selection. Milk Duds are chocolate covered caramel chunks and I was a 10-year-old with braces! The running time of Home Alone is 103 minutes and as far as I can recollect, the first fifteen minutes were spent jamming all this freakin' candy into my mouth, the next 40 minutes was spent calmly attempting to pick this hardened goo from the metal wiring holding my teeth in position and the 72 hours after that were spent in a panic that caramel would eternally be fused to the front of my grill! My father is a good man, and a smart man, but he should have protected me from myself that night. He really should have. I can no longer look at a Milk Dud without immediately feeling the urge to floss.
2. June, 1992. My mother hosted a party for her friends. I cannot remember the ocassion for this party, but I do remember being required to attend . Mom always thought that she was doing me a favor by allowing me to invite a friend to these gatherings, but seeing as how I was not a particularly sadistic kid, I often invited no one. Asking a buddy to come over to my house and endure nurses conversing about Lamaze techniques or housewives discussing the merits of various candlesticks was like owning the Titanic and being given an opportunity to choose the ship's captain. It's just cruel. What was also cruel was my mother setting her Gin & Tonic glass within a misconstruable distance of a 2 liter of 7Up. I was the type of child that never before ingested anything sharper than pulpy orange juice. Now, all of a sudden, mom's fancy glass of sodapop tasted like needles and hate! Like slavery and crotch-punches. Awful like backwash set on fire. I've never forgiven 7Up (although for some reason, I harbor no ill will toward Gin & Tonics) and only recently forgave my mom.
3. November, 1995. Apparently when I was younger I loved guacamole. I do not remember this period of time and still question the truth of it's existence. Also apparent is that, were it not for my parents, I would not be enemies with any foods at all. But as it was with the previous culinary run-ins, my apparent love for guacamole was halted by a careless act of my parents.
I don't want to give you the impression that I hold my parents accountable for all the foibles in my life. I do not. I put plenty of stuff in my mouth that I shouldn't have, stuff I knew I shouldn't have, stuff they both warned me of and attempted to keep me from entering into my mouth. But here's a little secret about kids: if they're dead-set on swallowing something they shouldn't - it's gonna happen. I don't blame mom and dad for the $1.25 in quarters I swallowed in an attempt to be a human savings bank. I don't blame mom and dad for the potting soil and apple seeds I ingested in an experiment to see if plant life would gestate inwardly and manifest outwardly (somehow). And I don't blame mom and dad for the countless species of insect life burned to death by my stomach acids in the hopes that I could feel them wiggling inside my tummy. I do blame my mom and dad for suggesting I eat guacamole even after they were made aware that I very well could have a stomach virus and felt ill. After a solid eighteen minutes of vomiting, I knew I'd never eat this stuff again. The problem was that there is no visual separation between guacamole and guacamole-vomit. They, in fact, look exactly the same. This is what I think every time I see perfectly wonderful tortilla chips being scourged in a vat of green goop. People call guacamole "guac" (rhymes with clock), which in no way helps me reconsider guacamole. This, along with people who refer to chicken Parmesan sandwiches as "chicken parm" sandwiches, is something I find mindbogglingly lazy. I also think calling guacamole "guac" is a fittingly disgusting form of onomatopoeia. "Guac" is the sound I imagine a human liver would make if it hit an asphalt road after being tossed out of a moving vehicle going 88 miles per hour. GUAC!
But that's it really. I've kafuffled with just those three foods and the rest is a peaceful harmony between two powerful nations; The Republic of Food and the United States of Me. I just don't think I can go to a dentist and hear him defend my Cuban enemy and villify my largest ally. I just can't do it. I will learn to live with the pain that drinking Squirt and Dr. Pepper might forever bring me and I will suck it up.
You hear me, food? Because this is what bosom buddies do for one another.
READER'S NOTE: I have recently been informed that Peter Scolari was actually born in New Rochelle, N.Y. but I was unable to find any information on Peter Scolari's parents and whether or not they are of English descent. Therefore, my simile of Peter Scolari being the Great Britain being the food to Tom Hanks' being the America being the me is still in play.
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