Many, many years ago, I loosened a molar. I actually remember doing it - I spent a lot of time grinding and clenching to keep from losing my goddamn mind during the throes of post-partum depression. One day, there was a shift in the back of my mouth, and I thought, "Well, great, now I'll be a toothless crone, too."
In the years since, my molar has pretty much stayed in place. It wiggled a bit, and my dentist worried about it, but I kept avoiding dealing with it, because the movement was actually kind of comforting. Finally, after about 7,304,320 instances of my dentist telling me I should get it checked, I made an appointment with a periodontist.
Oh, what had a I waited for?
Now, I already love people who clean my teeth. I'm saving up for a bunch of those poke-y metal things and want, desperately, to get a water and suction duo that I can use not only in the bathroom but also while lounging and watching tv. Come on. Rinsing and then not having to worry about spitting or swallowing? It's a dream. [Get your minds out of the gutter.]
But the periodontist? Hoo-boy, I am smitten. I was laying back in the dental chair when this gravely old Southern voice said, "Well, darlin', what are we seein' ya for?" and boom, I was done for. A man who will make my teeth awesome AND speaks all Southern sexy? Yes, please, I'll take two.
He took care of my tooth [grinding off part of it so it lines up right] and I get to go back and see him ALL THE TIME - ok, a few times so he can check to see how it's doing - and you'd better believe that I dress pretty fancy and make sure my teeth are clean and I'm wearing perfume and there's no eyeliner gunk in the corner of my eye.
I also may or may not have told the girl, "Oh, yeah, I love my periodontist - 'You need to put your fingers in my mouth? You go right ahead.'" Because if she's going to get a new daddy, I want her to know that mommy is very, very happy about it.