The New Dentist

A couple of months ago I went to my Charlotte-based dentist. It was a small step for mankind, but a giant leap for me.

Considering that it had been almost a year since I moved to Charlotte, every time I visit NYC, I still get my haircut at the Japanese salon a block and a half from my apartment, where my stylist would always ask “May I give you a neck and shoulder massage?” (Yes please!)

I also beeline to the Indian eyebrow threading place where I could get my brows trimmed and shaped for $5 under 5 minutes. I can usually do this in the time that I place my order at my favorite ramen shop and when it’s ready for pick up.

I used to give my friend, who moved to London three years ago, a hard time for coming back to New York twice a year to see her acupuncturist, kickboxing instructor, Vietnamese pork chops, and her friends, sometimes in that order. “You should find places in London so you feel more at home there,” I’d say.

Clearly I’m not one to follow my own advice.

However, I did decide to find a local dentistry. Not that I didn’t like my dentist in New York. She was a huge improvement over the previous one who tried to sell me veneers every time I visited. For $10K a tooth, of which I’d need eight for a beautiful smile, according to the dentist, he tried to convince me that it would be a good investment if I wanted a husband.

I didn't think there was anything wrong with my smile. Or the lack of a husband.

His understudy was no better. I once went in for a routine cleaning when he announced that I had two new cavities.

“That’s kind of disconcerting. I haven’t had a cavity since I was six,” I said, as I noodled over the news.

“Getting cavities is not disconcerting,” he said. “Getting cancer is disconcerting,” he added.

My new dentist's office is virtually a spa.  On my first visit, there was a sign in the lobby welcoming me as a new patient. The office is big, clean, and awash in soothing colors. In the waiting room are photo books like The Most Awkward Family Photos and Crap at My Parents’ House that have you cracking up even before they put on the laugh gas. They have a real receptionist. My last dentist’s receptionist was also my hygienist.

Once in the treatment room, the hygienist comes in, gives you a pair of goggles and headphones, and offers you a remote control for the TV before reclining the chair. (A few moments later the TV screen would turn into a horrifying view of your teeth magnified 100 times.)

Then she asks if you would like the chair massage.

“The what?” I asked the first time I was there.

“The chair massage,” she said again.

“You’re joking,” I almost bursted out but was too astonished to utter a sound.

At this point I wouldn’t be surprised if she also offered a mani-pedi while I waited. It almost makes me look forward to getting back in the chair in another six months.

I don’t know if that’s a common experience for others, but it sure wasn’t mine in New York. It’s safe to say that I won’t feel the need to go back to New York every time I need my teeth cleaned. If anything, if I ever move back to New York, I might just have to come back to Charlotte to visit my dentist.

Urban Critters

We were driving home after dinner tonight when, a few blocks away from home, Scott suddenly said “What’s that flying over there?”

I looked up and saw a large pair of wings flapping slowly up ahead, at about the same height as a traffic light. It stopped and stood perched on an electric wire.

“I think it’s an owl!” Scott said.

We parked the car and walked right up to it for a closer look. There, at the corner of South Blvd. and Park Avenue – just ten blocks from the heart of Bank of America – the owl was enjoying a balmy night out.

It was the first time either one of us had seen an owl outside of captivity. It’s wild, and THAT’s wild.

We wondered if it was responsible for the disappearance of our possum.

For weeks, we had a possum that came everyday to our backyard parking lot to scavenge the leftover cat food that our neighbor Dave feeds twice daily to his adopted stray/feral cats. There were always leftovers, the possum had discovered, and the cats could care less.

He was not at all afraid of humans and would come as close as a couple of feet away from us to get to the food. Even after Scott shoos him away, he would come back within seconds to take a second bite out of the cat food bowls. (Yes, there are different bowls for different cats.) And he would go around to empty each bowl, climbing up a cinder block to reach one that was purposefully placed high to be out of his reach, then scour the ground for spillovers. Once I sat watching him for a long time. He would get so close that I could hear the crunching of the food pellets as he ate.

I half suspected that given a few more weeks, Dave would cave in and put out a new bowl for him.

But he hadn’t reappeared in the last couple of days. He was a small creature, and I wouldn’t be surprised if the owl, or one of the hawks we’ve seen in the area, finally got to it.

If that’s the case, I hope I don’t find any of its leftovers.