My teeth love me, I get them professionally cleaned. Instead of sitting under that gnarly light, having a sadistic torturer lacerate my tender gums with an evil hook, I like to think of it as a deep tissue massage at a fancy spa. Then it feels all luxurious and self-indulgent.
The hygienist gave me grief about the years of missed cleanings, as she scraped off mounds of rubble from the surfaces of my molars (they are very curvy, she said). She had to use an appliance called ominously, "The Calcitrator" which felt like fingernails on the chalkboard of your nerve endings. It was pretty ugly, I cried. Then she lectured me re: flossing and brushing. I felt it was useless to tell her that I did both those activities more than once a day. Its like telling the officer that you hadn't been drinking, when you really hadn't been drinking. But if you protest too much, you proclaim your "guilt." Besides, she was scraping the crap off that I was supposedly flossing off every day like a good little american. (I was flossing!)
Dear readers, I am sorry to say, you are going to be hearing more about the exciting state of my teeth. I have three (!) more appointments over the next six months to finish.