So it was last month that I went camping with Nick and crew at the Kickapoo River. Jeff snapped the above-left picture, which led me to accept two fundamental truths about myself:

1. I must be part-Osmond, and...
2. ...I have scary teeth.

Now, while neither truth struck me pleasantly—I mean, after all, what good is it being part Osmond if I don't have my share of the family royalties? It was kind of like when my mother told me that I was a dead ringer for this one shot of Ashley Olsen...yeah, well if the Olsen twins were really triplets, I was seriously gypped. It's the eye, isn't it? Stupid "mucked up" eye!—it was the "I eat small children spread with orange marmalade at Afternoon Tea" aspect of my smile that disturbed me most.

And, though I wouldn't have believed it if you had told me then, the teeth have ears. Soon thereafter, my diva wisdom tooth demanded less cramped conditions or else, an ultimatum my fully grown mouth was unable to meet. I asked my dentist last May to sign a note saying that indeed, I did not have a big mouth at all—a note I would then staple to my forehead and proceed to hold court with every person I have ever known. She promised she would and then escaped without my notice. It was sort of like when my surgeon told me she could give me an estimate of how many more weeks my dressings would require daily changings, and then stole away before so-doing. All talk...pft.

So, anyway, the wisdom tooth was evicted yesterday. I had squash and ice cream for lunch, after tiring of three consecutive meals of oatmeal. You know, they just may be scary teeth, but they're my scary teeth...and, I wouldn't be able to enjoy the decadence of marmalade-urchins without them. I will not be so verbally abusive towards them in the coming days. Hear that guys? I LOVE YOU. Stay put. My neck looks more natural white than it ever would red.