When I first began learning the French language, during one of the few times my first teacher broke into English to speak so her glassy-eyed class could actually understand what she was saying (Madame P was fond of the throw 'em in the water and see if they figure out how to swim approach), we were told that it was so difficult picking up a second language because our ears don't pick up on what doesn't sound right. Most of us don't know what the heck a subjunctive is or even if it's bigger than a breadbox...but we know, sure as shooting, if a statement streams from a person's tongue like fingernails on a chalkboard.

Much the same, we're a people of rudimentary manners in our love-match world of junk food and television. Yet, innately, there are certain eating utensils I use for certain foods...many rules that I know I break because right feels oh so wrong. I'll hold off from allowing Freud to determine why it is that I require the long-tined poke of the bigger fork for my salad consumption. Smaller spoon for hot cereal, stews; larger for cold cereal, broths. I have no use for the small forks. I use big forks for everything, and often think of that one Seinfeld episode as I strive to eat way more than one pea at a time.

I know that solids, such as bread, are placed at the left while liquids, such as water, are at the right. I know that once a utensil touches food, it isn't supposed to touch anything but the china from then on out—but that just seems cumbersome...a ceramic crab with flatware legs. I know that you should always pass to the right and if something is situated in front of you, you should serve yourself only after it has made a complete pass around the table—seems illogical. I know it's poor manners to push your plate away once you've finished your meal, and also to stack your dinnerware for the server to remove—I still do it. Seems like a helpful thing to do.

Now, I know I make plenty of blunders with the English language...but Emily Dickinson got away with it—so hey, why not? Likewise, I make plenty of dining etiquette blunders...and worse, I know exactly when I'm doing them, but the proper way just seems wayward...highly destructive to a person run by logic. Is it so bad that I ignore the small forks until we've worked through the big ones? Is it so wrong that I butter my bread straight from the butter dish instead of placing the pat on my bread plate first? Can I use my teaspoon for thick soups? I'm floundering.

Oh God! And how does one eat flounder!?

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.