As if you wanted to know all that.
Anyway, the dentist I go to inherited his practice from my old dentist who retired around the time I was graduating high school. I've seen the new guy for years, but I still consider him the new guy. My old dentist's methods were very much a product of the time during which he started his practice, and he did things which probably wouldn't fly today like working with his bare (but immaculately clean) hands and never wearing a mask. The new guy, on the other hand, wears so much protective equipment that he could spend a day on the sun looking for estrogen, estrogen, estrogen and hair and come back with a light tan.
He's good at what he does though, so I'm not writing to complain about him or the fact that he shares his first name with the Norse god of thunder. No, I'm writing because of what he keeps in his office.
The old dentist (who shares his first name with millions of people named Dave) used to have pictures of his grandkids hanging up in his office. I don't know either of them, but they're both around my age and they're in my high school yearbooks. Every once in awhile new school portraits would show up around the office. It occurred to me yesterday that not only are the same portraits on the wall, but there are new ones there as well. My dentist -- who has kids of his own and who is related to my old dentist neither by birth, marriage, or secret pact never to reveal the truth about that night by the river with the hacksaw and the blowtorch -- is updating his wall with pictures of somebody else's family.
As a side note, I'm terribly thrilled that I waited until after my dental appointment to watch Little Shop of Horrors...