That photo is blurry is because as I was taking it, the hygienist (who I thought had left the room but who was really only standing behind me) said, "Are you taking pictures of the instruments?" and she laughed.
D'oh.
Am I the only one who takes pictures of things like this?
I call that photo "The Aftermath."
After the cleaning the dentist came in and I got the lecture about not wearing my night guard. Grinding my teeth has led to my loosening the molars on both sides of my mouth and chipping the crown on my implant, so now I'm wearing the night guard. I hate that effing thing. Hate it. I hate that it forces me into a bedtime routine. I hate that it makes me gag if I hold my tongue against it the wrong way. I hate that I'm going to lose more teeth if I don't wear it. I hate that it reminds me that I will apparently never be an adult. (Which is pathetic I know, considering that I am into my fourth decade on the planet.)
After I left the dentist's office I came home to slam a quick snack before going to meet Judi at the studio. While I was standing in the kitchen, I heard someone pull into the driveway. I assumed it was the cleaning lady going in next door, so I didn't pay too much attention until I heard the dogs barking in the back yard. I went to casita door to see a strange man looking over the gate into the backyard next door. He turned around and said to whomever was in the driver's seat of the unfamiliar truck in the driveway, "There's dogs back there," and he jumped into the truck and they hurriedly drove away.
What the--?
We've never experienced a break-in in the years we've been here--knock wood--but in the house next to ours, someone kicked in the front door. (They rang the doorbell repeatedly and, when no one answered, they kicked in the door. Only problem was, the teenaged boy who lives there with his parents had been sleeping and when he heard someone in the house he got up and wandered into the living room where two people were robbing the place. Luckily, the would-be burglars ran off instead of standing their ground.)
Every once in a while I'm tempted by the idea of gun ownership for just such occasions, but I've come to conclusion over the years that I get to pick two out of three (temper, big mouth, gun) and I already chose my two (temper, big mouth). Instead, I'm hyper-vigilant about everything from locking the security door at all times to having my mace handy to keeping my phone near me.
Now that I come to think of it though, I've never, ever lived in a place that's been broken into, not even as a child. (In fact the only time anyone has ever entered a house where I lived without permission, it was a swarm of police and they had their guns drawn, ready to shoot. But that's another story for another time.) I'm sure it's partly because Dave and I don't really have all the trappings that tempt burglars. I mean, sure, if someone wants to haul off a bunch of books and art supplies and pottery, fine. But we don't have a television or a stereo system. I don't wear expensive (or hardly any) jewelry. We don't have any tools in the house. Our car is a very well-worn, patched with duct tape, twelve year old VW Golf with a non-working CD player. So, no: Wouldn't be a very satisfying haul for a thief.
Anyway, the guys in the truck haven't been back.
Of course I worried a bit, but whatever. I still went to the studio.
Another ornament out of the kiln, this one with black underglaze and key lime transparent glaze on it.
(Oh--ha! Talking about burglary reminds me:
When I was living in Tokyo, a couple of friends came to visit, one of whom is a police detective. I had forgotten to make a spare key to my apartment to give to them, and, as I left for work on the day that they were planning on going out to Nikko, I told them to just leave the door unlocked when they left. That way they wouldn't have to worry about coming all the way into central Tokyo to my office just to drop off the key. The police detective boggled at my suggestion. "No," I said, "It's okay. Just leave it unlocked. This is Japan; it'll be fine." He didn't quite trust that, so after I left he walked down through several floors of the apartment building where I lived, knocking on doors as he went. If he didn't get an answer, he'd try the door handle. Most of the doors he tried were unlocked, no one home.
Welcome to Tokyo. It's the most ridiculously safe megalopolis on the planet.
They left the door unlocked.)
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