Thanks, Dr. Pettit -- Again!

Why do I love jewelry? I mean, I LOVE jewelry. Ask anyone who's seen my birthday list. It sure wasn't something in my genes. My mom has some really cool things, and she certainly likes it in general, but I think basically she could live a fine life without it. My sister likes to wear it, but only when it's subtle and simple and cool. But me? I love it. I don't think I ever am without earrings or rings or necklaces or watches, preferably all at once. I like it all—gold, silver, turquoise, diamonds, bold, prissy, faux, real. Bring it on, baby. I wear it all. And I guess my grandmothers liked it, but it's not like we have these fabulous pieces that have been handed down through the generations, or anything. In fact, I have a set of pins that have been in the jewelry box for years, and I always thought they had belonged to Grandma McCormick, my mom's mom. But when I wore them recently, my mom said, "Oh, those are nice! Where did you get them?" I looked at her puzzled, and said, "Mom, these were Grandma McCormick's!" Her reply? "I've never seen them before in my life." Huh? I mean, she doesn't forget this stuff. She is not wrong.

So there you go. The one piece that I've treasured for many, many years, enjoying its rich heritage from the Irish/German side of my family and their love of this lovely piece of jewelry… Turns out they've never even seen 'em. They're not from our family! And I know they're not from my dad's mom—they're shamrock pins, for heaven's sake. Can you imagine Hilda Brushaber wearing shamrocks? I think not. They're probably something somebody picked up at a thrift store somewhere. Oh, the pain. But I still love them!

But there you have it. My love of jewelry has not been handed down through the generations. I hate that! But just recently I had a brainstorm on this subject. As I previously mentioned (see post March , 2007 Thank You, Dr. Pettit), I spent a lot of time in the dentist's office when I was a kid. And I never got novocaine—my choice. Which did not make for eager anticipation of these frequent trips to the dentist.

But Dr. Pettit was always nice (something that didn't occur to me until much, much later—sorry doc) and after the crying and the drilling was over, on my way out I would always get a gift! I could choose between a ring from what seemed at the time like a huge tray of rings that were so beautiful I couldn't believe it, or from a really pretty collection of little glass animals. Let's just say I could have started a gift shop with the collection of each I amassed from all those cavities. I can still picture in detail many of the rings I got, and in particular I remember a little green milk glass crane, very pretty, very delicate. Which didn't survive very long. I mean, that long, delicate neck—come on, I was a kid.

But I can remember in an odd sort of way looking forward to my next visits. I could only get one gift per visit, of course, and there was always more than one of the rings or animals that I just had to have. So I would painstakingly pick the one ring I could get today, and then comfort myself by planning to get the other one the next time I came. Which I knew would happen, just as sure as the sun comes up in the morning. Because my mom had just set up the next appointment with the receptionist.

So while I've always thought of my childhood trips to the dentist as only awful, in retrospect they kind of shaped who I am today. And possibly even in a positive way. Did I learn to cut back on the sweets and eat more healthily? Nope. But boy, I still remember that fabulous feeling walking out of the dentist's office and into that receptionist's office with all the possibilities open to me there, after I had braved the dentist's chair and come out alive on the other side. From the awful to the sublime. I think that's why all things beautiful call to me. Why I can see that there's no reason not to make everything sparkle, even something as icky as getting your teeth drilled, commando style. Maybe why I cling to insisting that everything can have something pretty about it.

I think that going from that absolute terror and pain right into the luxury of something beautiful has created my vision that everything should be pleasing—even your box of tissues, for heavens sake.

Or -- maybe it's just from some cartoon I used to watch.

Whatever. I love beautiful things, that's for sure. From whence it came, I'll probably never be sure. But associating beauty with those darn trips to the dentist can only be a good thing, right? I feel better already.