Well, there’s good news and there’s bad news.
The bad news is that I am incapable of eating a cinnamon crunch bagel right now, as I seem to only be commanding about half of my mouth and approximately one-quarter of my upper lip.
The good news is that my internet at home is working again, thanks to the mystical wonder I like to call “nightly maintenance that fixes whatever it is that Comcast is now regularly breaking on my system.”
Oh, wait. There’s more good news: I can make some really cool faces with my lip all numb like this.
So, I went to the dentist last week, and they cleaned and polished my teeth and told me how beautiful they are, and I was luxuriating in the praise when the perky young dentist insisted on pointing out a cavity. The nerve. She told me not to worry, because it’s just a tiny one, but then when I asked if I could wait to have it filled her face fell.
“Oh, no,” she said, “I wouldn’t wait. If you do, it might get bigger!” Well, okay then. Fair enough and all, but why tell someone a cavity is “no big deal” if it has to be filled, anyway? My face is going to be numb by the time you start drilling in there; what do I care if it’s little or huge or just right? You crawling inside my mouth while I try not to drool all over myself is pretty much the same procedure, regardless.
[Aside: For years I had slightly-weird men as dentists. I came to believe they were the only people who chose the profession. Then I encountered a variety of different sorts of dentists, culminating in my current dentist, who is small and adorable and perky and doesn’t look a day over fifteen. I want to put her in my pocket. But it makes me wonder if dentistry is somehow becoming hip, now. Because honestly, the only way you could get ME to become a dentist would be if you locked me in a room and said, “Okay, you have to pick one of these two professions before you can come out. You can either be a proctologist or a dentist.” In that scenario, I pick dentistry (hands down), but other than that, WHY would someone voluntarily spend their time breathing other people’s stinky breath, palpating their gums, and listening to their weak excuses for not flossing? I am puzzled.]
Anyway, I had the cavity filled this morning and now I am hungry, but I cannot even sip a little water without it all falling back out of my mouth, so I think I need to wait a bit to eat.
But back to my internet. Once upon a time my internet was provided by a small company, and when they first offered broadband it had a lot of problems, but eventually they worked it out and the service was good. Recently, Comcast came along and swallowed my local company. And they sent out a billion flyers and ran a zillion commercials about how COMCASTIC everything was going to be now.
In the words of a great icon of our generation: That word, I do not think it means what they think it means.
Apparently what it means to be COMCASTIC is that my broadband service—which previously worked just fine, thanks, providing frivolous things like round-the-clock internet access—now just disappears a couple of times a week for about twelve hours. It just up and vanishes! Isn’t that COMCASTIC?
I call to report the outages, and invariably I get a “customer service tech” on the phone who is really helpful. Oh my, yes. They will say things like, “Let me check on that for you. Well, ma’am, I’m showing that your modem is offline.” And when I reply that THIS IS IN FACT WHY I’M CALLING, they offer to send out a repairman next week.
Then I bang my head on my desk until I pass out. When I wake up in the morning, their nightly maintenance has reset whatever the problem is. And that’s great and all, but sometimes I don’t feel like waiting twelve hours for access. Also? As I explained to the nice man on the phone last night, I’m paying a lot of money for service I’m not getting. It makes me cranky.
Now I have internet again (inexplicably! like magic!) and my bill has been credited and a repairman is coming out at the end of the week. That should be fun, because there’s nothing wrong at my house or probably even on the street pole. I suspect someone at their headquarters is getting a little too Comcastic near the switch that controls my neighborhood, frankly. And I wish they’d stop.
So I’m going to catch up on all of the stuff I couldn’t do last night, and then I have to go shopping for floor tile. And a shower door. Woooo! And even though y’all vehemently protested my wallpapering plans, I have to tell you a couple of things:
1) I already have the wallpaper. Which makes it FREE. Paint? Not Free.
2) That bathroom has always been wallpapered. As such, they the walls never had any finish work. As in, they’re not taped. Would it be lovely to tape and finish them and paint? Yes. The price? Not Free.
So. Wallpaper it is! Those of you who protest can use the painted bathroom with the frogs. But that’s the one where Monkey regularly exercises his dubious aim, so really, it’s a matter of picking your evil.
Now my tooth is starting to hurt but my lip is still numb. This seems unfair. And I really don’t want to find myself at Home Despot saying, “Yeth, I neeb sub tieble for my bafrum.”