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These are not my toofs.
You know this right, me and my dental woes? If you know me you know this. If you don't, the short version goes something like this: I was a wee little sickly Elle and after years and years and years of antibiotics, my teeth are all screwed up. So every couple of years I can tell a story that goes something like this: Yeah, I went in for a cleaning at 11 that morning and walked out 6 hours later with 6 new teeth.
That was last year's adventure. This year, I got my #12 pulled. Yes, I know my teeth by their numbers, isn't that awesome?
I had a tooth pulled once before, many, many years ago, a back molar. But this one is an upper tooth, one of my "smile" teeth, so now with this gaping hole/wound in my mouth I look like one of my old Mill City neighbors (or Amy Winehouse, your pick). They gave me a temp, but it's like this retainer thing with one tooth, and never mind that it's incredibly uncomfortable, it's just plain STUPID. I can't eat with it, can barely talk with it, and shouldn't wear it if I want my toothhole to heal. So why did they give it to me? Cosmetic reasons. What, am I a supermodel? I am so returning this thing.
Anyway, so IMPLANT. I'm getting an implant. I've had crowns and bridges up the wazoo, but never an implant. You know what I have in my jaw right now? A SCREW. Yes they took out my tooth (which took 2 hours, by the way) and replaced it WITH A SCREW. And then in all seriousness my dentist says to me:
Don't worry, it's not big enough to set off metal detectors at the airport or anything like that.
O. M. G.
Anyway, the meds, LOL. He gives me Ibuprofen horse pills and Vicodin-but-not-Vicodin. I don't care if it is or it isn't, all I know is it makes me sick to my stomach and I don't want any. Oh, I'll give you an anti-nausea pill too, he says.
Whatever, I don't really plan on taking it so I don't really care. Until I had to pay for it, that is. The Ibuprofen, the VbnV, the antibiotics, $4 each. The don't puke pill? $54. ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?!? Well shit, now I have to take it.
OMG, this is FUN! But I am very stupid. And I need help doing complex tasks, like putting one foot in front of the other while simultaneously maintaining balance and fighting gravity. LOL. I'm sorry, was I saying something?
I jinxed myself.
About half of the Elleverse has come down with this mucusy flu thing over the last two weeks. The kind of thing that makes people invest in expensive lotioned kleenex, and sends significant others to sleep in guest bedrooms. A sniffling, sneezing, coughing, aching, stuffy head, fever sort of thing, but without the so you can rest medicine (oh the good old days of green death NyQuil). And here's me, all: OMG, how awesome am I that I didn't get sick!
So...for reasons I won't begin to bother you with, my sleep schedule the last few days has been totally messed up. Sunday I fell asleep at like 2PM, and woke up 4AM Monday. I was up again at 3AM today.
Honestly, I kind of like having the mornings to myself. It's quiet, the sun isn't up so it's only, like 100 degrees, there might even be a breeze, the hummingbirds haven't started their daily Hatfield vs McCoy war yet. It's peaceful. And as you can probably tell, I like to spend my peaceful mornings outside.
Ok, so a quick tangent. We have a sliding glass door that leads from the kitchen to the patio. And we have this uberly awesome, hi tech nerderific security system in the form of a sawed off broom handle that sits in the door track. Ain't no one getting in that door.
Seriously. Including me.
So it's like 5AM. I hear Pablo running around inside chasing Chica, or Pablo tumbleweeds, or shadows, who knows, he's crazy. And the kitchen is tiled, so he slides around a lot, and the rug by the door is always upside down or sideways. And so he goes running and I guess he hit the rug and went sliding because the next thing I hear is him crashing into the door. So I get up to go inside and you know what happened right?
Yeah, this happened.
I stood there for a good three minutes just like: Aw hell no, really? I just got locked out of my own house by my own cat?
And then I was like, well no, he's The Crandall's cat, which kinda explains everything about him you need to know.
When I woke up this morning, it was New Year's Day. When I got out of the shower, it was Valentine's Day. Went for a quick Easter brunch, ran some errands, and then off to a 4th of July BBQ. Did a little Trick or Treating on my way home, and made it back just in time for Thanksgiving Dinner. Afterwards I opened my Christmas presents, and when I woke up the next morning it was New Year's again.
Seriously, ENTIRE WEEKS go by and I'm like, how the fuck did that happen? I moved here in January, I'm pretty sure I still have boxes to unpack and here it is August 1st already.
It's funny because I spent all of 39 pretty much freaking out about 40. Then 40 came, and along with it a MASSIVE EXPLOSION of the neurotransmitter fuckitall in my brain - I'm not kidding, some days I feel I'm truly approaching a zen-like Tyler Durden level of not giving a fuck, flying or otherwise. But time is now lost on me. I'll be 42 this year. No wait, 43. No, 42. (hang on...math...) Ok, 42. Let's go with that. At 40, 50 was just a number. Now it's 8 years away, and I'm thinking, holy fuck, the way time flies, that's like tomorrow.
(But I only give, like, half a fuck, so really, it's not too bad.)
Anyway, all that to say, that's where I was all last week. Lost in the aether. Ok, ok, I took the Ellenator out for a spin too. No tickets yet! W00T!
My week was fairly boring. You know, just normal everyday stuff, write code, cook food, swim, do laundry. But then, I don't know, maybe it was the full moon, Friday got exciting. I wake up, feed the beasts, make my latte, open my laptop, spool up my digital lifestyle, OMFG THE CRANDALL GOT ARRESTED.
So, ladies, tell me: what does your The Husband do in the middle of the night? Snore? Steal the covers? Snuggle? You poor things, how boring your lives must be. Mine heads out to roam the "neighborhood" (translation: all of greater PHX/Tempe) for "15 minutes" (translation: hours) to partake in ██████████ (<-- redacted), which may be considered an art form to you and me, but nonetheless got him charged with two misdemeanor counts of juvenile delinquency and general fuckwadary.
Don't be jealous, bitches.
He didn't get hauled off to jail, and I didn't have to bail his ass out, so clearly this was not, like, a Louboutin or Manolo level offense. But I did hit the mall with my BFF Anne the next day for some retail therapy, and came home with some beautiful shoes. And by some I mean four pair. And some other stuff. Something from Chanel. A quick trip to VS. Did you know that you can buy bras now that have the boobs already built in? You know what, let's save that one for another post...
Anyway, I get my shoes, I get my
He let his partner in crime wheel a Super Fucking Mario Fucking Brothers into my dining room.
The house we are currently living in is, by far, the largest place we've ever rented. Once upon a time we had this tiny 500 sq foot shit hole, but we moved past that, and for over a decade we hovered around the 1200 sq foot mark. You spend 10+ years with someone @ 1200 sq feet, you acquire approximately 1500 sq feet worth of crap, plus some extraneous shit you should have tossed out 3 years ago. There's some law of physics that describes it, entrohoardapy, I think?
In any case, this place is over 2000 sq feet, almost double the size of the last place. In other words, a lot of extra space. When we first got here we walked from room to room wondering: what do we do with all this space? And we agreed right then and there that buying stuff was not an option because inevitably (A) we'd have to move it and (B) we'd have to move it some place smaller, thus creating the problem of too much crap and too little space. And that's not really a problem we want to deal with.
Yeah, well... that was January. Now it's July and The Crandall has totally figured out what to do with all that space. We have gear in one room, and t-shirt stuff in a another room, and art and photo stuff over here, and wheat paste stuff over there, and careful where you walk in the backyard, and OH RIGHT, THERE'S AN ARCADE IN MY DINING ROOM.
Remember Tempest, that harlot? Yeah, she has friends now. She's lured Space Invaders, Donkey Kong and some tramp named Star Castle into her den of iniquity. And I hear Frogger is on the way.
Alas, not all is The Fault of The Crandall. Well, yes and no. No because technically only Tempest is his. Yes because he keeps wheeling arcade games through the front door. He has a partner in crime now, and they enable each other. And because I don't get all OMGWTF!?!? every time they walk through the door, I enable their enabling, which, as you can see, is turning into some exponential shit.
So what's a girl to do? Play Space Invaders, I guess...
The Crandall has finally found his one true love...
The Crandall was very very sad when we left The Portland because he had to leave his
ANYWAY, as you can imagine he's suffered some horrible separation anxiety since we moved. He's been to every arcade, bowling alley, pool hall, skating rink, and possibly laser tag place, in the greater PHX area looking for a Tempest Machine to play and none are ever found. He has an extra special craigslist RSS feed set up to search a tri-planetary area. One will pop up every so often but it's either on Venus and he can't figure out how to get it home, or it's in pristine condition and the seller wants a million dollars.
And then came the rapture.
Yesterday morning: BING! craigslist alert. ONE TEMPEST MACHINE. TOTALLY WORKS. $200. Furious emailing ensued. Some guy (not from Motorhead, I don't think) was on his way to buy it when The Crandall got in touch with the seller and she says: Oh, you emailed first, I'll call the other guy and tell him not to come. Other guy was not amused.
Tempest Machine, however, was stupid excited to see The Crandall. I don't know, maybe she was overwhelmed when she realized she was no longer going to live on some old lady's porch, but instead was to live with someone who truly loved her, or maybe she's just a harlot, but when I walked in the living room to meet her, this is what I saw: The Crandall, on the floor, half in the house, half in the garage, Tempest Machine on top of him.
Me: (WTF?) Um, are you ok?
TC: I'm not sure.
So we dug him out (ok, he dug him out while I provided moral support) and got Tempest Machine on her feet, and pushed her into her corner, and plugged her in, and PSHEW! PSHEW! she totally works. She's a little banged up in some spots and is having trouble with the color red, but
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