from a craptacular low to bumpin good times

Even if a dental procedure has a 98 percent chance of success, someone has to make up that other two percent. That someone is probably the same unlucky fool who gets stopped for speeding in a hoard of cars traveling at the exact same speed. Or the one who trips and falls, causing skirt to fly over her head, while the rest of the marching band is getting into position on the field for the Thanksgiving-day half-time show. Or whatever. Just some examples that pop into my mind.

Anyway, I found myself in that unlucky two percent on Friday. And you might not think it's such a big deal, but among my talents, I am skilled at blowing the smallest, most insignificant detail into an utter debacle. And I did. "They took out," sniffle drip drip, "the implant," pathetic sobbing, "and now it's going to be another year," snotty dribble, "and another pile of bills not covered by my freaking dental insurance," WAAHHH, "before I get a tooth," I cried to my poor sister. She kept all "WTF?"s to herself. Instead, she booked me on a train--the Acela, no less!--and let me mark the anniversary of her birth with new pants and Mexican food in New York. I had the cheese enchiladas with a side of dental sutures. Then there followed a celebratory game of bowling. In New York's Port Authority, the place you'd hate to spend an extra two minutes if you could avoid it. But the bowling was spectacular. Three strikes in a row (remember that, guys?) and a score in the triple digits--something that happens as often as those Olsen twins eat a hamburger and keep it down.