• DRINK TO THE LASSES: Notes from a Woman's College Womb
    DRINK TO THE LASSES: Notes from a Woman's College Womb
    by Mary Beth Ellis
  • Twentysomething Essays by Twentysomething Writers
    Twentysomething Essays by Twentysomething Writers
    Random House Trade Paperbacks
This area does not yet contain any content.
« By These Other Names | Main | Did Not Compute »
Tuesday
Sep162008

Good Morning!

It's been largely quiet concerning That Communications Company Which Shall Not Be Named, But Certainly Will Be Linked To.  There's been a fat orange cord running from a hole in the yard--apparently the Internet is located in the crust of the Earth--underneath our backyard gate to parts unknown.  We were informed that it was a temporary measure to ensure continuation of our service.  Since then, of course, Josh The Pilot and I have come to truly know the cord. We don't like the cord, but we live with it, and incorporate it in our lives as little as possible.  It is the annoying in-law we never had.

This week I glanced out the backyard window to find not our old stalemate The Cord, but a man with a shovel.  I ain't got nothin' against shovels.  Nor men.  But the combination of the two, particularly when I'm home by myself and the man is new to me and wearing a tee shirt which reads "Buck Fuddy Inside"? And the only way into the back yard is to reach over the top of the high fence and make great effort to unlatch the handle?  I am going to calmly look into the matter, first by firing a friendly warning shot, then, upon remembering that I do not own a gun, cracking the window and screeching, "WHO ARE YOU?!??!!!"

The man in the yard dropped his shovel and ran away, and I hovered behind the curtains, extremely impressed with my homeland security tactics.  But then he returned with a manager, who informed me that they were there about the orange cord.  So the guy with the shovel knew about the orange cord, and the manager knew about the cord, and customer service presumably knew about the cord, and the cord itself, in its existential way, knew all about itself.  The only ones to have no living clue about the fate of the cord were its hosts.

"What are you going to do with the cord?"  I asked.

"We are going to take care of it," she said.

This, to me, indicated, that the cord was not long for the yard, so I moved to my next gentle question, which consisted of WHAT THE (#*^% WERE THESE RANDOM PEOPLE DOING IN MY YARD WITHOUT WARNING OR PERMISSION.  If we are going to have to take on fourth and fifth jobs to bear the weight of an upside-down mortgage, I want something to show for it, namely the ability to holler "YOU STRANGE MEN WITH SHOVELS GET OFF MY LAWN!"

The manager's response?  "The company doesn't let people know about service calls like this."

I demanded who I might call, or sue, about the matter.

"Not customer service," she said, and left.

I withdrew to my watchtower, better known as the kitchen.  When I next checked on the progress of the allegedly temporary cord, it was indeed gone-- because it had been buried in a shallow trench in the yard.  Also gone was the man with the shovel, his extraordinary service-friendly manager, and the intactness of a hanging flower pot.  The latter had been knocked from its post and dirt was spilling from a large crack in the side, but that's okay, Shovel Dude had helpfully rested it on the ground right below where it used to hang, because clearly, I wasn't going to notice that a bunch of geraniums which used to suspend midair had suddenly decided to become One With The Soil again.  I should just call Shovel Dude back to help me repot it, seeing as he's so awesome at landscaping and all.

not at all bitter at: mbe@drinktothelasses.com

tip the bartender

EmailEmail Article to Friend

Reader Comments (7)

Can we revolt against them? I had hoped they were finally being your friend again, but NO! They are not mine either. I should send you some chocolate.

September 17, 2008 | Unregistered CommenterChelsea

I would SO BE "Hello, Customer Service? May I speak to your manager please?"
Or, alternately, I would use my internet research skills to find out the name of the HEAD of the customer service department and call him directly.

September 17, 2008 | Unregistered Commenterstarnarcosis

Gee, that sucks! :-(

Get a rottweiler, or at least a sign with a photo of a rottweiler. I had a boxer that wouldn't hurt a fly, but she sure made mailmen and servicemen nervous! ;-)

People should respect private property.

September 17, 2008 | Unregistered Commenterred pill junkie

I would have done the Ferris Bueller 911 call.

"Hello, there are strange men on my lawn. I am very young, very attractive, and very protective of my largely over mortgaged house."

Hope they got everything fixed.

September 17, 2008 | Unregistered CommenterKell Belle

Red Pill Junkie,
My Boxer sounds a lot like your Boxer. My little Chihuahua-Dachshund mix is tougher than he is. I always say he is the bark and she is the bite! Maybe MB should get one of each!

September 18, 2008 | Unregistered CommenterChelsea

Chelsea,
Yes, boxers look tough on the outside, but they're really the biggest lapdogs in the world ;-)

Man, I miss owning a dog!

September 18, 2008 | Unregistered Commenterred pill junkie

[...] Orange Cord here at:  [...]

September 18, 2008 | Unregistered CommenterDishy « Blonde Champagne

PostPost a New Comment

Enter your information below to add a new comment.

My response is on my own website »
Author Email (optional):
Author URL (optional):
Post:
 
All HTML will be escaped. Textile formatting is allowed.