• I get back from the gym last night and there are two voice messages on my phone. Both are from Time Warner. The first message is the technician I talked to Wednesday night who said he wasn’t “feeling well,” but would come on Monday night instead. His message was that, unsurprisingly, he wouldn’t be able to come on Monday, so he would come on Tuesday instead.
The second message was from a different Time Warner technician who, apparently, was AT MY FRONT DOOR WONDERING WHY I WASN’T THERE. As much as I hate calling Time Warner, I called them back, sat on hold, and when someone finally answered I explained to that what had happened and asked them to make a note in my file that, “Customer was not home because customer DID NOT HAVE AN APPOINTMENT!” I asked if she could put that in all capital letters and she said she could, but I don’t think she did.
It’s getting to the point where I need a different language to talk about Time Warner. English doesn’t cut it anymore. I can’t make sense of them using English. On the other hand, it’s encouraging – because I feel as though, following their example, I too can someday own my own multi-billion dollar corporation.
• My mom constantly worries that people will think she is crazy for the stuff I write about her in my blog. I reassured her, though, that I’m the one telling the world about my weird relationship with Time Warner and my poop. I’m pretty sure they’re too disgusted by me to even notice her.
• The Girlfriend is headed up to Boston to visit her sister this weekend while I’m staying here to help a friend move out into a new apartment. The Girlfriend had to drag her suitcase (yes, suitcase . . . for three days . . .) on the bus to work this morning because she was leaving straight from there. She calls me afer she gets to work and we have this conversation:
Me: “How’d it go with the suitcase this morning?”
TG: “Oh Christ, I hate the bus. I was going to get off at the back of the bus, then at my stop the bus driver pulls up right next to another bus like two feet away. So if I tried to get out the back door –“
Me: “You would have died.”
TG: “– Right. So I had to carry my bag all the way up to the front of the bus. And I purposely didn’t acknowledge the bus driver as I left.”
Me: “You should have hit him with your bag.”
TG: “I hit some other people I think . . .”
Me: “OK, good.”
I’m really beginning to believe we’re different from other people. Like when we get older, other couples aren’t going to invite us to their parties because “we make the other guests feel uncomfortable.”
• Every so often I clean out all the papers in my work bag and wonder more and more why I carry around a workbag at all. Basically, it’s to hold whatever book I read on the subway; and to portray myself as a more important person than I really am. Plus I sometimes take boxes of tissues from the office, which I suppose I would need a bag for anyway.
• I never got to comment on the premier of “Prison Break.” Probably because I wasn’t eager to pry my foot out of my mouth. After claiming that it would be the new hit of the Fall line-up, the premier episode fell flat. The show came off like “The O.C.” meets “Alias” in prison, which results in something like an utterly unbelievable trashy romance novel. Consider:
The Prison Warden – A friggin pussycat. Gives special treatment to Michael because Michael is a professional structural engineer who offers to help the warden build a replica of the Taj Mahal out of popsicles for his wife. Read that sentence again. Are we supposed to be in a prison? Or in the 10th grade?
Cellmate – A friggin puppy dog. He’s a seemingly metrosexual, clean and polite man who befriends Michael off the bat because Michael helps him write a love letter to his girlfriend on the outside. Later in the episode, we find out that the cellmate uses drugs and has a shank hidden in his cell. They could have turned Betty White into a terrorist on “Golden Girls” and I would have believed it more than I believe this guy using drugs and stabbing people.
Prison doctor – A hot blond girl. In real life? She’d be dead in an hour, maybe two if it was a slow day.
Escape plan – He has tattooed the prison’s blue print to his body. I feel awkward just saying it. I was watching Unscripted last night on HBO and there was a scene with a girl, her friend and her grandfather who has Alzheimer’s disease all out at a restaurant for dinner, when the grandfather starts to tell a story that makes no sense at all and finishes it up by saying that he spent the entire previous day with his mother (who is obviously long dead). It was so uncomfortable, I had to fast forward through the rest of the scene on my Tivo.
The scene where they show the prison blueprint tattooed on Michael’s body is worse.
There’s more, but I think I’ve sullied my reputation as and apt previewer enough. I’ll watch it a few more times, but I’m not hopeful at this point.
• Has everyone seen the picture of the centipede that British guy found in his house? According to reports, he “trapped the venomous centipede in a plastic box after he found it behind his TV and took it to the Natural History Museum.” If I ever found that thing in my apartment I would walk out the door and start a new life somewhere else.
• For the past four nights I have reached for my electric toothbrush, only to remember that it needs to be charged. Then I tell myself that after I am done brushing with my manual toothbrush, I will plug in the charger and recharge the electric toothbrush. For four nights I have brushed my teeth for two minutes and completely forgotten that I have to charge my electric toothbrush. You would think that by the third or fourth night I would say to myself, “This is ridiculous. I can’t believe I forgot again,” and saying that would make such an impression in my mind that I couldn’t possibly forget again. I guess that’s what should happen. I think at this point it would be easier to just throw the thing away than frustrate myself any further by forgetting to charge it.
• Our president couldn’t lead his wife through a Home Depot let alone lead our country through a regional crisis.