I'M SOL ON DSL

Since we decided to move to the middle of nowhere, we’ve met with a few challenges. Runaway dogs, ticks, getting the shake down over trash cans, but nothing really compares to the whole satellite thing. Since we live miles from the DSL community, although feet away from I70, we can’t get cable. Which was OK with me to a point. I kind of looked forward to moving away from the monopoly of the family-owned cable provided in town that was about as fee-oriented as my waste management friends. I mean, they forced everyone to make the digital switch about six months before it was mandatory. Oh, and they raised our rates because “everything’s digital now!” According to their commercials, they were doing it for us, to prevent a cluster fuck at the actual digital switchover deadline. According to me, it was just another way to F us in the A.


When we moved, we were resigned to the fact that we’d have to get satellite TV. We said goodbye to the Tivo and hello to satellite DVR. At first, it was rough because I missed the bubble sound that Tivo made. When I asked the installation man about the sound, he suggested that I just say “boop-boop” out loud whenever I changed channels. Instead, I have learned to accept the sad low-rent version of my beloved “boop-boop,” which is actually a soft "thunk." Although we’ve grown to appreciate our satellite TV for what it is, we do realize that our inability to access the closest news station will prevent us from knowing a deadly storm is headed our way. But hey, what are the odds of that happening in Kansas?


We found out that we couldn’t get the internets through the television company, but there were a couple of other companies that offered satellite internet services. After looking online, I thought that it seemed a little pricey, but I figured they had us by the short hairs. When I called I got a real eye-opening experience. I’m pretty sure that the people that run the satellite internet company also have a stake in the rural trash removal industry. The guy that “helped” me on the phone was the worst used car salesman-type that I have ever spoken to. I mean, he was worse than an actual used car salesman. I swear that I wouldn’t have been surprised to hear the phrase “what do I have to do to get you in this internet today?” fall from his lips. He first explained to me that with internet satellite service space was limited. The service could only hold so many customers at once, so if I didn’t get a spot on the information super highway, I was SOL and would have to wait until there was a space open. Then, to make matters worse, he re-explained it. “See, it’s like a plane. There are only so many seats and if you don’t get on the plane you might not get a seat, see?” When I said, “yes, I understand,” he actually began to re-re-explain it, at which time I stopped him, because I really did understand, and frankly I couldn’t bear to hear him explain it again. Especially since I’m not stupid, and contrary to that crazy person from Alaska (no, the other one) the internet is not a system of tubes that get clogged and prevent my emails from getting through.


Me and my salesman friend went through all the regular stuff and he even congratulated me when we discovered that service was available in my area. Yea! I’m a winner! Of course, not long after my congratulations, all the money talk started. Unbelievably they wanted $200 up front just to come and say hello, OK and to hook it up. But after $98 in fees (man, rural companies sure do love their fees), $25 to have the damned thing shipped to us, because apparently the hook up guys can’t deal with dragging a dish out to the middle of nowhere, and then $80 to hook it up, I was a little shell-shocked. I told Herb Tarleck that I would call back because I wasn’t prepared to hand over $100 right then. Herb smelled blood and went in for the kill “well, I’d hate to see you lose your space. I mean I had a gentleman the other day that waited and when he called back there wasn’t any space left for him…you know, it’s like seats on a plane…” I finally snapped back that I totally understood about the plane thing, but that I didn’t want to give him $100 at that very moment. I decided to spare him my sob story about a diabetic dog, need for new tires and my huge chiropractic bill, all of which take precedence over my ability to access Facebook at home.


After I hung up I was pretty irritated and decided to try and find another company. But it seems as if they are smarter than me. Because every single satellite internet provider is the same fucking company, even though they have different names. So you can imagine my glee when I saw orange AT&T cable flags all over my road. Finally! A reasonable company (you know it’s bad when I consider AT&T a reasonable company). I was excited to call them to inquire about the cable. Did it mean that the Yahoo’s and Google’s were coming to my area? I got online at work (it was lunch. OK it wasn’t), and looked up availability. No congratulations were in order. Still, when a chat window popped up, I decided to take advantage and ask if the telltale orange flags meant that I could tell the satellite people to go fuck themselves. Instead of trying to explain the insanity of my two chats with AT&T, I am just going to let you read them for yourself.


These are real.


Welcome to AT&T. My name is Lewis. How may I help you today?


Lewis: I will be happy to answer your questions regarding AT&T services. I specialize in setting up new phone accounts and High Speed Internet service. To start, could you please tell me what city and state you are located in?
you: , KS
Lewis: Hello! How may I assist you with your online order?
you: You guys do't offer DSL where I live. I believe currently you offer satelitte service through xxxx xxxx, but I've looked it and don't want to deal with them. Anyway, I noticed that all along my road there are orange AT&T buried cable markers and was wondering if perhaps something was coming my way soon?
Lewis: I will be glad to help you with that.
Lewis: First, let me thank you for considering AT&T online today.you: super.
Lewis: Do you currently have active home phone service with AT&T?
you: nope, but if it would help me get the internet, i'd get it
Lewis: Just to confirm, that do you want to go with AT&T DSL internet services only?
you: well, if it's available, yes.
Lewis: Let me send you a link to check the availability.
you: i already did that... it said that it's not available. I don't know if having a home phone would change that.
Lewis: Let me send you a fresh link to check the availability.
you: ookayyyyyyy, but as i mentioned, i've already done this.
Lewis: I'm sorry for the delay. I'll be right with you.
Lewis: Click here to check the availability of AT&T DSL services.
you: Our system indicates that our DSL service, AT&T High Speed Internet, is not available at your location. that's why i was inquiring about the cables...b/c if there is a chance to get it later i will wait rather than going with xxxx xxxx, which is priced quite high.
Lewis: In that regard I would recommend you to place an order for a basic phone line to get the internet services.
you: Oooooo... will it be dial up?
Lewis: The basic phone line will be from AT&T services.
you: but if i get the phone service would i only be able to have dial up internet?
Lewis: If you have the phone line from AT&T, you will be able to get the Internet services also from AT&T.
you:ok, i get that, but is it dial up!? :)
Lewis: It is from AT&T. Dial up is a different company.
you: OK I don't want to be dense, but would the internet service be fast or slow?
Lewis: The AT&T DSL internet service would be 100 times faster than dial up.
you: OK it's DSL. Super! That sounds like a plan...
Lewis: Please hold one moment.
you: hold the phone. ha ha
Lewis: Yes, its DSL super.
you: are you being a smart ass?
Lewis: Let me send you a link to check all the things.
you: um, ok. what are "all of the things?"
Lewis: Are you able to proceed with the oreder?
you: i think so
Lewis: If you have any concerns, please let me know, I am here to assist you.
you: you are just going to ignore the smart ass comment aren't you?
Lewis: I will be right with you.
Lewis: How is the order process going for you so far?
you: they're telling me that internet isn't available even with phone servcie
Lewis: Please allow me to send you the link to check the availability.
you: We've already done this. Ok I think that I need to go before my head explodes.


At one point toward the end of the above chat, I was having this chat at the same time while trying to place my phone/internet order.


Samantha: Hello! How may I assist you with your online order?
You: Well, I've been chatting with another representative in regards to internet. We determined that since DSL isn't available at my address that i could get phone service and then internet...does this sound right?
Samantha: Thank you very much for considering AT&T as your service provider.
Samantha: Yes, you can place the order for AT&T Home phone services online today.
You: But I want internet and phone. I thought I had to get the phone to get the internet
Samantha: Whenever the internet is available to you, you can come back online to place your order for AT&T DSL services.
Samantha: How is the order process going for you so far?
You: Ohhh so the internet's not available now.That's not what some agent named Lewis said. I'm so confused
Samantha: Please provide me with your complete address, along with zip code, to check the availability for AT&T High Speed Internet services at your location.
You: it's not. but here you go:
Samantha: Thank you for the information. Please hold for a moment while I check your address.
Samantha: Thank you for the information. Please hold for a moment while I check your address.
Samantha: Thank you for being on hold. Your time and patience is appreciated.
Samantha: At this time AT&T High Speed Internet is not available at your location. AT&T High Speed Internet is constantly expanding its service area, and will notify you when it becomes available.
Samantha: However, you can proceed with your online order for AT&T home phone services today.
Samantha: I can leave my chat window open while you place your order so that if you have any questions I can
assist you.
You: That's OK I was just going to get the phone service b/c Lewis told me that if I got the phone service I could get internet. He was also kind of a smart ass.
Samantha: Please proceed with your online order today. I am right here to assist you in completing your order.
You: Wow, you guys totally don't read these do you? That explains why Lewis never got back to me on my smart ass comment. This has been helpful and incredibly entertaining.

Update: So this a.m. the AT&T workers were out and I asked them about service. I finally got an answer from the Foreman. Although they are laying cable, it's for the next town over. I'm not really sure why they can't break off to the right and give me some juice, but it's not the case. So alas, it looks as if I am doomed, at least for the time being. I wonder if AT&T offers service in my area?

Update II: Man, why didn't anyone suggest wireless to me? After all this struggle all it took was a trip to the Verizon store. Now we have the Yahoo's juice at the house.

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OH FOR F@$K'S SAKE! STARBUCKS EDITION

Generally speaking, I hold a great disdain for the general public. This is due largely to the fact that most people are stupid. It’s true and you know it. However, since having a child and thereby unleashing the fury of a two ½ year old on an unsuspecting community, I have tried to be a little more patient. Mainly because I am now one of those horrid people that you hate with the screaming kid in the next aisle. But when I walk into a Starbucks sans ADD-riddled child, just trying to get an iced coffee, a plain iced coffee (no frou-frou vanilla half-caf/half decaf chai latte, no whip and light foam), and it takes me over 15 minutes, well then I turn into my version of the Hulk. It’s the same, except without the green and I curse much, much more than Lou Ferrigno ever did.

One morning while running an errand (OK I was at work), I thought that I’d multitask and pop (OK sneak) into Starbucks. The one close to my office has the employees that are nice and super fast. I mean, like, one minute you’re standing there and the next you have your non-fat vanilla latte in one hand and your smoking debit card in another. Plus, if you are any kind of regular, they remember your name. Yeah, they’re good. But as soon as I walked in the door, I knew that this was not a super fast kind of day, with the line stretching all the way back to BFE (OK, like five people back).

Now, I know that I am not alone when it comes to having a frustrating experience in the outside world, where one must interact with others during the exchange of goods and services. I mean, we all know that customer service is dead, which is apparent by the employees who clearly don’t give a shit. Actually, I kind of understand, because I have been a retail jockey and I clearly didn't give a shit.

But, I've spent enough time behind a counter to have seen the worst in people. I don’t have the energy to tell you all the names that I’ve been called or all the horrific behavior that I have seen. I think I can sum it up best by saying that I once had a customer tell me that I “was what was wrong with this country,” when I gave him back to much change. So, sorry about that everyone, I guess I screwed it all up.

But on this particular day, it wasn’t the employees that were wreaking havoc on my Starbucks experience. It was my fellow customers, guests, visitors or whatever the hell you want to call us. The people standing in line with the money. I stretched my neck and got a glimpse of the problem at the head of the line. By the pile of crap she had on the counter, I could tell this transaction was going to be a doosy. Turns out, she wasn’t even getting a drink, she was just buy stuff. And by the way she was doing it, you’d have thought that we were in Florida at a sea-side souvenir shop. But instead of a dehydrated starfish it was ground coffee. She had mugs, coffee beans, CD’s and other unbelievable shit. Just shit. Shit you and I would look at, but never ever buy, because it's shit.

Literally, this woman would pick up one thing, look over at another thing and say “Oooo, what’s that?” The girl behind the counter rolled her eyes ever so slightly and said, “it’s a french press.” In my head, I thought, “oh this is just great! If she doesn’t even know what coffee is we are going to be here forever while someone explains the likes of a french press to her.” And we were. Finally, when the counter had no more space, and no more knacks could be knicked, she and her daughter decided "what the hell? Let’s try some of this so-called coffee." That’s when they decided to decide what they wanted to order. I shit you not.

The Mom looked at the menu and then had to have a primer in Starbucks-ology, and no, her reaction wasn’t nearly as funny as Paul Rudd’s. The whole transaction just went on and on with eventually both women choosing a frothy vanilla shake-looking totally non-coffee type jobby with lots of whipped cream (which on a bitchy note, they both could have done without).

At this point, I was actually not doing any deep sighing or eye rolling, but that was all about to change. I knew it was headed down hill when it was time to pay and I heard the sentence start out with “OK…” An “OK” followed by a trail off usually means that something complex and frustrating is coming. The souvenir woman started grouping everything into little piles, saying, “I need to pay for these separately.” I finally had had enough. My eyes rolled, I sighed - loudly, my arms crossed, my weight shifted from one leg to the other. “Are you kidding me?” I thought. The line was dangerously close to the door when this woman finally got all her coffee memorabilia paid for and waddled her fat ass down the counter to wait for her vanilla shakes.

I calmed down quickly as I realized that I was three people away from getting my very simple, yet very important iced coffee. I truly believed that the most difficult part of my journey was over. That’s about the time one of the girls in front of me busted out a list. “Yeah, I have some orders here that I need to pay for separately.” I had been trying really hard not to be impatient. Trying. But I’m just not a patient person. I am, however the kind of person that stands in front of the microwave and yells “hurry!” And even at my advanced age, I still do the little kid agitated arm-flailing dance when things aren’t happening fast enough for me, usually moaning “huuuuurrrrryyyyyyyyeeeeeeee.” But since I was in public, instead of doing any actually arm flailing, I just thought it. In hindsight, it reminds me of the Seinfeld episode where Elaine is stuck on the subway and she screams “move!” in her head over and over.

While I was meditating on how miserable I was, I failed to notice a new development. The lady in front of me with a huge basket purse and frizzy hair had begun to talk to the guy behind me, who looked like Bill Cosby in the 80s (awesome geometric sweater included). It became very clear that they were friends, and it also became clear that they were going to forge ahead with their exchange despite the fact that I stood in their way like a natural barrier. Because of my prime location, I was forced to listen to their inane conversation. At first, I ignored it, but when someone is talking a foot away from your face, you kinda get involved.

Apparently, Basket Lady had been house hunting, but hadn’t been able to find anything. I mean anything. “You know, because you have to go outside of town. Forget about the schools. I mean, you can’t find a good one here.” Now this is where I chime in that where we live is a pretty nice little town. I get so frustrated when I hear spoiled hippies bitch about “crime,” “traffic,” or “schools” here. I’ll admit, I haven’t exactly lived in Cabrini-Green, but I did spend the better part of a decade inside a major metropolitan city. You want to see a bad school? I’ll show you one. It was right near my old apartment, and I was afraid to walk past it because the students scared the shit out of me. So spare me your tales of woe because you can’t find a school for little Cheyenne that implements the “talking stick” as a proper tool of communication.

Back to the Basket Lady. She lamented on about not being able to find a house that suited her needs. Oh, wait, I mean a house that suited her Feng Shui needs. “Because I need to wake up to the sun, ya know?” She said as she spread her hands out in a jazz like fashion as if to illustrate the sun. “When I get up I need to be energized and have my coffee and really wake up!” Wow, I thought. I can’t believe that you are having trouble finding a house, not in town, but not too far out, that has good schools and has been properly feng shuied. I mean, there must be, what like, none of those in Kansas. Believe it or not, I opted not to reach out and slap the bejesus out of her, even though she seemed like she could really use it.

Thankfully though, the Basket Lady and Bill Cosby dropped the topic of house hunting and their conversation moved forward, unlike the line. The two girls that were ordering drinks for everyone they’d ever met were still trying to get it together, which made me wonder where they worked, because I didn’t think that there was a business that big around here, but that just shows what I know.

After a time, the two gophers looked as if they were close to wrapping it up and the Basket Lady took the opportunity to rummage through her crazy basket purse and find her gift card. What do you know! It was the same gift card that Bill Cosby had given her. OhMiGod what are the odds of THAT! So she decides to ask Bill Cosby she could buy him some coffee. He says “oh no, I couldn’t let you buy me coffee on the gift card that I bought you. I bought that for you, not for you to buy coffee for me.” Basket Lady looked at him all coy-like and said “But you were so generous, please let me buy you a coffee.”

Thankfully, Bill Cosby relented and said “OK” so I wouldn’t have to watch her flirt anymore. But instead of doing the polite thing and stepping into line with him to buy coffee on the gift card that he bought her, he cut in front of me and the two of them continued their conversation without missing a beat. Now, I would have been OK with the line jumping had he just asked, but Bill Cosby just cut in line, without so much as a glance in my direction. Not even an embarrassed “sorry-she’s-making-me-do-this-and-I-know-it’s-rude-thanks-for-not-making-a-deal-out-of-it.” It was like I didn’t even exist. Jello pudding eating mother-fucker.

He then proceeded to pull out his credit card because “I just couldn’t let you pay for this.” Finally, they were ready to order, thus putting an end to the dispute over who was going to pay for coffee. I swear had their “argument” continued any longer, I was ready to interrupt them and offer to pay for BOTH coffees if it would shut them the fuck up. Of course neither one of them knew what they wanted. I think by now I was putting my head in my hands and the baristas looked like they wanted to maim a bitch.

At long last, it was my turn. I could hardly believe it. But you know what? I was ready. I knew what I wanted and I ordered my iced coffee with skim milk, had my debit card ready, and was done in 2 minutes flat. I was happy, the barista was happy, the people in line behind me were more than happy. That, my friends is how you order coffee.

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TEH IRONYS - LIFE HAZ IT

So for the three of you out there that have read the previous posts about my house from hell, you will know that I’ve had a lot on my plate with this place. It’s like if Rosemary’s Baby was a house and I adopted it. And no doubt, you know my feelings toward its former tenant, whom I lovingly refer to as Michael Keaton, a nod to the role he played in the barely-watchable motion picture Pacific Heights.

It’s funny though. When that movie came out, I worked in a movie theater and most everyone that came to see it called it Specific Heights, but that’s a different story altogether. Basically, Pacific Heights is about this guy that moves in to a San Francisco townhouse and wants it, so he destroys the place from the inside out along with the marriage of Melanie Griffith and Matthew Modine. However, my Michael Keaton didn’t have that much ambition. He was just a nasty slob who destroyed the house, but totally not on purpose – because that would have taken energy. Anyway, when we cleaned up the shit hole he left behind, there was stuff everywhere. Like personal stuff, and I’m not just talking about the teeth.

There were boxes and boxes of his family’s effects. In particular, photos. These pictures went back a loooooong time and Mark felt really bad about throwing them out. I however, did not. After having to clean the toilets of Specific Heights, I would have thrown out his mother’s wedding dress given the opportunity. I took the attitude of, “open a window and throw this shit out so we don’t have to carry it down the stairs.” Mark ignored me and decided to go through the pictures anyway, because according to him, he "might find something interesting." But personally, I think that it's because he’s becoming a hoarder in his old age.

Braving the wasp-ridden loft (that's another story for another post), armed with only a can of insect killer, he sifted through boxes and boxes of framed family photos. Usually the type of thing that people don’t leave behind when they move, unless you are a asshole junky. But then I guess when the majority of your time is spent getting high, keeping precious family memories intact isn’t exactly at the top of your to-do list. When Mark finally emerged from upstairs, remarkably un-stung, he carried one lone picture in his hand. He said that there really wasn’t anything thing up there worth keeping, unless we wanted a life-sized poster of the former tenant during his glory days of high school baseball to throw darts at, which I declined.

I pointed to the picture in his hand and said “what’s that?” Mark gave me a sarcastic smile and said “oh I found something. And we’re keeping it.” I just assumed that it was something completely stupid like a funny baby picture or the family sporting white people Afros during the 70s or something. But I was wrong. Dead wrong. Like, recently dead wrong. When he showed the picture to me it elicited the same emotion that everything else in this house has. The first stage was confusion followed by anger. I was like, "how did he get his picture, because I'm pretty sure he's never ventured out of this town! How'd it get here? What is with this guy, he's not even in the picture? What the fuck!?

Mark left the picture sitting on some shelves until about two weeks ago, when I came home and it had been moved to a spot front and center on the dining room table. When I saw it staring back at me, I thought, "here it is, the Universe is laughing at me." How else can one explain a picture of Michael Jackson, with a group of unknown people, left in my house by some junky that's not even in the damn picture, who now is probably going to come back for the one thing that we kept out of all his possessions, because he probably thinks it may be worth something?

So now, not only am I stuck with Michael forever on my television, he is firmly planted in my life. Mark will never let him go, and more than likely he's going to be a permanent fixture. He and his team of random unknowns, like ghosts, will forever haunt us. And when people ask us "who are they?" we will have to answer "I don't know," and look like the idiots we are.

Well played Michael, well played. Chamon indeed.

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GET YOUR OWN BLOG

After visiting this site, my husband, Mark, decided to give me his opinion of the blog design. Now keep in mind, I’m not a DeVry graduate, so I think that under the circumstances, I do alright. It seems that the particular shade of pink that I chose for the word “amen” bugs his delicate designing sensibilities. See, according to Mark, “it should really commit to either being red or pink…I don’t know. I just hate that color. It’s so indecisive.” Now there is an obvious joke sitting right here about men and commitment, but since it’s not 1978, and probably would reflect more on me than Mark anyway, I’m going to leave it alone.

I will say this: ladies, be careful about letting your man go to art school for four semesters, because you’ll pay for it for the rest of your life. And no, I'm not just talking about the crushing student loans. Not only can expect the joy of him butting into the shade of pink you choose for your little blog, but the green for the kitchen and whatever color you like for the couch. You’ll have to hear obnoxious phrases like “that green really has too much yellow in it for me,” or "I'm not wild about that blue. It's too gray."

But there will be some variation of those comments every time you try to do anything involving color. Oh and don’t you dare get mad, because then it just turns into how he and his knowledge of color and Bigfoot and are just misunderstood. Is it his fault if the beige paint on the wall has a slight red undertone to it? And if we don’t prime it, like, six times, it’s going to bleed through? And we’re going to see it every day and it’s just going to bug us the entire time we live here? Is it?

Who puts that much thought into blue? It's fucking BLUE!

It’s kind of like who would have thought that being married to a pastry chef would suck the fun out of eating dessert? I used to enjoy baking, now I get critiqued. I've learned not to ask "how is it?" although I will admit that following directions aren't exactly my forte. I can't help it. It's a long-standing family tradition and it drives Mark up the wall.

In my family, we only resort to something as asinine as "directions" after we have failed, thrown a temper tantrum and usually damaged the item in some way. Then and only then will we read directions. But when it concerns food, basically you just skim the recipe, wave it off saying "yeah, yeah," and when it doesn't work, you curse (a lot) and then dump the ruined food in the garbage. If you have enough ingredients left, you can try again using the directions, but only if you can see them through the blinding rage. So maybe that's why the only thing that I'm allowed to do in the kitchen these days is order pizza, which is kinda OK with me.

But truth be told, baking has become enjoyable on a completely new, psychological level. Lately, I have been going to the store and getting those microwave brownie things (Mark refuses to buy them). And as the pre-made, store bought goodness "cooks" in his kitchen, I begin to talk about how much I love the pink “amen” on this blog. You know, baking is fun.

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OH FOR F@$K'S SAKE! MICHAEL JACKSON EDITION

You guys are never going to believe what I just heard. Michael Jackson, the King of Pop, died! Yes, way! Apparently, it happened about 11 news cycles ago and man alive are Matt Lauer & Larry King covering the shit out of it. So well in fact, I don’t care anymore. OK, to be honest, I didn’t care too much when it happened. Oh, I can already hear the chorus of “that’s mean!” through the internet tubes of my yahoos and googles. But frankly, not to bite anyone’s stilo, I thought he died back in 1989.

I find it hard to celebrate the life and times of Chester the Molester. Even if he didn’t do it, he's at the very least guilty of being criminally stupid and way too fucking creepy. I mean, who has a life-sized painting of himself as Peter Pan surrounded by cherub-like little boys?

Most of all, Jackson was an idiot for letting all of ‘that’ eclipse what he contributed musically. And that’s the point- it did and it has. I don’t care how good Off The Wall and Thriller were, or how bad Bad was, what everyone is going to remember is that he bleached himself the color of a fish’s underbelly, his nose was falling off and he dangled a baby off a balcony.

This story even has the news channels reporting TMZ style. Granted, I pretty much gave up on them when they lost their collective minds over Anna Nicole Smith (yeah, I didn't get it either). But even my beloved Keith Olberman? Imagine my shock when I woke up this morning and the Today show didn’t lead in with a Michael Jackson story. Now how am I supposed to figure out that his kids are white? With my eyes?

Everyone tries to pretend that it’s all about his music, but it’s not. You can’t address the music and the talent without addressing his fucked-up-ed-ness. I happen to think that he made good music up until he started to really screw around with his face, and that one definitely had something to do with the other. Not because he so obviously hated himself, on the contrary. Everyone knows self-loathing makes the very finest in music. Just ask Kurt Cobain. Self-loathing is to music, what Napa Valley is to wine. Fertile ground.

Eventually, his career declined because nothing could get through the narcissism, bloated ego and psychological problems that literally manifested themselves before our eyes. The only thing separating this from an Elvis scenario is a toilet. OK and the whole marrying Lisa Marie thing, because that’s incest and it’s not that kind of blog you sicko.

So, seriously can we just bury this guy in his oxygen chamber with the Elephant Man and Elizabeth Taylor already? This way, Joe Jackson can crawl back under his rock, Jermaine can spend some time contemplating what went wrong with his hair and why he shouldn’t pop his collar anymore (side note: his kid has my favorite awesome name of ALL TIME - Jermajesty) and maybe CNN can get back to, oh I don’t know, reporting news. I hear that Sarah Palin resigned. That should warrant some sort of coverage, as long as she doesn’t mind being interviewed close to the Staples Center in Los Angeles.

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I GOT NO TIME FOR THIS

My intentions were to write about the progress on the new house as it happened. I thought that it could be like your real-time window into the soul sucking process that it was and continues to be. However, because it was such an unforeseen pit of despair for my spirit and my wallet, it’s taking me longer than I expected to get the second and third parts of “Home Crap Home” up on the bloggedy-blog.

I’m not even going to mention the hoops that we’re going to have to jump through to get the internet out at this house. All I am going to say is that it’s going to have to be of the satellite variety and cost about five bagillion dollars a month. Every time I turn around, there is someone shaking me down for trash removal, propane or an internet connection and frankly, I'm about thiiiiiiis close to having a major fucking breakdown.

In all seriousness, when I called about setting up trash service, in the first twenty seconds of the conversation I heard the term “waste management” and I knew I was in trouble. I could just picture Adriana from The Sopranos sitting at her desk with her phone nestled under her chin filing her nails as she explained "the fees." See, there is the one time $35 account set up fee, then the charge for the actual can and pick up fee is $25 a month and it’s charged quarterly. Then there is the $3 invoice fee to print the invoice – quarterly. Then, there is the $12 environmental fee – quarterly. After that, I quit listening because in my head I was already making up other stuff like: “Then, there is the paying fee. This is the fee that you pay if you pay by check, cash or credit.” Now keep in mind, this is all in the most horribly offensive, mobbed up Italian accent humanly possible. “Then we have the waste fee, the management fee and the fee to manage the waste fee.” At this point, there would be a sniff. “Also please do not forget that we charge a service fee for our service and if you choose not to use our service we also charge a fee for that.”

So, in addition to the $40 a month to have garbage service, we now have to open a vein to get the Internet. And, there are a shit ton of wasps out there for no apparent reason and they all want to live as close to us as possible. That being said, until I can get the next installment up about the house oddessy, here is a picture of the P, who decided to get sick during the move, by the way. At least she’s still keepin’ it real by rockin' the Snow White shades, which, just as a p.s. I DID NOT buy for her as you all know my policy on Disney.

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THE MYSTERY OF MIRTH

I got culture. On occasion, I have even been known to read things other than Star Weekly and Us Magazine. However, I do love anything that I can read cover-to-cover in 30 minutes flat. Plus, it makes me feel really smart, if not really fat and smart. Yet, I always find my way back to books. Most of mine are worn, torn and barely in one piece, but that's how you can tell that they are loved - like my cat. My Mom use to have this boyfriend that could never understand why anyone would read a book or watch a movie a second time. Besides being a huge douchebag, he didn’t have one book in his house. And frankly, I don’t trust people that don’t keep books around. Every time I move, I swear that I am going to purge my collection (really? I’m still hanging on to Blubber, really?). But somehow everyone always seems to make the cut.

Which brings me to one of my favorite books, Valley of the Dolls, just kidding. OK, not really. I love Dolls, but I am lucid enough to know the difference between Pop Culture and actual literary achievement. Lyon Burke aside, for some inexplicable reason I love the book The Age of Innocence by Edith Wharton. I take that back, I know exactly why I love it; it’s like reading an Us Magazine from the 1870s. But for some reason, everyone considers it a classic and not the juicy, gossipy, cotton candy it is. Also, if you want to start a fistfight with me, let’s discuss the casting of Winona Ryder in the role of May Welland in the Scorsese film. Man alive, that girl couldn’t act her way out of a paper bag, but I digress. I enjoyed The Age of Innocence so much that I decided to check another Edith Wharton book, The House of Mirth. I kinda knew the synopsis, but I love Wharton’s dissection of societal expectations and its realities, so I thought that I’d give The House a shot.

Wow. I tried, I really did, but not only was it boring, it was sooooo depressing and bleak. I mean, frankly if I wanted to be that bummed out, I'd just balance my checkbook. But this chick in the book could not catch a break and after about 70 pages I gave up. So that was that, and it just sat there on my bookshelf mocking me.

They made a movie out of it with Scully from The X-Files, and it was one of those that perpetually floated at the bottom of my Netflix queue. Then one rainy afternoon I saw that it was going to be on We or Oxygen or one of the estrogen channels. Right as I settled in to fold some laundry enjoy the Mirthiness, a little person that lives in my house decided that it was time to stop playing with her dollhouse and come fuck around in the laundry basket. Well, naturally it ended in tears, and as Mark came in with the “Boo Boo Bear,” another stupid thing that I wish I’d invented, I noticed that he too was being drawn into the shit storm that was Lily Bart’s crappy life.

Unfortunately, for our TV viewing pleasure, Piper recovered pretty fast from her injury and started to un-do all the folding that I’d done. We tried to tag team it, with one-person paying attention to the movie and another watching the kid. The problem was Piper was being super loud and unless we wanted to create mass chaos in the house by raising the volume level of the TV to match hers, there was really no point in turning it up. As we tried to deal with the mess that our two-year-old had created, Gillian Anderson droned on next to a fire about hers. Also working against us was the death of our Tivo, so we had no pause or rewind to save us. At this point I decided to try and lip read, but that wasn’t going so well. “Did she just say something about an oral germ whore?”

Mark had been forced into dollhouse duty and he was making the daddy doll say things like “What just happened?” and “Why is she going in there?” All the while, I was trying to be nonchalant about watching the television. I’ve discovered that if Piper thinks you don’t care about something, you’re chances of actually getting to do it/see it/hear it improve dramatically.

When Piper's attention had shifted to terrorizing the cat, Mark escaped to join me on the couch. Expecting an update, I looked at him and said, “are you nuts? I can’t hear a thing. I think that she’s asking this lady for money but I’m not sure and she may be trying to marry this other guy, but it’s anybody’s guess.” The next thing I know, she's makin' hats and credits are rolling.

We tried to formulate plot points and figure out who characters were, but it was too late. Then, it was decided that to the casual observer, The House of Mirth looked like a historical drama, but it was actually a mystery movie. “It’s like Agatha Christie’s House of Mirth,” Mark said. I mean, I had an idea what the thing was about between the book and what little of the mystery movie I saw, but I my curiosity had been piqued. Did the movie version add robots? What about a car chase? Product placement? The mind reeled. I know what you're thinking, "just go read the book and all questions will be revealed." Yeah, you try reading that thing, I'll even exercise your arms and legs while you're in the coma.

Just about that time, I heard Mark yell from the other room, “I moved House of Mirth up on the Netflix list. I gotta find out what happened.” Now we just need to find a babysitter.

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