There are times when I’d rather be,
Anyone but plain old me.
Like, maybe a celebrity.
An actress on a TV show!
To all the private clubs I’d go.
Designer clothes from head to toe.
And everyone would love my shoes.
Just think of all the weight I’d lose!
They’d talk about me on the news.
Throwing tantrums on the set.
Flashing my girly parts on the ‘net.
Perhaps I’m not ready for that yet…
At 12 ‘o clock I was literally on my way out of the building when Jonas informed me that we’re supposed to be having a lunch meeting. Oh great. My favorite kind of meeting. The Big Boss (the one that everybody hates) had come down all the way from Stockholm and wanted to discuss last week’s interviews with the school inspection people. Okay. Sure. Fine. I guess we absolutely have to do this right fucking now.
I was having such a great day at work too. Some of my colleagues and students and myself had spent the morning painting one of the school walls with different motifs and quotations, and having a really good time doing it. This was one of the student counsel’s projects. They wanted to decorate the school and got permission to paint a few walls. We worked on it until lunch time and then I got ready to leave since I had worked my scheduled hours for the day.
I was pretty eager to get the hell out of there too, since it was past my normal lunch time of 11:30 and I didn’t have time to eat any breakfast this morning. When this happens it’s usually not a big problem because I can grab a piece of fruit or something from the conference room and then have an early lunch around 11 or 11:30. Not today, however.
With my stomach as hollow as the Grand Canyon, I sat down and proceeded to watch everyone else eat lunch for the next hour. We each had to tell the Big Boss precisely what the school inspectors had asked us and what responses we gave during our interviews. He had all the English teachers go first so I was done after about ten minutes. I then sat there for the remaining 50 minutes not able to concentrate on what anyone else way saying (in Swedish, naturally) because I felt like I was about to pass out from hunger.
Then they wanted to have an after-work session at 5 ‘o clock later on and they wanted me to go. I said that I was only scheduled to work from 8 to 12 so I was going home. Yeah, but after-work is not considered part of working hours, they said. Duh. No, I said. I’m not coming back for that. Then when they started to press me further, I informed them rather loudly and irritably, that I really needed to leave because I hadn’t eaten yet and I REALLY NEEDED to eat.
I then stormed out of the building and headed home. Of course I had just missed both of my normal short cut methods of transport (bus and ferry) so I had to take the bloody tram. It doubles the time it takes to get home. When I got to where I change trams at Brunnsparken, I bought myself two doughnuts and gobbled half of one down immediately.
When I got home I ate the rest of the doughnuts and cracked open a Bacardi Breezer, even though it was only two in the afternoon. I’m feeling okay now. Doughnuts and booze did the trick.
Seriously. Fuck it hard with shards of glass and sand.
I don’t ask for much out of life. All that I really need is a little financial security, a happy and healthy toddler, a home with Tiffany lighting and an internet connection that doesn’t suck greasy, hairy ass.
I’m woefully addicted to connectivity. I go through withdrawal if we lose power and my iPhone battery runs out of juice. I shake. It’s worse than going without a cigarette, in certain ways. That said it’s not just a consistent internet connection to me. It’s my livelihood since I work out of my home.
Years ago, I was able to work off-line. Since I transitioned to my new position last year, I no longer have the luxury of keeping things on my own desktop as I work with patient data which must be double-sooper-seekrit encrypted in llama and wingdings. Trying to download and upload any document is a complete pain in the ass on a good day. When the size of the file is the cyber equivalent of the entire State of North Carolina, the task is odious. The process takes so damn long that I’m able to empty and reload the dishwasher and do laundry.
While I appreciate being able to multi-task like no other, I am far too impatient for this madness. Around middle-March, I upgraded my service to uber-maximum-light speed performance. Or so I thought. Our service may be faster but I wouldn’t know as I am now unable to maintain a connection for longer than a mouse fart.
After sitting on the phone with the diagnostic staff stationed in, oh let’s say Bangalore, they finally agreed that it’s an actual physical problem. Being the nice folks that they are, they agreed to dispatch a technician to make some repairs.
The technician showed up in a torrential downpour with a surly attitude. I suppose I’m having flashbacks from all of the acid I did not drop in college because he made us believe that the problem is in our heads. My seven years of living in this house and dealing with the same fucking problem over and over and over again did not matter. Jesus could be standing next to me, explaining the problem to the tech and I would still be wrong. Oh. And going to hell, too.
After slamming my head off the wall and hopping up and down in the foyer (not really), I finally convinced the surly tech that the problem is, indeed, with the actual cable running to the home. Yay! Unfortunately, surly tech did not bring the appropriate equipment to make such repairs. Our only recourse is to schedule another appointment.
I can certainly appreciate the fact that not everyone is a prognosticator and not everyone will bring every fucking tool in the shop to a service call. What I do not appreciate is paying for an upgrade and receiving a downgrade or a no-grade.
So, again, I will have to call Time Warner and sit on eternal rot with Bangalore to have the same surly tech dispatched to the home where I will have the same irritating conversation about what is actually wrong. Because, you see, I have an infinite amount of time to spend on this issue. I will end up dropping to my knees, with tears streaming down my face and pleading with someone who couldn’t give a flying fuck that the problem is not with the router. It’s not with the modem. It’s with that tangled up mess of a cable outside of the house. In short – it’s not me. It’s YOU! It’s you and your shitty cable that does not deliver a consistent bleep-blip-bloop signal to my damn house, Time Warner.
In the interim, I will spend, at the very least, ten minutes trying to access my WLAN to spend an additional ten minutes trying to upload a document. Then I will spend an additional ten minutes trying to explain to my boss why it takes me twenty minutes to complete the simplest of actions.
All because of an upgrade.
Random Misanthrope 