I hatehatehatehate it when things don’t work. Not being able to open a jar can send me into a tizzy. I put so much faith in objects (be them electronics, piggy banks, or window shades) that when they fail to perform for me, I get irrationally upset. Like over the top. I start using unnecessary or unintelligible expletives, breath really heavily, and let’s just go ahead and fully disclose my immaturity here, actually stomp my feet. It’s adorable.
This time it’s the cable box. I’m not receiving a signal in my room. Last night I almost went into Level 3 Whimper Attack because all I wanted to do was lay in bed and watch Top Chef. But I couldn’t. After talking with a Representative on the phone for a while, attempting to reset the receiver, the next step was to take the cable box in. I had a sneaking suspicion that there wasn’t really a problem with that receiver/adapter and it actually had something to do with the cable line, but I decided to take the sweet precious time out of my morning to deal with it. Long, painful, frustrating conversations ( I swear to you, if one more person wants to recite their Satisfaction Guarantee to me, I am going to roundhouse kick their headset off—through the phone!) later, I KNOW the problem has do with the cable connection that is living underneath my washing machine.
You see someone was over to fix the furnace the other day and he had to move the washing machine to get to it. My gut is telling me that when he shuffled all those appliances around he disturbed the carefully tapped cable connection that lies under there. And that is the root of the problem. Actually, the real root of the problem is that despite my mega-muscles, I am not strong enough to lift the stacked washer and dryer combo. So, I need a bigstrongman to come over here and lift it up so I can fix the cable.
Gah!!!
This is a rant. I know this is a rant, and they are not fun to read. But blogging is cathartic and somehow I feel better.
A Broad At Home 