I'm writing this post under the gun this morning because, if things go as promised, a representative from a Big Name Satellite Company will be at my house between the hours of 8 a.m. and 12 p.m., today to outfit my house as a multimedia hot zone. Goodbye, lame cable company that has never met my needs, hello bigger, stronger, faster Internet service (who knew porn could be less choppy?)(I kid, oh, how I kid!), crystal clear land line telephone service with features I never use aside from caller ID (which I believe to be the greatest invention just after the DVR), and come to mama satellite, glorious satellite.
To be honest, I have no idea if what I'm getting will be better than what I have, because really, is anything ever? All I know is the same core channels I need to survive or bust along on a Weekend Twitter Movie Date (not trademarked, but totally should be) with Backpacking Dad remain intact (dude, The Princess Bride is on at 11 a.m. Central Saturday on WE...)(DAMMIT! Why don't I get Encore!? RoboCop is on at 11:40 p.m.!)
Anyway, we're pretty excited around these parts, and of course, I say that knowing it now lets those few of you who haven't yet figured how stunningly lame I am in on the little secret. You should see how giddy I get watching paint dry, water freeze, and Jell-O gel. "Breath, sweetie!" you'd probably say, whipping a paper bag out of your back pocket in the event I started to hyperventilate. I should totally start watching NASCAR, what with the hours and hours of left turns to lull me into bliss. After you'd gotten me calmed down, you might nudge the person next to you and ask, "Is this really the post she's giving us today? Something about how she's going to have to figure out where all her favorite channels are now? Really?"
Um...yeah. Really. Except wait for it! There's some pay-off coming!
Actually, I plan to confess something to you first. I've spent the past two nights glued to my couch in a feeble attempt to burn off the hours of television programming I have stored on our DVR right now. Remember when I mentioned porn up there a bit ago? Well, my porn is Dirty Jobs, and I've got about 12 hours of Mike Rowe getting nasty and regaling me with double entendre that he whispers in my ear, and believe me, that's the move that really works on me. Last night, thanks to Mike, I dreamt about castrating sheep, which OMG! Reason 2,304 1/2 why I'm glad I live in the suburbs! I also dreamt about Mike allowing me to give him a sponge bath and remark about his pectorals. I actually have this dream three or four times a week, only sometimes when I glance up from my dream man's hairy torso, I'm staring at FTN, and we just nod in a way that says, "Let's just keep this our little secret, k?" As you might imagine, watching hours of television doesn't really free you to go out and experience life in a way that allows you to gather post inspiration. Sure, I could tell you about the old man who followed me around the bookstore Monday saying the word "bunny" over and over, but instead, I chose to watch My Fake Baby, which I recorded off of BBC America a few weeks ago (also? OMG!), and when I've not been watching TV, I've been prepping my house for my special guest start.
(here's where you can pay attention because I'm about to unleash the pay-off of this post!)
Why do I have to prep my house for the satellite and Internet installation tech? Well, if you've not been around these parts since the dawn of time, perhaps you don't know that I have a little problem when it comes to repairmen visits, and, even though the word "panties" makes me cringe when I say it, I apparently like to type it. A lot. I've written a post (or two!) that weaves these two subjects together magically, and, in the interest of trying to crank out this week's episode of 90210 (welcome back again, Brenda) yet this morning, I've decided to share one of them with you. Even reruns of Dirty Jobs do it for me, so I hope these do it for you. P.S.I realize my rambling before the pay-off makes this a huge post. I suggest you approach it like an epic miniseries, like The Thorn Birds, which I watched every damn time it was on TV ("And there's one thing you've forgotten about your precious roses, Ralph, they've got nasty, hooky thorns!" sigh...). If you've read these when they were originally posted, I dare you to comment again. Especially you, Numby, or I'll be forced to write something about your amazing pecs AND quads. For you, sir, I went through this post and started each sentence with an uppercase letter (how I miss you, lowercase writing days...)
he shouldn't see london, he shouldn't see france
In the event a repairman is scheduled to come to your home (sometime between 1 and 4 p.m. never before, more often than not later), let me dispense a bit of advice to you to make the man's task at your home more productive.
Always pick up your panties from your bedroom floor.
Be aware that a repairman may or may not wish to go into your bedroom to check the screens in your window. you won't be expecting it, of course. The windows in question are in the living room. His request to go into your bedroom will be met silently at first, for about a second, as you wonder why, and while you're thinking what the right answer is, you'll be conducting a mental inventory of your bedroom.
And it will hit you. The panties. Tossed on the floor like a pink and purple polka dot amoeba.
Maybe they're not alone. Maybe there are other pairs with them. The pink ones. The pale orange ones. The kicky buttery yellow pair. A couple of black pairs from when you felt "angsty." You're not lazy. You're just trying to prove a point, and that point is yours aren't the only arms that can carry clothes down to the laundry room. But, as the pile has grown, apparently so has your failed experiment, so let me remind you - your bedroom floor is not a laundry hamper. It is not a place where five pairs of panties should just get carelessly tossed aside until someone (but likely you) feels like picking them up and hauling them to the washing machine.
If possible, always try to get upstairs before the repairman. Trip him on the stairs, yank at his back pocket. Compliment his "Texas...where everything is bigger" sweatshirt and how it carries the musky scent of sweaty man and Marlboro Lights like a delightful testosterone bouquet. Whatever you must do, do it. You lead the calvary. There are no exceptions to this.
Do not chuckle if he makes a little joke about the state of your bedroom and said laundry. it likely won't be a funny joke, and honestly there's little need to encourage him away from the task at hand.
"Will you walk into my parlor?" said the spider to the fly; "'Tis the prettiest little parlor that ever you may spy. The way into my parlor is up a winding stair, and I have many curious things to show when you are there," is not a clever retort to his funny remarks. It will only make him glance your way with a look that silently affirms your despair at his unexpected boudoir visit. Glance at the bureau mirror and smirk at yourself for thinking to use "boudoir," maybe give yourself a little thumbs up move, but do not congratulate yourself on using a poem as your comeback. Let me repeat that. Do not quote old poetry.
Be grateful the dolphin had swam away earlier that day. When he's not looking, pat yourself on the back for at least having the smarts to put away the grown up toys. Then work diligently at trying to get the panties kicked under a pile of less obvious work clothes and sensible black slacks (slacks? do people even use that word anymore?!). Curse the fact that you're wearing Eastland slip-ons and the clunky soles make this task a virtual impossibility. While he leans out the window to yell at his buddy waiting outside, do not stop to think "Is he winking at him? Is that the universal sign for 'panties on the floor! yahoo!'" No. While he's distracted, reach down, silently and swiftly, and lift less obvious pieces of clothing up, grab what you can that you wish to hide and jam, jam, jam them out of sight. Smile nonchalantly, while halfway in an upright position and with a pair of flowery panties in your right hand, when the repairman turns around to tell you the bedroom windows are just fine. You knew they were, of course, but by now, you're close to forgetting why you have this man in your home in the first place. Until he asks to return to your living room. where he (and no panties - at least for a very long time. Sigh. Make a mental note to check on weekend childcare possibilities) were meant to be.
I share this advice with you as a girl in the know. Heed my warnings now lest you fall victim to the cable repair man later...
The satellite company just called! Woo hoo! If you're interested in the spin-off post I wrote a week after the above, please visit me here. Same panties. Different repairman!