Ding Dong the Sprint phone's dead.

Boy, they really added a certain level of difficulty yesterday. Add that to the poor tile guy with the speech impediment who talked just like Boomhauer. I'm being serious, you know; the mean is just coincidental. And rest my soul that I gambled and lost my own bet.

"So how long is this shower pan going to take to fix anyway. Like, an hour?"

"Awwshoo, dingdingablingablangdattatakemuffinhour."

Once you have asked someone to repeat themselves three times, going for a forth is just bad form. However, maybe a chalkboard between us two would've helped. No, but just in case you think I've abandoned my usual optimism, it's hiding in the ashes of the Feenix (patent pending), which is a cheaper knock-off version of the real thing. Available at many fine stores. Anyway...

And with a rattle of the dice, the thought "I bet he said it'll take less than an hour" is now going on Day Two.

Of course, I was more than wrong. I was a raw, exposed vat of scalding emotions after he and his silent coworker buzzed and sawed and bangbangbanged around in My Favorite Barbie-Make-Me-Pretty Bathroom. It sounded like they were building a Trojan Horse in there.

There are few words to explain how much the bubbly fake jacuzzi tub means to me, and even less to explain my love for the stand-alone shower. Which is now a gaping, yawning maw of despair. Oh. The exaggerated humanity.

Well, I can't take that kind of thing. Sure, I can shoot a man just for snoring, but I can hardly walk by an eyelash on the floor. Anal, never. I like to call it tidy, structured and sometimes freakish. Chinese water torture? Bring it. But please leave the shower in its pristine glory.

But when he reappeared an hour later, sweaty and even more indiscernible, I said "So, you guys done already?"

"Awnawmain, now th'plummergottercomeowtanfiggablangblingy."

"What?"

The plumber, who may or may not show up for 3 or 5 days he said. I got that much. "So, wait, what are we going to do?" And I guess it was the shrug that spoke a thousand or so words, and it was the shove over into the ravine below.

Ok, so back to Sprint I guess. Short of it is, I don't make phone calls much but when I do, I'd really like to get a signal. Especially sitting on the couch. Is that too much to ask? And if I was on the Space Shuttle, I'd expect that type of talkover delay. So how hard was it for Matthew to note on my account to leave the number open so it can be ported?

"I'm sorry, but your account has been deactivated."

"That was not my fault, it was his. What needs to be done to get it reactivated?"

"I'm sorry ma'am, but I --"

I was nice. Her job is probably awful, the bastards she must deal with all day. But me and Matthew, we had an understanding:

"So this is my last day of the service agreement, but I want to keep my number and use it with another provider. What do I do?"

"You want to port it?"

"Does that mean keep it?"

"Yes."

"Yes then I want to port it."

Still, I was still determined to cling to the quivering branch jutting from the edge I had been pushed over. It was a series of events. It was not one thing, it was everything. And I woke up on the wrong side of the world. So they destroyed my shining sea of tranquility. So they deactivated my account when I asked them not to. So the woman on the phone called me "ma'am" when really she was thinking "bitch". No, I was nice. I was. I was an alien in my own skin, overcome with frustation and anxious tension. But obviously it could be worse. I could be a customer service rep for a cellphone company.

Nevermind, yesterday was a good day then.

Today was even better, and it involved more of the Boomhauer tiling show with an overstimulated big black dog barfing in the corner.

I just want to know, who fed the dog onions?