...a stray bullet from a gang fight struck 7-year-old Tajahnique Lee in the face [...] at least 20 people were within sight of the gunfight [...] but the case remains unsolved because not a single one will testify or even describe what they saw to investigators.
New York Times, A Little Girl Shot, and a Crowd That Didn't See
I'd read a bunch of scary blog posts about how horrid it was to try to cancel Vonage service. There are stories of long wait times, getting the runaround, high pressure to reconsider, cancellation fees, and a hold message designed to drive you insane.
With trepidation, I called them yesterday, and while I was on hold (for a half hour), I devised a plan. Their CSR came on the line, and after getting my account information, asked me why I wanted to cancel.
I told her I had moved to a rural area that didn't yet have broadband service.
Oddly, she never asked where, but she seemed flummoxed at the thought that these kind of places still exist. She said that it was alright, Vonage can work with dial-up (it can't). I was offered a plan at $4.99/month (for something that wouldn't even work, what a deal). I told her we'd already gotten a land line, and we just wished to cancel. She asked me if our area would be getting broadband service in the next few months. I told her I couldn't predict the future. She then asked if I had friends and family who would benefit from Vonage service. Finally she just let me cancel - sans cancellation fees, and sans any of the runaround that others have gotten. Maybe they're getting the hint.
So, my dear fiance woke me up before he left for work this morning, and I soon heard the cats scratching at the bedroom door in search of affection (oh let's get real - food). I stumbled downstairs in my pajamas, grabbed their food dishes, went to the garage to fulfill their demands, and closed the door behind me so I wouldn't have to chase them around the garage.
All rational decisions... except that the door locks automatically.
Hm, maybe he didn't lock the front door when he left. Yes, he did. Hm, maybe he forgot to lock the patio door last night. No, he didn't. All of a sudden my Absentminded Professor has turned into some OCD door-locking fiend. Figures.
I look around the garage, hoping to find an extra key, or something equally useful, like this:
Ah, there's the toolbox. I find a putty knife and a flat-headed screwdriver, plus some tweezerlike things (hey, it's not my toolbox). The putty knife is the same width as a credit card, so I figure I can do that thing they do in the movies. Or I can put the tweezer things in the lock - they go way in - and wiggle it around like they do with paperclips or bobby pins in the movies.
I should add at this point that almost everyone in my subdivision has already left for work, not that I know anyone here anyway. The few people I do see pay absolutely no attention to my attempts at breaking in (I suppose a burglar does not wear pajamas and slippers, but still...). And, I'm hearing impaired so I have to wear hearing aids (especially to talk on the phone), but guess where those are? Yup. Plus I have to go to the bathroom really badly. Oh, and I have a monstrous cold sore, and I obviously haven't showered. This is not a brilliant start to the day.
I start to wonder how much a broken window will cost to replace, and weigh that against how badly I want to go to the bathroom plus how hot it will be later in the day. I find a heavy metal pipe in the garage and wrap it in a towel (again, I get all my burglary info from movies). I know I'm not strong, but I figure this thing is so heavy it will do the trick. There's a small window right next to the front door. If I can just break that one, I can easily reach in and unlock the door. I swing at it, and it makes a loud thud (again, no one notices - these people aren't exactly neighborhood watch material). It doesn't crack, much less break. I swing again. Nada. I quickly realize that I will be spending all day hitting this thing.
Then Linda comes out for a smoke. Linda. Dearest Linda. I love you and your filthy cigarette habit. But most of all, I love your cell phone. And your phone book (because I have no idea of my fiance's work or cell numbers beyond "it's speed dial #2"). She places the call for me, because I can't hear (thank God I can read her lips, though). My fiance arrives a half-hour later to rescue me from my garage/prison. All is well.
And my keys are in my pocket.
We're pretty much moved in to the new place. The moving process itself was relatively painless; we owe a lot to our families (crazy as they may be) for their help. I'm mostly unpacked and the new place is mostly clean.
But jesushelpme if I didn't want to kill that boy. I can understand being crabby, frustrated, tired, etcetera, but dude, I'm helping you here. I don't expect a round of applause or a dozen roses, but it'd be nice not to be snarked at. I am in default roll-over-and-let's-just-go-to-sleep mode, so I get the "are you mad at me?" 3 times an hour. No, not really, I'm just annoyed. Remember that rule when you were a kid, the one that says "if you can't say anything nice..."? Yeah, that one. It's in effect.
Anyway, just normal relationship stuff, I guess. For us, it doesn't usually drag on for days.
