Enough! What Are You Trying To Do To Me?

Okay, I admit it. I'm not big on change.  I like things predictable. I like things today to be like they were yesterday.  Tomorrow I'll want the same thing.   My idea of shaking things up: I try to change my facebook profile pic to reflect my how statuses are trending. Today I learned that our long-anticipated local Five Guys finally opened up in Wellington Circle. So I got takeout.

And changed my pic.  I figured it'll work: It's part advertisement, part biography.  I'm not sure how the Savannah Morning News knows so much about me, but who am I to argue with them.

New restaurant location, new profile pic:  an all-around exciting day.  Blogworthy, even. So why did I pick today to upgrade 98's Vista machine to W7? And that whole Agent-96-nagging-the-hell-out-of-me-until-I-dump-Verizon-and-switch-to-Comcast thing?  He's been hounding me for months.  It worked. Today.

Granted, I haven't actually scheduled the change yet, but y'all know, I'm going to.  Let me tell you, it's no advantage that I don't have to deal with all these changes this exact day.  I just have an open-ended, undefined, grey cloud of malaise hanging over me  between now and whenever installation day actually is.

In addition to worrying about getting all new television and phone service, I'm going to have to get a new email address. Which means that the college boyfriend I tried to sell Canadian Viagra to is going to get another email from me. Stalker much?  I know I can take him out of the address book (and I will), but I'll also have to think of who else I need to delete before I port over my old address book to my new address.  There's a boatload of names in that email address book.

And I'm going to have to learn how to use a new remote. Stupid new remotes are the worst.

I wish 96 understood that my sticking with Verizon and Direct TV, lo these many years, has nothing whatsoever to do with the five extra dollars per month I'll be paying for Xfinity. (Which, really, Xfinity? Do you know how hard it is to type a capital X? It ain't natural.) It has everything to do with the fact that this is what I had yesterday, and it (mostly) worked yesterday.

And we'll have a new wireless password.   And all those new channel numbers!  How will I find my channels?

Ooh, I do have an upside:  For the rest of my life, when the boys are acting all pissy, I'll play the "Remember that time I gave up my email address for you?" card.  Take that, summer vacation plans they are already complaining about ... Victory is mine!

I Can't Be Bought

I've been doing a little research lately, planning to purchase a cd.  Depending on the terms of the cd, the rates range from a whopping .15% (no, that's not a typo, that's actually supposed to be fifteen one-hundredths of one percent) to a nearly Winfreyesque 2.47% which I found at the Merrimack Valley Credit Union. I don't actually know where the Merrimack Valley is, but for a 2.47% apr (2.50% apy) I'm pretty sure I'd be willing to drive there. The CSR on the other end of the line explained to me that I needed to live or work in the Merrimack Valley to join the MVCU. "Well, live, work or worship," she corrected herself.


Wait. What? Let's back up, please. I realize you can know for sure where I live, and I don't live in the Merrimack Valley. And I assume you can easily check my employment, and you'd learn fast enough that I don't work in the Merrimack Valley. Struck by my own deviousness (and giggling), I asked the CSR, "Exactly what do I need to do to prove that I worship in the Merrimack Valley, anyway?" (Which I don't.)  When I couldn't answer her straightforward, "Where do you worship?", I heard her clutch her pearls through the telephone line.  The poor lady gasped, "Well, you wouldn't lie about that, would you?" Oh, lady, you live in the Merrimack Valley, don't you? You have no idea what I might do for 2.47%.


Luckily for my soul in the afterlife, another credit union in my area offers a similar term cd at 2.44%. So for a mere three-hundredths of a point I opted out of eternal damnation. Because I can't be bought.

I don't care how colorful your kid's temper tantrum was. I win.

One of my kids, and I won't say which one, was in first grade, and I had made an appointment to see my doctor on a Friday morning when they'd be in school. The week of the appointment comes, too late to realize this particular Friday is Good Friday, and school will be out that day.  At the time I had a lovely teenage girl living next door, A, who was always willing to watch the kids, and since she was in parochial school too, she was available that Good Friday morning.

I explained to the boys that when the babysitter got there, I wanted them to play outside for the hour or so that I'd be gone. They would have some tv later, but I wanted them to get some fresh air and exercise with the sitter. Probably the house was a mess.

Now, this particular Agent had the hots for this particular "older woman" and while she wasn't supposed to come over until 10, he started watching for her from the yard at about 8:30.  Since only our driveway separated the houses, he had to wait quite a while until zing zing zing went his heartstrings, her front door opened, and like a sunrise sparkling over a white sand beach, suddenly the world looked all the more beautiful for A walking out her front door. Cue the slo-mo wind-in-their-hair run.

By this time Agent had decided he'd had enough of the great outdoors, and wanted to watch tv with his future bride. "No," I reminded him,  "fresh air and exercise until I get back."  Bent out of shape, he refused to cooperate. I explained that if he wasn't going to play by the rules we'd agreed to I'd have to take him to my appointment, and he wouldn't be able to hang with A at all.  No, this stubborn mule had spent enough time outside, and he was going in.

Yeah, no.

Get in the car, kid, you're coming with me.

And that's how it began. I pulled out of the driveway, and hit the road with Agent in the back seat. "Noooo! I don't waaant to go with you.   Let me ouuuuuut!  I wanna go hooooooome!  Take me home noooooow!" I was so mortified I actually rolled up the car windows because I didn't want passersby to hear him scream and call the police, thinking an abduction was taking place.

This continued down the side street, onto the main street, up the ramp onto the highway, down the exit ramp and  into the doctor's parking lot in Kendall Square. Probably 15 minutes.

The purpose of the doctor's visit was to check in with the mental health provider who had set me up with an antidepressant.  I thought the last thing her waiting room needed was a child screaming bloody murder, so I called up to her office from the parking lot, and over the din of the continuing   I wanna go hooooooome!    tantrum, explained to the secretary what was going on, and asked for advice on what to do. The doctor got on the phone with me, and we agreed that we couldn't let his Take me home noooooow!  temper tantrum dictate my actions, so hand in hand we locked the car, crossed the Let go of meeee! street, entered the No I won't be quiet! building, took the elevator up (he wouldn't even  press the button for her floor so that I'd know he was serious) and proceeded down the Leave me aloooooone!  hall to her office.  In what was a first, the doctor immediately took us back to her office, son still screaming. She had never seen me on time before, so that was a big win.

Son quieted down long enough for the doctor to hand him paper and crayons with the dreaded request, "So, Agent, can you draw me a picture of your family?"  Hell, I hate that stupid question.  It'll probably be a picture of his parents fighting in front of piles of unfolded laundry and dirty dishes with the tv on in the background. I hate that question.

Thankfully, Agent refused and resumed the Get me out of heeeeere!  barrage. So the doctor and I had our chat over the din. After we finished our business, the doctor explained to son that she had told me that I can't drive home until he calms down. After we returned to the car, I reminded him that I couldn't go home until he was calm, and that the doctor had told me I had to just drive around aimlessly until he cooperated, and that this was his decision to make. I then started the car and headed home, grateful that my son didn't know the way.  The ruckus continued out the parking lot, back up the ramp onto the highway and back down the exit ramp, until we were about a mile from the house.  Then he stopped, took a breath, and said. "Okay mom, we can go home now. I'm hungry.  Can I have a grilled cheese for lunch?""