This morning, on a particularly sticky day, I realize I’ve made a communication breakthrough.
I’ve official ended my approach avoidance Cold War with our friendly customer service ambassador.
The great thing about a Cold War…there’s always one side that didn’t know there was conflict to begin with.
Steve will never know how many times I’ve avoided him, wish he tripped in the accessibility car, provided him with dirty looks and referenced him in my blog.
In fact, I’m sort of ashamed to admit that I look forward to our trivial 42 second conversations.
Steve can stay.
He doesn’t sound like Siri, he’s always perky and seems to have come into his own, as this role is his true vocation.
Without Steve, I wouldn’t have anyone to speak to in the morning.
I suddenly realize this breakthrough has occurred in and around the time I started taking anti-depressants.
Clearly, there’s no correlation.
I board my big green chariot and end up seated across these people in front of me:
The quintessential Jonses.
Why are they so damn happy?!!
I decide I don’t like these people.
How dare they taunt me with their familial joy?
Armed with time to kill, some Advil and a flask, I decide to provide a duly critical analysis.
These people may have personal electronics in their lives, but they’re forced to share a single sofa.
A cheap microsuede one at that.
I’m such of fan of personal space, once I bought two sofas (the long ones) for just me and my mom.
Guests were forced to stand awkwardly or sit on the floor. True story.
They really should have called, anyway.
It’s not like we would have answered.
But they should have been more considerate.
Back in “happy land”, I’m still unsure what all this perkiness is about.
Anyone whose ever bundled with Rogers will tell you it’s feel less like a warming blanket and more like outright suffocation.
Strategically, you also can’t “bundle” your cell phone with other services.
I didn’t realize cell phones were claustrophobic like that.
It sorta makes sense.
I wouldn’t want to be associated with these Jonses, either.
Moving along, I decide each of the Jonses has their own special story.
Mom is the head of the PTA. She has her children enrolled in many extracurricular activities, none of which will assist with their future employability. Her secret: She imbezzles from the not for profit organization she volunteers for to buy top shelf liquor. She hides it in the oven because she doesn’t cook and no one will check for food there.
Dad is an emasculated middle management professional. His boss reminds him of his wife and they’ve minimized his esteem so much that he finds it acceptable to wear his son’s t-shirts on weekends. He drives a Prius. His secret: He imbezzles money from the family savings and children’s trust funds to financially support his other family.
Son has surprised us all. He does well in school, has people he would call friends in his life (they call him a homework buddy) and has managed all of this success with the absence of a foot. His secret: He’s found dad’s pornography stash which was hidden in the broiler. Dad can’t do anything about this or else son will notify mom of Dad’s real family.
Daughter is the youngest, most enlightened of the Jones family. Intelligent, charismatic and thoughtful, she knows all of the family secrets and will keep them until it’s most advantageous to expose. Like her brother, she has enjoyed a fair amount of success, and has done so with the absence of an arm. Her secret: She subscribes to my blog, and that automatically makes her awesome.