Taking it All With A Grain of Sand

Not too long ago, I took an evening walk on a beach. The heat of the day had dissipated, and, ditching my usual beach attire for jeans and a sweater, I strolled, listening to the waves crash against the sand, marveling at the stars that don't tend to sparkle so brightly at home. I felt, at once, as if I had reached the end of the world as well as some new beginning. And then, I fell into a hole.

Damn sand castles and, in this case, apparently, an extra large lagoon. When I first lost my footing, I had a moment of fear, fear that I had come across the handiwork of the one child in history who has actually succeeded in digging his way to China. I had not intended to venture anywhere near that far. But my free fall was blessedly short, and, with my butt imprinting itself on the floor of the lagoon and my legs flailing in the air, I laughed until I cried.

Or cried until I laughed. What's the difference, anyway? Yesterday, I was so irate at the way a certain cable operator and Internet provider was treating me I decided to go out for a drink. Okay, it was a medium Diet Coke from McDonald's, but still. So, to make a long story short, and not to cast undue aspersions on what I am sure is a very nice company with a one word alliterative name starting with a "C," I was frantically trying to pay my bill over the phone. For some reason, this bill always slips beneath the radar -- possibly because it's the only one I don't have scheduled on line. I am sure they try to alert me each time I pass through the grace period for missing a payment, but since I never answer my home phone, the sudden cutoff in Internet service (the phone they can take, as well as the television) always catches me completely by surprise.

So after a hard day of retail I came home to discover that I would have to keep trying to read my emails on my tiny little phone (bad enough) and my daughter's English paper, which she had reserved for the last minute, could not possibly be written without an Internet connection (catastrophic). And speaking of catastrophic, I still had to call our new insurance company so I could answer the questions my soon to be ex husband could not answer for me, like why I change anxiety pills more often than most folks change their underwear. But that's another issue. Sort of.

Anyway, the customer service lady with the sickeningly sweet voice at the headquarters of the alliterative one word named cable operator and Internet provider told me I could not make the payment over the phone until my husband called in with his security passcode and officially authorized me as a user on the account, which would enable me to have access to some very top secret information. She told me this at least seventeen times, as I kept explaining that I did not want any access to top secret information, in fact I had the fucking bill in my hands. She also carefully explained to me that this was quite different from popping the payment in the mail, because there would be a charge for the service. Apparently it was irrelevant that I was willing to add the charge to my payment. Something about some top secret information I think. And sure she'd have a supervisor call me, but he would tell me the same thing.

I told them I couldn't reach my husband. I thought about telling them he was dead, but he'd probably have to give me his security code for me to tell them that, and that would be lying. I tried to call him and he didn't pick up. I sent him a quick text: Can you call? I received an immediate response. "Yes." I waited; nothing. Like now? I texted back. Yes, like now. I waited again; still nothing. Hasn't he already tortured me enough? I'm waiting, I texted again, this time adding a smiley face so he would not think me to be a pest, still. I'm on hold with them right now. Huh? They called to alert him that someone claiming to be his spouse was trying to pay his bill? On hold with Comcast? Oops. I mean the alliterative one word cable operator and Internet provider.


Well who the heck is on first? The very important supervisor called, just then, and he patiently explained to me as if I were a mental patient (was this one of my children?) that the procedures had changed but he would make this one time exception for me. "Would you like us just to restore your service immediately and give you some time to reach your husband or would you like to pay?" WTF? As much as option one sounded appealing, I explained to him (this time treating him as if he were the mental patient -- HA!) that I wanted to pay both the past due balance and the next one, and the fee. And have my service restored (which, apparently, he had already done). He seemed stunned, but he accommodated. Probably because he realized I was drinking and driving (I had to shut him up for a second so I could order my Diet Coke).


Mission accomplished. Until my soon to be ex reached me to ask me why Comcast would care about what drugs I am taking and to remind me to call the insurance company. We compared notes on our mutual recent prescription histories and I started laughing, that manic kind of laugh, a sure indicator that it was almost time for some new meds. He hung up on me as soon as he could, and is probably drafting a custody motion as we speak. Or calling DCFS. Whatever.

On the morning after the walk on the beach, when I shook out my jeans in the room, sand poured out of the back pockets of my jeans. Not just a a little, mind you; at least two cups worth if I may use my limited experience as a baker of banana bread as a gauge. A souvenir of my near descent through the earth's core, my grainy postcard from the edge. I laughed until I cried.