Like many people enduring pandemic restrictions, I developed a habit of unwinding in front of Netflix. This has continued even with the relative freedom summer brings.
My dependence on this service, however, became clear several weeks ago when I could not connect.
I pursued the prescribed protocols, finally resorting to an actual telephone interaction with the company. After several hours of frustration, and no resolution, I gave up and went to bed, figuring that things would look better in the morning.
But no.
In this particular run of minor misfortunes, Netflix was only the canary in the mine. The bugaboo was the internet, the cable for which had been severed several lots away. But if you think knowing that would produce an expeditious remedy, you would be wrong.
For two weeks, I survived without internet, and although there were peaceful aspects to living like it was the 1960’s, it wasn’t great.
I did my best to remain calm during technological paralysis, but here’s what it took to become whole. More than ten hours of phone contacts through call centers, sometimes lasting until 10 at night; two technician visits; four cancellations before people finally arrived to bury the new cable; plus the purchase of a personal router and modem.
Ridiculous.
I’m hoping for better results with home infrastructure, because it has come to my attention that due to gutter overspill, I have a rotted deck. I don’t fret about such things, especially because my deck does not have an IP address and will respond without excuses to new lumber, a hammer and nails.
The estimate to repair the gutters is on the way.
But since one thing leads to another, until my required quota of three calamities in a series is reached, my recently sunken patio is not due to gutter overspill, but to a chipmunk colony.
Don’t ask.
Bound in life’s web, I pour a cup of Irish tea.
Everything will be alright.
Eventually. ©
