Comcast Brainwashed My Dog

There have been so many negative things being said about Comcast lately, rightly or wrongly, that it has almost reached mythical proportions. But here is my story, which has a happy ending and a cute guy involved. The only bad thing I can say about Comcast is that their employees seem to lack a decent sense of humor.

The dog ate my remote control on Sunday night. Well, I guess she didn't really eat it, per se, she gnawed on it and split it open so some of the insides came out. However you want to explain it, she rendered the remote non-functioning. Despite my irritation, I find this hugely amusing and have been telling everyone my dog ate my remote. Most people find this amusing as well.

So on Monday morning, I called the Comcast number listed on my bill. When I get to a real person, I say, "Hi, my name is Ms. PH and my dog ate my cable remote. Can you tell me how I can get a new one?" The woman on the other end said, "Is it broken?" (No, lady, it's not broken, I'm just calling you to tell you that my dog ate my remote but it still functions perfectly - I just thought you wanted to know. Jeez.) "Yes, it's broken," I said. "OK," she said, "just bring it into your local office and they will exchange it for $15. But since you broke it, you will have to return the old one and you have to pay $15." She sounded so serious, like I had smashed some very important equipment that would cost thousands to replace.

But, I was in a fairly good mood and still thought my predicament was very amusing, so I was gladly willing to pay $15 for a new remote. On my lunch hour, I drove home and picked up the pieces of the old remote and drove to Comcast. When I opened the door to the building, it was like I had stepped into the third circle of hell - the DMV circle. But it was worse than the DMV - there were about 12 people in line ahead of me and they were pissed. When I opened the door, they all looked at me like "Wipe that happy look off your face and welcome to hell."

Then I became aware of the noise in the room. Everyone has heard this noise before - the sound of three people complaining about no services, high bills, and unfair treatment and tired employees trying to placate them. I took my place at the end of the line, with remote in hand. The guy in front of me looked at it and said, "What happened?" "My dog ate my remote," I said. "Oh," he said, "Well, Comcast threatened to cut off my cable. They called yesterday while my wife was in labor having a baby and said I had to come down and pay my bill immediately."

"Well, congratulations on the new baby . . . I just want a new remote."

Another guy (the cute guy) in front of me turned around and said, "They are not exchanging equipment," and pointed to a sign that said, "WE ARE NOT EXCHANGING EQUIPMENT DURING OUR SWITCH." I smiled at the cute guy . . . well, because he was cute and had a British accent, and said, "The hell they aren't! I called this morning and they told me I could exchange my remote for $15!" Cute guy kind of scoffed at that notion. He had clearly been in Comcast too long.

In the half hour I waited in line, I heard all sorts of sob-stories. Billing problems, equipment problems, service issues, rudeness. As I stood there with my remote, I sort of felt like I was in the ER waiting room with a twisted ankle while everyone else was bleeding from the head or unconscious. My problem didn't seem that bad. But I was determined to get my new remote and ready to do battle if they said they wouldn't exchange equipment.

Finally, it was my turn to talk to the customer service representative, who was clearly very drained from being yelled at for the last four hours. I walked up to her window and smiled. Then I set all of the remote pieces on the counter. "My dog ate my remote." No laugh, no smile, nothing! She wasn't amused at all!! She simply scooped up the pieces and dropped them in the trash can. Then she handed me a new remote.

"Thanks," I said, "and as long as I am here, I might as well pay my bill." She told me the total and I said, "Is that with the $15 new remote charge?" She looked at me blankly. "Why would I charge you for a new remote?" I said, "Well . . . um . . . because the woman on the Comcast phone told me I had to pay $15 for a new remote because I broke it. Or, I mean, the dog broke it . . . ." My second attempt at the joke failed too.

She replied, "I just threw the old one in the trash, which I would have done anyway because it said Insight on it. So, I'm not going to charge you for a new one."

"Awesome! Thanks!" I smiled again at her but got the same blank look. I smiled at all of my fellow queue standers and said, "Bye! Good luck." Then I got the hell out of there.

The moral of the story is: Comcast is not entirely evil and has the ability to use common sense but needs to work on its employees' sense of humor.

And, if you are the cute guy . . . I hope your issues were solved and you are back on the Internet. You made me almost wish the line was longer . . . almost.

Who's Next?

Katie's latest post about her boyfriend joining the blogging world got me thinking: Which one of my household members will be the next one to start a blog?

I'm sure my two year and a half year old daughter's blog would be called "Tales of a Misunderstood Drama Queen." She would post daily, of course, to maximize the number of hits and the amount of attention. Her posts would include:

Monday Fun: how to convince your preschool teachers and mother you have fractured your knee and can no longer walk and must be carried around school and home for 24 hours.

Tuesday Follow-up: how to be extra cute and charming after doctor's appointment for said knee "injury" to avoid punishment for Monday Fun.

Princess Debate: Who's better - Cinderella or Belle?

IT'S CIRCLE TIME, DAMN IT!

My TOY, MINE!!

My 16 month old son's blog would be entitled, "Balls, Buses, and Bubbles" because those are his three favorite words. His posts would include:

My Favorite Things - Balls, Buses, and Bubbles

Why it is so Funny when I Stick My Finger Up My Mama's Nose!

Admit it, I'm Cute!

Ode to Goldfish Crackers

BUUUUUBBBBLE! BUUUUUBBLE!

The dog's blog would be called, "Because I Can and You Would if You Could." She wouldn't post that often because it would interfere with her nap schedule, but here are a few:

The Squirrel Conspiracy

What the Hell Did I Eat Last Night?

Out!

Principles of Strategic Shedding

Why the Postman is Evil and Must Be Destroyed

The cat probably wouldn't lower himself to blogging, but if he did, it would be called, ". . . And Your Little Dog Too!" His posts would be full of swear words and rants against "the establishment" and include:

Who are These People and Why are They Touching Me?

Why I am Better than the Rest of You

How Hard is It to Keep My Food Bowl FULL!?!?!

Wow. It is probably a good thing I have a laptop that is on a high shelf. Of course, since none of them can type, all of the entries would look like this:

s DUH;W8Q NAe f;o234q
sakjdf 23489 sdflgmj awer:oGT DFHP0ERU9QT
SDM,C WE4R9 ERGDK ;F VMWE R9-2 TNFGS
hklsdf 394t sdakl erg12=4 daf; a)tre xbg
qw[ kpSDF ;94T'KDAFGq912-]94813
RSDFAGsdf w3rt9hn ;sdf awrfolwet n'ujio

I think I am safe for now.

I Did Not Sign Up For This

**Gross out alert.** If you have a low tolerance for grossness, please beware of this post.

I am not a squeamish person. I do what needs to be done in the gross-out department. I have cleaned up so many ungodly awful messes involving all sorts of bodily fluids and other nastiness, I really shouldn’t be objecting to one more horror being added to the list. Really, gross stuff is just part of motherhood. I accept it. I dare say, I welcome it - it provides great stories for my children’s teenage years for embarrassment purposes.

But I have drawn a line in the gross stuff sand.

I have reached my limit.

And that limit is having to pull a semi-digested, half-expelled, poop covered baby wipe out of my dog’s ass because her poop muscles do not have the capacity to poop out the entire length of a baby wipe and she just let it hang there. And that thing was not coming back into my house until that baby wipe was fully removed from her butt.

The sad thing is, I know exactly how this happened. We had an incredibly messy dinner of ravioli a couple of nights ago. The kids loved it. My son loved it so much, he rubbed his entire head in red sauce. He looked like a hairless oompa-loompa. He was so dirty, I had to switch from washcloths to baby wipes because I ran out of clean washcloths. Then I threw the dirty baby wipes in the trash can. (In retrospect, I should have just carried him to the bathroom and hosed him down with the hand-held shower head.)

Sometime in the night, the dog ate the baby wipes, unbeknownst to me. And she almost got away with it. Until I saw her duck-walking in the back yard with what looked like a four inch piece of poop hanging out of her butt. When she caught my eye, she knew she was in trouble and tried to hide under a lawn chair.

Here’s the thing. I can try to say "I put my foot down - too gross" or refuse to deal with it, but I can’t. Who else is going to deal with this? It’s not like I can send out the 15 month old and say, "Go pull that thing out of the dog’s butt. Come on - it’ll be good for you. Make you a man." I can’t exactly call my friends or neighbors and explain the situation. "Yeah . . . do you have a minute? My dog has a poop-covered baby wipe hanging out of her butt and if you could just . . . . hello? Hello?"

I know it is incredibly shallow of me to wish I was married so my husband could do the gross things . . . I mean, I know marriage is about a whole lot more than who gets to do the gross stuff . . . but sometimes, I just wish I was able to see the poop-covered baby wipe hanging out of the dog’s ass and look over to my husband and say, "Enjoy yourself, honey. Wash your hands with bleach when you’re done."

I Just Wanted to Roast a Chicken

Since yesterday was a holiday, I decided to make one of my favorite cold weather comfort foods - roast chicken. Well, one of my favorite comfort foods that my 13 month old will also eat. I put the chicken in at 4 pm, so it would be ready by 5:30 (we are early eaters in my house since bedtime has been moved up to 6:30.) All was going well until I went into the kitchen at 5:15 to check on the chicken.

My kitchen is not terribly large (about 12' x 12') but a good size for a house built in 1941. But it feels really small when one is contending with all of the chicken-roasting chaos in my house. First, there is the cat. The cat usually keeps to himself and isn't much of a food-beggar. Unless I am roasting chicken. Then he wanders around the main floor meowing in this really low pitched voice. He walks in circles and drools (I kid you not, he drools). He rubs himself on every available surface, including my legs. This means I trip over him or just plain kick him at least once during the roasting process.

Second, there is the dog. She is also enamored of roast chicken, but she has an approach-avoidance complex regarding the actual roasting. She desperately wants to be in the kitchen to smell the lovely roasting smells and to be there to catch any loose pieces that might randomly fall off the chicken. However, she is scared to death of the overhead oven fan, which has to be on during the roasting. So, the dog stands in the hallway entrance to the kitchen and sticks her nose as far in as she can without her feet entering the room. Then she bobs and weaves in the doorway in the hopes of sniffing the best sniffs without being attacked by the fan. Then she moves to the dining room entrance and repeats the move. Then back to the other entrance (the long way - through the living room, of course - she can't step foot in the kitchen). The dog also thinks it is necessary to attack the cat when he gets too close to the chicken because the cat might steal her fortuitous piece of chicken when it drops to the floor.

The cat and the dog I can usually handle. However, adding in a 13 month old toddler to the mix pushed me over the edge. My son has just learned to walk well (after weeks of launching himself between walls and furniture) and he practices his new skill whenever awake. He also likes to be near me, which is fine, unless I am opening a 400 degree oven to check on the chicken.

Yesterday, I also discovered my son has an intense love of caramel corn flavored rice cakes. He stands in front of the cabinet where he knows they are stored and begs for them. And he has a very specific way of eating them. After I give him half a rice cake, he holds it in both hands and kind of licks/sucks all of the edges while constantly rotating it in his sticky little hands. After it is good and juicy, he continues to rotate it while taking little nibbles off of the edges. All of this must be accomplished while walking in circles and humming.

So, it is 5:15 and time to check the chicken. The dog is bobbing and weaving in the doorway. The cat is rubbing himself on the oven and sitting like a prairie dog to see inside. The toddler is walking in circles behind me and humming. I don my oven mitts. Using one leg to keep my son away from the oven and one arm to keep the cat away from the oven, I balance myself and reach in to poke the chicken thighs. Clear juice runs out, so we are done.

Now comes the tricky part. I really need two hands to take the chicken out. I give the cat one good shove so he is out of the way while keeping one leg out to protect the toddler. I reach to grab the chicken. The dog is still bobbing and weaving. I have the chicken halfway to the stove top and I am using a foot to shut the oven door. At that moment, my son tips over from dizziness and drops his rice cake. The dog forgets the fan and lunges for the rice cake, believing it is a chunk of chicken just for her. The dog knocks over the toddler, the cat rushes in to claim the piece of "chicken" on the floor, the toddler bumps his head on the floor, the dog snaps at the cat and eats the rice cake whole, and I lose my balance just as I place the chicken on the stove top. My feet slip out from under me, I hit my elbow on the not-quite-closed oven door, and my butt hits the floor.

My son is screaming (mostly because the dog ate his rice cake, the head bump wasn't that bad), the cat freaks out and runs upstairs (good riddance), and the dog retreats to the doorway. I crawled over to my son to comfort him, but he just points at the rice cakes. I struggle to my feet, hand him another rice cake and he stops crying. I lay back down on the kitchen floor and think seriously about spending the night in a hotel. By myself.