I need a sacrificial lamb. I have somehow angered the Internet gods, and they are no longer hearing my plea.
For service. For speed. For continuous access. I am typing fast because whatever VZAccess means, it doesn’t mean reliable connection. In fact, it means only if I feel like it, ‘yotch.
I will be spending the week on a spiritual journey back to the center where my pages opened immediately and there were no timed out connections. Where I never had time to read or do laundry and where the kids were in charge of dinner. I liked that place, and I was comfortable in it.
Firing Comcast means we now need a land line since it’s against my moral upbringing to provide an eight-year-old with a cell phone even if one of his friends has one which, truth be told, is more of a maternal GPS tracker than a mobile chat device. The line is being installed today, and I might want to clear a path for the technician before the first call made from our new line is to Children’s Protective Services.
I made room for the baby in his crib yesterday and he sat in it for about three seconds before screaming for my head. Once he was back in my bed: smiles and giggles all around. My goal with crying babies is to get them to stop crying in the most natural way possible. Kisses, silly songs, funny voices, giving them what the hell it is they want. It will be me crying in a year or six if he’s still sleeping in my bed. I gotta get this worked out.
I bought two pairs of pants this weekend that make my butt look soooo cute. The Jackson pant from Banana Republic, designed for women with curves. Ha. When exactly did Banana Republic start making pants for curvier butts? And the sales staff was extremely helpful and friendly. When did that happen? Maybe there has been a corporate shift, and Banana Republic now likes the curvy people. I can respect that. I certainly appreciate it. Thanks for the flattering pants and the attentive service, B-Pub.
Leave a comment and I’ll read it aloud like a love slave at a poetry jam to the Verizon install guy when he gets here. Whatever works to keep it working.
My “baby” finally stopped getting in my bed in the middle of the night when he was about 7. Years old. When he was your little guy’s age, I put a futon mattress on the floor next to my bed, which kind of worked. I could reach down and pat him, but still have room for me and spouse in the bed, at least for most of the night. So, ummmmm, good luck? No need to read this aloud to the install guy.
Ha on the install reading. Turns out it was a remote flip of the switch. On the co-sleeping, boy, I’m trying to avoid a repeat of the other two. I’m such a sucker.