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2001-08-12 - 11:29 p.m. God did not want me to see the season finale of Sex and the City. I only get HBO on one TV set—through one converter box. And I wanted to watch TV in another room (I only HAVE three rooms in my apartment)—where I can work while watching TV. So I had an idea—move the converter box to the other TV. I unhooked all the cables and moved the “good” box to the other TV. Hooked it all up, and went to turn it on. It wouldn’t turn on. It was 9:00. Carrie was getting splashed by a NYC bus with her picture on the side. I started freaking. I plugged the box into another socket. No go. Could the cable box know that it was hooked up to the wrong TV? No. Still wouldn’t turn on when I moved it back to its original home. Now it was 9:10. I called Time Warner Cable. Pressed all the buttons could get through the stupid recording. I heard “We’re committed to being the best” millions of times. I was on hold. Then James came on the line. “Can I have your phone number with area code first?” “212-XXX-XXXX” “Please hold a moment so I can bring up your account” “Please hurry!” Muzac. “Yes, can you verify the name and address on the account” “Chrissine Beers, XXX-XXX, NYC, 10128” “Okay Ms. Beers, you sound like you want to order Pay-per-view” “No, this is pathetic, but I get HBO through one converter, I went to go turn that converter on…” There was no need to inform James of my amateur cable operating. “…to watch the Sex and the City season finale, and it won’t turn on! It’s already starting, and I was wondering if you can switch the HBO to the box that works – Hurry!” “Oh God! Hold on.” Muzac. 9:15 “Okay, Ms. Beers, is it coming in now?” Slowly the picture broke up, and began to morph into human shapes. There was Carrie! But…she’s blue. The signal came in, but I could only HEAR the show – the characters were jittery and blue, and turned into horizontal lines from time to time. “Yes, yes, it’s there! But…” I felt like James had just brought me to the brink of orgasm, but stopped just short of a finale. “The characters are blue.” “What? It shouldn’t be like that.” “I don’t care, I can hear them – I’ll call back when the show is over. Thank you for your help.” Typical move—left sans orgasm and even thanking the guy for the action. So I watched the rest of Sex and the City with blurry lines. I didn’t get to see what Carrie’s ring looked like. I didn’t get to cry—I’m sure I would have. Anyway—the show ends, and I get back on the phone to remedy this situation. An hour later, after being on hold almost the whole time, I’m left with a cable guy appointment on Thursday. Just to add fuel to the fire, the episode of Sex and the City I missed only replays on Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday. So I get no sex. I have to go over and use a friend’s cable. I feel like I’m cheating. So Thursday I will welcome the cable guy into my little apartment to fix my HBO woes. Maybe he will be most successful. Or maybe I’ll have to thank him for his time as he walks out the door with both my boxes promising to come back soon. They all say that.
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