Addiction

A little over a month ago, my Sirius satellite receiver up & died on me. I called 'em up and went through the obligatory troubleshooting with the heavily accented dude. He ultimately told me to have the shop remove the offending POS from the Nissan while they sent me a replacement.

The first day without it was just wrong. How do the radio stations get away with the, the ... PULP that they pump out every morning? Add to that the flat-out terrible reception that my stereo gets with the in-the-rear-window antenna on the Nissan, keeping me from being able to listen to either of the two stations here that do actually play some music in the mornings, and the drive is more easily made with no tunes at all.

Hours went by, stretching into days. Before I knew it, a week had passed and no new receiver. I called them and they advised that their shipment was stuck in customs.

I can now imagine what some crack head goes through when his pusher says, "Sorry man, ain't got nuffin today on accounta them suits downtown needing my entire stock for their IPO party..."

Suffice it to say, that was not the answer I wanted to hear. I started having tremors when the full meaning of what I was being told sunk in.

"Wait, you're saying they're, like, STUCK? Somewhere? Uh, so could you maybe tell me where that is? ... Oh, no reason. Ju- Just curious. Seattle? Well shit, I can't drive there. I've got work tomorrow. INEEDMYDAMNFIXMAAAAAAAN!!"

Then came the call (yes, they actually called me to let me know); The shipment was expected to be delivered the end of the week... when I would be out of town. Friggin sadists, I tell you! After some more talking (trying to explain why I reallyreallyREALLY needed that delivery before I left because, uh, my neighbors would do something with it if it was just left) they finally saw reason & set my replacement to be sent overnight once they get to their distribution center. They estimate it will arrive on the day I'm getting on a plane.

-twitch-

So the next morning I get an e-mail with the FedEx tracking number (did I TELL you they were sadists?!?) and immediately go to the webbery to see where my precious is right then. Oh good, Cincinnati.

Wait, what?? It was held by customs in Seattle! What the hell, did they throw the damned thing too far?? -twitch-

It says it's scheduled for delivery by 10:30 the next morning. My flight is at three in the afternoon. Okay, that is plenty of time. I mean, right? Wouldn't you think so?

-twitch-

"Hey Sara! (she's my manager) I need to take a full day off tomorrow & not just a half, okay? There's, uh, something that came up. I think I chipped another tooth. Okay?" Isn't it amazing what excuses an addict will come up with ON THE SPOT like that? I mean, really, once I get the thing, all I'm going to do is put it in my house and then have it installed when I get home.

The next morning I'm up at the usual time, 4:00am, a time commonly (and rightly) unknown to most people. Unless they're exiting the local pub of course. I can't stand admitting this, but I really did check the front porch for any boxes laying out there before hopping in the shower. FOUR in the morning, people. On a day off. Something is wrong with me. (yay, step one complete) -twitch-

With my shower done, I eat breakfast while watching Early Today (yes, there is an "early" edition of the Today show, the show that is on for two hours longer than it needs to be by itself, in my never so humble opinion, but I digress) at a lower than normal volume in case there's a knock at the door. I play a little with Mario the Wonder Kitty, and even he is looking at me like, "What the fuck are you doing up, huh?" I hop online and look at some of the rest of the news, check the weather at my destination, go through the suitcase to make sure everything I need is there, aaaaaaaaand then I check FedEx. "Arrived at station" it tells me. I hit F5. You know, just in case.

If their web site were a tad smarter, it could have slammed me with, "What? You didn't believe me before asshole? I told you ARRIVED AT STATION. Don't make me add a weather delay in, bub!" So at 4:05 I peek out the front door again...

Okay, yeah. That's blatant exaggeration. Instead, I did go lay down again. I didn't go back to sleep, of course. Oh no. I could FEEL it, a mere ZIP code or three away from me where I lay. Likely tossed carelessly in some corner of the warehouse. Savages. I read the magazines that came in recently to try to take my mind off of that nightmare. I vacuumed. I washed dishes. All that schtuff. Ya know when my precious showed up? 10:23am. Not crushed beyond recognition. Not weeping from its abuse (being inanimate helps, I suppose). I make the drive, still Sirius-less, to the airport. That was a rough drive.

So I get back from a great time in Texas and have the car shop reinstall the box in whatever secret cubby hole in the dash they had the old one, and drive home listening to their generic always-on channel that spews out weather and the 800# to call to have my receiver activated. Yes, I did. It was amazing, and it wasn't even music. IT LIVES!

So I get home after the trip, and gather my various numbers (account number, old radio ID, new radio ID, and that 800#). I call, and they ask me for the phone number that's on my account. This is where having phone number changes over the past year is a bit of a liability. My rush of musical bliss was being delayed because I've had three phone numbers in the past year. Did I give them the land line that I never answered? The old cell number that was changed when the new cell came? Crap! I have all these other numbers, dammit! Happily, I remembered the right one and enter the hell that is Automated Phone Support. Those automated lines with the pleasant lady that recognizes your voice commands so long as you have no accent whatsoever. "Would you like to continue in English? Say yes to proceed." Those kinds. I reply, "Yes" and get the voice saying "I'm sorry, I didn't get that. Did you say 'mustard'?"

Anyway, I zero out of that and get Frank on the phone. No, his name isn't Frank. You know this. I know this. He knows this. We play his game because I just want my damned Area 33 as soon as possible, okay? -twitch-

"Frank, bud, listen carefully. The receiver is installed, the radio is on and tuned to 148, and I have the radio ID here. You ready for it? Because it's starting now," and I belt that 12-digit bastard out as clearly as I can between the tremors.

"I'm sorree, I didn't get dat. Did jou say 'moostard'?" ...so much for cutting through their scripted replies. We go through the usual. Yes, it's on. Yes I hear the broadcast (can't you? I'm in the car with the weather report being recited right now fer chrisssakes!). Yup, you've got the right ID number for the radio and we just confirmed my street address (thank God I didn't change THAT recently!) and secret handshake. "Hokaee, de tranzmishun iz beink sent now, and shood arrife widin 30 second or fife meenut." I swear, I don't know what country they sent me to this time, but it's apparently a new one. I'm guessing Brazil or Chile.

I wipe my brow as I stare at the radio and it's taunting "12:14" time display. Frank is breathing heavy in the phone while we wait. This is not helpful, but I don't dare hang up with a truncated "kthanxbye" because then the tranzmishun wouldn't arrive. The display changes to "updating channels" as a chorus of angels sings out. My eyes tear up and I tell Frank that all is well with the world, no there's nothing else I need right now, yes I'll go online if I need any account information... Frank, I'd just like to be alone with my radio for a while, ya mind?

AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH that's better.