So, yeah... Where were we? Saturday noonish, right? Anyway, 'net service had returned that morning, I was happily blogging and surfing and reading my favorite interw3b message boards when...
The guys installing the new lid on the septic tank ran the Bobcat right over the cable. No intarw3bz for Tamara.
Oh, and they buried the cut ends. Charter thinks they can maybe rush a crew over here to run a fresh line under the driveway by, oh, July 10th or so.
So, here I am trying to be creative at Borders. I signed up for the Tmobile thing, the rigamarole and procedure for which sapped my will to live, let alone whatever creative impulse I may have had. I'm cleverly disguised among the ponytailed latte-sipping herd of shiftless paleohippies and college students; blending in by virtue of the iced coffee drink at my hand and my bright green iBook (which, after 5 years, has a battery life measured in picoseconds, which is why I'm at Borders: power outlets.) I think my "Nuke Berkeley" shirt might be giving me away though.
My creative mojo is hampered by the awkward little chiclet keyboard of the iBook, the jackhole having a business conversation at a decibal level that rivals a 707 on takeoff, the retiree talking to his grandkids on his Bluetooth headset (which makes him look a mite touched in the head, babbling baby talk to thin air), and the guy at the next table who has his Wintel laptop at full volume, letting me hear all the godawful system noises that I've so carefully disabled on every PC I've owned since, oh, 1996 or so.
Not that I'm bitter or anything, mind you.