You Care, You Really Care!

I almost threw my cellphone off the Bay Bridge tonight. My carrier is AT&T, formerly Cingular, but whatever you want to call it, the coverage is frightfully bad. I might as well be talking into a soup can. If you didn't know, San Francisco is a peninsula of seven square miles, which I drive through everyday. Tiny. I'm sure there's a mall somewhere in the world bigger than the city by the bay. So I totally fail to understand why there is even one dead spot within the city limits, but in fact there are too many to count, and I hit all of them, everyday. Which is beyond annoying to me, not to mention those I'm talking to. I was talking to The Mama tonight and over the course of ten minutes I dropped our call three times. Eventually I gave up--nothing I have to say is worth that kind of effort. "Fewest dropped calls in the network," my ass! The network of dead people whose loved ones forgot to cancel their plans, you bet.

It's not just me-- Consumer Reports doesn't have much good to say about AT&T. Would have been nice if I read this before I got a cellphone, but then I would have nothing to complain about, and that's no fun for a Professional Kvetcher. I was all hyped up to switch but I did some reading and discovered that it may be worth upgrading to a new phone before giving up. This phone is over two years old and in technology, that's like chiseling your grocery list onto a stone tablet.

But on the flip side I got home to a survey asking me about my most recent experience with my gynecologist, which I was able to complete online. I love participating in these kinds of surveys because I'm at least given the semblance of caring from my provider. Most of the time the services industry could give a shit about you knowing that they don't give a shit, one of the more alienating aspects of our consumer-driven culture. So I was able to praise my doctor, who I think is genuinely a good doctor, and not her office staff, who are so-so but really could be a whole lot better.

And thus the day reached its conclusion, but before I turn to my glass of wine: Angelina, stop being coy. If you're far enough along to wear a muumuu every fucking day, you can tell us you're knocked up. Really.